I cruised down to the Speed on Friday and caught a screening of “Funeral Parade of Roses.” It was real sweet, almost as sweet as the block of Cupcakke videos I watched on YouTube directly afterwards. Cupcakke, she’s not holding back — she’s existing on a level of beautiful self-expression I’d like to reach one day but never will because I’m too afraid. See, I only fuck with people who live completely out loud and with total disregard, and I don’t like no one else.

They say there’s a Confederate statue in The Highlands. I’ve never seen it, but that sounds about right to me. Terminally-fucked rich people tend to erect wack monuments of themselves, or their awful friends, in the name of murder and privilege. It’s what they do. Like, I once saw a picture of a statue depicting a centurion trampling the small body of a child underneath his sword and sandal, at the behest of some Caesar. Not sure which race of people the babe belonged to, but I can guarantee the whole hierarchy of the Byzantine Empire both paid for and approved of it.

History, I keeps it in my rearview. That shit is a web-heavy with dead bodies and grotesque conquerors. It is what it is, and I’m in no way a heritage guy. I know my ancestors came from all over, were dirt floor poor and sometimes came to a violent end. Not one of them moved up, so there are not a lot of inspirational tales floating around the Powell household about great-grandpa Clarence overcoming great odds to become anything other than a predestined tragedy.