#DrLard
Chapter 6—an excerpt from my memoir.
I purchased my home in East Atlanta Village, Georgia, in 2015, cause my mom told me to buy a house and not move to Guatemala to live on a coffee plantation. She said it was a more practical investment. She was not wrong.
Six years later, post-PM offing himself like an asshole, I dropped out of PhD land and turned the first floor of my real estate investment into an island-shaped volcane, complete with a black hole and a secret garden. It wasn’t a publicity stunt. I just couldn’t keep going on like I had been going on. That, and I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that PhD land broke me.
Academia made me too smart for my own good. I mean, it’s why I enlisted in the first place. I thought if I was cursed to walk this forsaken path called life, there must be freedom in knowledge. Ha! Was I wrong…
Knowledge is terror. #Genesis
That, and my topic of choice—literal #terrorism—took me down a very dark path. But my research wasn’t just for funzies. It was life and death. I was, in fact, studying myself, trying to understand how someone born with every opportunity could turn to so-called underbelly solutions to justify their delusions.
I suppose it’s a rite of passage—the obsession to want to save the world by any means necessary, including violence. But I would counter my own logic and say it is also Western programming. Our autonomous war machine :::cough global capitalism cough::: likes to foster idealism, and idealism likes to play God. I mean, it’s easy to judge from the comfort of the screen when opinion is a privilege awarded to those who can afford to give it—and I am not speaking financially. I 1000% mean mentally. Our modern landscape, Electronic Entanglement—“EE” for short—is traumaPorn on steroids. And we, EE’s co-conspirators enmeshed within his techno-grid, are addicted to sucking on each other's tit like fuel. I would know. I’m speaking from experience.
Here’s a little Diddy to explain it:
“Welcome to the Terror of the Smudge,”
Where electronic entanglement is a psychological battlefield, consummated by aesthetic terror playing with itself in the mirror /
HASHTAG THE POWER OF THE LARD /
A Freudian reflection /
A Hashtag ERECTION /
A Volcano ERECTED / A massive WEINER Protrudes from a BUSH! Swoosh!
HashtagVagine, yes, like RAVINE...
All Hailz The Enlarged CLIT,
A mini DICK, a Nazi Salu!
But wait…#Hate, There’s more!
She:male? She:meal? Peace healed,
A-hole and NOT A-stick…
A BRICK…through your fucking window!
#CheeseLoungeLittleFalls, circa 1984.
X NEW YORK X FUCKING X HARDCORE X
X BRICK X THROWER X ARIZONA X
Lard’s band that never was…
:::CHUG CHUG:::: X HOTLANTA X
Break bread? BREAKDOWN!!!
OPEN UP THAT FUCKING PIT!!!
SPREAD CHEEKS, KID!!! #Butthole
—a Black hole—
A Banana probe!
A Skeptic and a China bowl /
A Real hashtag 🕳️ / Two girls, ONE cup / 1 goal /
A Golden Shower / Hashtag Power /
A Toilet / A Urinal on a fucking box /
A WHITE pedestal / A cursed death /
Jerry Springer / Jerry Saltz /
Twining / Twine-ing / TADA!
Marshmallows & DADA!
A-HA! A Schizophrenic Bomb in
MID-SEXT-SPLOOGE-SHUN!!!
Piss.On.Every.Won. and Jerk off to the Sun!
M A C H I N A M U E R T E
Stealing and NEVER leaving /
A parasitical satire / LOVING BEE-ing /
A-BIG-FUCKING-BANG——————————
SHEBANG!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Implosion—imploding upon self—it’s—selves.
Don’t you know? Sex sells, #Bukkake.
My point is: surviving the garbleMachine—EE’s globe—takes work.
Like, real fucking work.
#Surviving_Lard/Lard_Surviving.
The perfect state doesn’t exist, Plato!
Utopia is a romance novel birthed from Greek idealism. #Sloterdijk Forced inclusivity is terrorism, regardless of how grand the narrative. #BrokenHegemonies
The elephant in EE’s room: our garbleMachine is a k[n]ot sphere—polyphonic in shape. There is no Other…EE consumed them in the womb, and from death, our Western-shaped chess board imploded—conjuring forth a series of infinite right-nows and nows and nows…
:::HashtagInformationOverload:::
Thanks, academia, for implanting this tuskless and bleeding visual in my philosopher's cave. What a warm and wet welcome. The ill-fated mammal reminds me there is no savior in the bowels of EE’s matrix, where the shrieks of this toothless beast soothes no one.
Which means, in the sludge of the garbleBarble where I, Lard, the humble polymath, lie and wait, the Kantian sublime in real hashtag time amplifies a churning hum—the mantra of the cogs squeal:
I Kant, I can, I Kant, I can, I Kant, I can, I Kant…
Witnessing the terror of choice mirror the fragility of my #HumanSuit, I, against the odds, choose life. The weight of free will now lifted, inspires the following epiphany:
I am the maker of my own problems, shit! Do I want to be right, or do I want serenity?
Old me needed to be right, until I was sick and tired of being sick and tired. Then, and only then, did I have my come-to-Jesus moment. I realized the people I thought I was fighting for by getting my PhD would most likely be dead by the time my dissertation ever hit press. Which made it clear: I had to do something different.
This revelation led me to walk off set and tell every-fucking-one in my orbiting path to fuck right off…
and that’s when I exited stage left!
Dramatic, I know.
The ones I cut off were not thrilled. Misery loves company. And so, non participation can be read as a threat. Not only was I threatening for doing some-thing radical, my brand of aesthetic différancing challenged the very fibers of their being.
Why?
I didn’t just drop out of academia, I rejected the algorithm-approved theater of 2021, by declaring I transitioned into a banana! It was an absurd and beautiful time. And yet, I was brutally aware of how insane I sounded. It probably didn’t help that I refused to call myself an artist and I openly identified as a terrorClown, #clone.
But if I wasn’t making art, what the fuck was I doing?
I claimed I was raising awareness for those living with spinal paralysis by allowing my friends to saran wrap me—#BananaLard—to a street bench in EAV. A restaurant who I will not disclose, sponsored the event by providing the commercial-grade saran wrap! Unfortunately, I learned the hard way—and I quote—people only donate to normal people who smile and ask for it—end quote. Needless to say, my fundraising stint was short-lived.
So I dropped my philanthropic edge and focused all my efforts on terror. In other words, in real-time, I took one day at a time to design and execute a multifaceted cover story to hide my supernatural shuffle in plain sight.
And tada! “Welcome to the Lardverse” was born!
I figured if I performed my dissertation’s argument to blur the lines between business and myth, I could troll my father’s legacy as a cover to terrorize my true only: #Dolores.
TERRORIZING DOLORES IS MY ONLY MOTIVATION FOR EVERYTHING THAT I DO IN LIFE.
Otherwise, I don’t really care what y’all don’t or do…do. Ha. Poop!💩
Read the hashtag QUANTUM room!!!
Every expression of the Lardverse / multiverse / universe can exist simultaneously.
Why censor y’all, when I don’t want to censor myself?
“Hard truth: Jesus is not the sun… Yahweh? A Volcano...”—Stolen from Dolores
Cause let’s be real: I am driven by infatuation.
I am attracted to real shiny things, and thus far, I have yet to meet any comparables.
“My dick is beautiful. Everyone should want to suck it.”—D
Minor details: the version of Dolores I fell for is an egregore in my head. The person behind her assigned alias turned out to be kinda basic. Bitch likes to whine—poor me, poor me, pour me another drink.
#BORING! “I’m bored!”
But! She is hotter than all of y’all, so that's gotta count for something. That, and the way her stilettos hit my chest… #perfection...
Anyway, dropping out of academia and joining the real world made me realize that no one outside of school cares about philosophy, let alone the artist struggle. Philosophers are a bunch of glorified tracers after all, #Baudrillard. And artists are professional copy machines, #Plato.
Which begs the question: why did I even apply to an artist-philosopher PhD program to begin with?
I wanted to be smart like Jason…
ALL HAILZ THE ORDER OF THE MUSTACHE & LONG LIVE THE NUCLEAR PLATYPUS BISCUIT BIBLE!
It was an expensive ploy, I know.
BUT! I accomplished my goal.
And, if y’all are curious, my biggest takeaways from BIG WHITE BOOK hell are as follows:
1) Capitalists are Plato’s Artists.
2) Consumerism fuels our k[n]ot sphere.
3) Philosophers are here to save us from ourselves.
The thing is: I wasn’t interested in being saved.
I already drank a more sinister Kool-Aid and it was only a matter of time ‘til I blew up academia like the good little suicide bomber that I was.
It’s part of the reason I dropped out of PhD land and became a walking identity crisis. Cause yes, superficially I wanted to stir the pot—but more so, as a trench digging, gargoyle-shaped lighthouse, the purpose of my cosmic antenna peacocking from the depths of my pants is to attract the thirsty ones…
Cause…
I am an earthquake, a tectonic plate,
I am the space before and after, the space of ultra Violence.
I am a K[n]ot, a mushroom cloud, and an atom…BOMB!
:::I am nuclear waste:::
I am the banana peel you were destined to slip on.
I…
AM…
LARD!!!!
Which banane is the real banana?
How can we ever know?
Welcome to the many states of hashtag ME!!!
