Carnal Linguistic Love Affair

My relationship with the English language is fundamentally Nabokovian.

No, nothing that involves Pedobear-the language predates me by some time. If anything, this is a Mrs. Robinson affair.

Nabokov was well known to simply love the English language and the flowery expressions that were possible within it's boundaries. The bastard could go on and on for days describing a rusty light pole or a flock of butterflies touching down on a wilted peony in a cracked flowerpot. Everyone (read: no one) has read Lolita, which is an OK example, but give Pale Fire a try and you'll really see it. Thusly:

All my stories are webs of style and none seems at first blush to contain much kinetic matter. For me style is matter.
-Vladimir Nabokov

You'll notice in this blog that I tend to ramble on the same way a lot; once I get into a sexy word groove it becomes difficult for me to pull out. Like ol' Vlad, I hate psychology and I love flowery phrases. Perhaps unlike Nabokov, I don't stick to courtly love; I fucking love the spoken word and that love includes choking and double penetration. To wit:

• I don't always use proper spelling and grammar, sometimes because I am lazy or stoned and miss a mistake, and sometimes because I don't give a fuck because the language is mine and I'll use and abuse it as I see fit.
• I make it a point to use every derogatory slur towards every race, gender, ethnicity, religion and identity. All of 'em. The words are there, I didn't make 'em up, and I will by God use them-because the language is mine, and I'll use it and abuse it as I see fit.
• I use the slang of every deviant subculture, even those that are not my own, sometimes to illustrate my point and sometimes just because I think it's funny-because the language is mine, and I'll use it and abuse it as I see fit.
• And sometimes I just go on and on and lose my point. If you've ever wondered if me going "Wait, what was I talking about again?" is a cheeky self deprecating affectation, you are sorely mistaken-that is simply the machine gun cadence of my thoughts and sometimes I have a dead primer in there somewhere. Tap, rack, bang, motherfuckers-the language is mine and I'll use it and abuse it as I see fit.

The relationship is an all consuming worship and adoration with a predatory aftertaste. I can't help it, nor would I if I could-I love the language and I love to hold the language down and fuck it in the ass while it pounds on the window crying for a policeman. Okay, maybe a little pedobear, goddamn it.

Yet here we are, aren't we? Somehow you keep reading my shit. And I thank you for that-but know this; there will be literary abortions up in this piece, drivel that follows no accepted format or style and may only make sense to one person. If you fit in the Grammar Nazi camp, you will be driven to apoplexy-but you were warned. Beyond that I say only this, in the words of the acknowledged master of the art of flowery nonsense.

There is only one school of literature - that of talent.
-Vladimir Nabokov