by Tamara Linse
My life sucks, what with the dying and the horrible beauty of everything. Colors thrust themselves into my eyes, sounds ejaculate in my ears, smells come inside me. Yes, we’re all dying every day, only I know when I’m dying because I celebrate it every year. It’s coming up. Will it be this year? I almost hope so, because the anticipation is killing me.
Tamara Linse is a writer living in the state of Despair, a well-known but hard-to-locate protectorate with a population of 6.6 billion. Its principal imports are writers and vodka (because it can’t be smelled on the breath). Its major export is critics.