Orifices, no thrusting, and a banished body– a bitch of a hyperstitch

I am Jack’s utter exhaustion.

There’s not-so-subtle hanky-panky in that nested, hypertext within hypertext, dream within a dream within a dream-of-a-chapter.

I hear you, Shelley Jackson. Mention the unmentionables. Speak the unspeakable. Hell, wear that tutu-catcher’s mask ensemble to a tennis match (oh wait– you said that’s silly). I’m going to disagree with you. That’d be too entertaining for me to care whether or not it crosses the nonsense line.

I revel in the messiness of your patchwork girl, Shelly Jackson, and applaud you for throwing the unconventional and nonlinear at your readers head-on. The idea of discovering treasure in this junkyard body that my mind wants to banish compels me to experiment more with writing. I’m tired though and need to continue reading other things.

I am Jack’s will to carry on.