I tend to rave about what I read and enjoy, The Cities of The Red Night trilogy? Completely killer, read it all in a straight shot myself, you picked up the first book and struggled through the first book and asked for explanations. OK, that's fine, part two: you built out a larger Burroughs library, raved more about Burroughs. I had read a lot of Burroughs too, from the library, before you, meanwhile while you obsessed I moved on.
I read a bunch of Ezra Pound, I read Denton Welch, H.H. Munro, Jack Black and Brion Gysin following Burrough's references. I was deliberately silent about how great all their works are, at least in speaking to you, and read them mostly while I was outside the apartment. If you were reading Burroughs as intensely as you affected, you would've understood why these books keep filling up my shelves.
It was good, for a while, to not have you riding my jock chasing down everything I read. I should've stayed silent.
But the second I mentioned Jim Carroll and played an album of his, you latched on to him instead. I moved my copy of Void of Course to my office, left The Book Of Nods in my bag and hope to keep it off your list.
Since you moved here almost a year ago you haven't read anything I haven't read first. You started watching shitty horror movies above all else and even took on my MTV obsession. Every little thing, nothing is safe.
Every little thing I do, you mimic. Superficially.
It feels like you're trying to steal my soul.
Am I really so fascinating? Are you really so poor at finding your own media, hobbies and obsessions? Can't you pick up an author of your own choosing? Are you really that dumb and bland?
I'm so glad you can't handle Berryman's darkness, and I am so relieved you've never touched any of my Love and Rockets or Reich or Brautigan or Gibson.
Get your own personality! I'm happy to share my books and I'm happy to lend them and recommend them, but I hate you for replicating my references and following my personal trends. Fuck off!
GET YOUR OWN LIFE, GET OUT OF MY LIFE.
I almost puked when you asked if we were more like a couple than roommates. I responded with truth "no, not at all, you just don't get out enough."
That's when I knew I need to go. That it wasn't just me feeling out of sorts: that you were obsessed with me and trying to impress with the most pathetic tactics. I am not and will never be attracted to you.
You even started using the same brand of journal as me, what's wrong with you?
Don't master the recipes I know, don't follow me to the upcoming King Khan and The Shrines show. Just leave me alone.
