Among the Golden and Fresh

Feel free to start living, like... whenever

It's not my problem, my problems. I can only convince myself I'm untalented long enough before that lie grows sour like all the rest: the lies, the milk, the patch kids. It started when I was very young, right after I completed the album artwork for Degraded Apparatus' debut record, tentatively called Machine Learning and Dolphins Die in Nets. The album, of course, was, famously as you know, shelved indefinitely, and so my beautiful design featuring really cool ransom text never saw the light of day. I tried to use a similar technique for Cloud of Skin by the Potato-men but it felt, well, sour. 

When I won the Best Packaging Grammy for CoS, I scoffed, audibly, and a little spittle landed on the sleeve of my pajamas. I looked at the spittle stain and named it Jeff Junior. We decided, as a team, to become the loser that the world knew we truly were.

During a party for Super Bowl XLIII, I made such a fool out of myself. As James Harrison rambled 100 yards for a touchdown, I knocked over the guacamole. It landed on the head of the house corgi, Nick, killing him instantly, both because the pup was severely allergic to avocados and the blunt force trauma of the bowl hitting his head.

I awoke, as it was foretold, nine Super Bowls, a week and two days later at 12:28:37 PM EST to reclaim my glory among the golden and fresh.

LET'S FUCKING GO