I suppose I should mention my great, uh, interest in porn from an
early age.  Porn is to sex what junk food is to food: a hyper-
inflated, pre-packaged simulation of the original.  It gives it to
ya all (the orgasm, the rush) at once!  It often forgoes the
nourishment, but again, that's much of its appeal.  The crucial
difference is that porn is infinitely less damaging to the body and
soul than junk food.  Porn and junk food can breed similar, voyeur-
in-your-own-body feelings with regards to corporeal existence,
however.

     Where we can tie the junkfoodies together with the junkies is
through their relationship to their bodies.  There's a shared view
that the body exists just to get you off right now, which is
combined with the knowledge of the horrendous consequences of the
action as well as the actual drug/sugar rush--and the eventual
crash which often leads to the search for more.

     I lived with this guy who was totally unhappy.  He was in his
mid-twenties and living off his parents and doing dope all the
time, snorting it.  I watched incredulously as he metamorphised
into this scary zombie creature from outer space.  He never worked,
the heroin made his balls itch all the time and his junkie ghost
girlfriend and he would just hurt each other, constantly.  Break
windows, sleep with each other's friends, quarrel over who hogged
more of the bag.  I stopped snorting heroin pretty much altogether
while this guy lived with me, but after he moved out, I started
doing it again.  Duh.  I don't need to drive around with the
carcass of the victim of an auto accident in the passenger seat to
stop myself from going too fast on a slick road, but I apparently
did find it necessary to see the carcass of a living heroin victim
to keep myself from heroin.






     The junk gets inside you and it never leaves.  A study written
up in some Tuesday's Science Times found that 'untreated' (no
formaldehyde) corpses of Westerners decompose markedly more slowly
than those from India, where Hostess products are less common, I
think.  When Americans kick, we're already pickled from all those
preservatives we've consumed.

     So how do you wash the junk out of your head?  How do you cut
it out without cutting out the desire part altogether?  My head is
this little green pond full of wriggling need-monsters.  I want to
fucking soar like Silver Surfer right over the orange buses and
kids on their bikes on my way to school; I want to brutally murder
everybody on the subway; I want some clothes that fit; I want to
fuck that girl in the bodega down the street in her tight fifteen
year old ass; I want my ninth grade Spanish teacher to seduce me
that time she drove me home in her car; I want my dick to grow four
more inches; I want everybody to like me; I want Winona Ryder to
beg for it; I want a Guggenheim grant to fall out of the sky, hit
me on the head, and make me dizzy.






     Maybe I'll stop doing junk food this week.  But these new
Milky Way Darks have been really satisfying me lately and if I can
just scrape together another four bucks I'll have enough cash for
a wicked speedball, which will carry me blissfully 'til tomorrow.