Splice Girls Spliceworld

[Suite 309; 2017]

Rating: 2/5

Styles: broken radio, fax machine, dial-up internet, CD skip, Napster noise
Others: what Girl Talk should have done, but who instead got naked on stage & made money

Apologies to anyone who’s had to interact with me in the past few years. I’m something different at this point. Sort of how the most recent Rambo and Rocky movies aren’t technically part of their previous series, but are considered remakes, because Sylvester Stallone isn’t the same person physically as he was then; potentially, by the end of filming Rocky V, Sly had already shed all his skin, outgrown his hair (obviously), taken a plethora of physique-altering drugs, and undergone surgeries that made his appearance a caricature of his once-self. Spliceworld is exactly how I’ve interacted with people the past few years. And Splice Girls has cut me down to size.

Every glitch or skip, falter or “I did this five years ago” moments in Spliceworld are comparable to my high-ass bald head explaining to my drunk wife how I don’t apply “being cool” to my personality anymore, because I’m not too concerned of what others thing about me, while contrived and shaking. And hypocritical. Then I convince this drunk wife of mine (whose first concert was Spice Girls) that my political agenda is to redistribute my passion for politics and news toward something ludicrous — like “Do you think Trump is dying?” or “Who is Trump currently at war with?” — by telling her that all of these opinions are null. That these opinions of politics people bare and defend devalue their interaction of personal philosophies when nobody pays attention to the conversation being Person 1 and Person 2. Like, Trump now ain’t the bankrupt Trump 20 years ago, nor is he Sylvester Stallone, but I’m willing to bet he once experienced the Spice Girls live.

Or not knowing why I’ve the need to get high and (sometimes) drunk on [any day], only to fall asleep to jerking off with silence, alone after bedtime because, “I can’t go to sleep, so I’ll take a shower,” and lube stains the couch as I pass out for three hours, maybe, leading to Savannah getting pissed when people come over because the various splotches looks messy — which is true — but I just shrug it off and try to balance out that negative space in the future by washing all our dishes later or caulking the windows shut, since our landlord always shrug-emojis me when I bring it up to him, followed by, “What can I say? It’s an old building. They don’t close. Pre-War.” …saying the last part as if he’s suggesting something trendy, only it’s not, which he comes back with, “Your wife is the one with the short hair?” and I’m certain he’s the asshole who harasses her once a week about marrying him while she leaves for work, only I’m just concerned with why my life feels incomplete, you know?

I ask [also] as the shrug emoji, and the person looking at me is looking at me like they’re just looking at me, so I look at me and leave my stained couch and fall asleep only to awake to my wife talking to me about falling asleep on my friends. Only now I’m unsure of where my life is heading, because it really doesn’t matter at all.

Spice Girls’ Spliceworld becomes that popular topic that reiterates itself, within itself, upon itself, and falls asleep on you in a variety of ways. It’s also been restricted from Bandcamp (so says the jewel case containing the cassette from Suite 309). And it’s happily tragic that I’ve become the equivalent of a tape released by an experimental label based in Cleveland, OH.

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