Sarah Nicole Prickett

The event of 9/11 belongs in part to everyone who had been affected by the superpower of the United States before then, which is to say everyone, basically, plus anyone who had to go through airport security (body scanners!) afterward. This terrorist imagination inhabits us all. I didn’t say that; Baudrillard did. Go knock on his grave.

Belatedly: Happy Easter, Lindsay Lohan! Go directly to jail and do not collect your Mini Eggs. Don’t worry, though. They sell them year round now. That’s a reason not to kill yourself any and every day. And yet I’m going to keep writing. Stay with me.

I tried to roll my eyes at this unnecessariness, but they were way too wide open. This kid is so good, so good in so many ways. There’s the way he gets wholly into every hip-thrust and gun-finger-shake. There’s the way he wears girl-clothes like it’s no thing, which it isn’t. There’s the way he loves every second and every half-second of this performance, except it’s not a performance, because there’s no way he sees the video camera.

Something I hear from people who are closer to 50 (i.e. death) than they are to 25 (i.e. my current age/the pinnacle of existence) is that being online all the time is not really living. My generation: we talk without meaning anything, travel without going anywhere, emote without feeling shit. Can we not turn off Twitter for like one minute?

Turns out that Sheen, with characteristic humility, had titled his tour “My Violent Torpedo of Truth: Defeat is Not an Option.” Then he got up, strapped himself to the end of the torpedo, and launched himself into oblivion. It was, according to every report, pure comedy suicide.

Or, like, your second-craziest dream. In this one, Justin Bieber gets nominated for yet another award that he will obviously win because pop culture is ruled by tweenagers who don’t believe in music, and then NO, GUESS WHAT, Neil Young, the godfather of grunge, wins it. That happened. Actually.

What were we supposed to fight for? The Beastie Boys had taken care of our right to party and after that, like what could be left?

Kate Moss, the only model in the world, recently closed the Louis Vuitton show at Paris Fashion Week. I wasn’t there, but that doesn’t matter. I’ve seen the detail shots. And though I’m supposed to care about fashion for a living, I can only remember two things about Mossie’s outfit. One, a cigarette. Two, cellulite.

Tell me I have great tits. Tell me you like the smell of sweat. These are small things that I can believe and I will believe them more if you show me, and believe me, all I want is to believe. Show me how you stroke your cock when you wake up in the morning and you have a little time.