The 17th of May 1992 – Santa Clarita, California

(found in an old tin can, smelling of fish, that had been thrown in the trash)


I figured it all out.

I’m like anchovies.

That’s it. That explains everything.

I’m like anchovies.

Some people like anchovies. Actually, very few people like anchovies. And most people really hate anchovies. Most people turn their noses up at the thought of eating anchovies, the thought of smelling them, of even spending a few minutes with them, listening to them drone on about the state of international politics and the philosophical understandings of hope and suicide in the modern world.

These many are fought against by a brave few, who defend anchovies and their unique flavor and culinary possibilities, the need to trust and listen to the anchovies, to acquire a taste for them.

But, then, even the people that do like anchovies rarely like anchovies themselves. None of these people peel open a tin can and slurp the anchovies out whole.

Even the chefs who add anchovies to everything, who praise the fish and commend its qualities understand the objectionable nature inherent to it.

Anchovies are best enjoyed in moderation, even the people who like anchovies would say. Mince the anchovies and blend them into a Caesar salad. Add them to a pasta sauce and let them melt in the pan. You’ll barely know that they’re there – the anchovies. You’ll get a little bit of the flavor, a little bit of the taste. You’ll be able to say that you ate the anchovies, enjoyed them even, but you won’t have to put up with the unpleasantness of actually having to eat an anchovy.

That’s how anchovies would eat anchovies, if anchovies could eat anchovies. A little bit here and a little bit there, always mixed in with other ingredients to mask the taste and flavor and experience of eating anchovies.

I’m like anchovies.

I fucking hate anchovies.



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