I am so very sorry.

Let's review.

Dear Jen Graves: I was with you. I was SOOO with you. You pulled me blindly through this review and kept drawing tenuous but interesting connections and dropping fascinating cultural anecdotes but I WAS STILL WITH YOU. Fascinated and suddenly intrigued by this gigantic yellow block/turd/orifice/penis/whateverthefuck. And it felt good. And then you wrote this series of sentences: "The significance of the machine is its precision, in direct contradiction to the value of the information conveyed. Berk's solid, exacting model sculptures facilitate beautifully the desire to project oneself into unknown spaces for the purposes of discovery. But the discovery instead is about the limits of projection and the elaborate ways we ignore those limits. There is so much desire requited in architectural models, but famously little knowledge gained, and Berk's stylish, dazzling colors and finishes are like cocktails that reveal exaggerated truths and sustain pleasure at the same time. This is how political fictions are mixed and swallowed." This is not the New Yorker where totally meaningless, abstruse, pompous bullshit passes as intellectualism. This is The Stranger. The obscenity of data? Excuse me? WHAT THE F%*K ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT!? Unless this paragraph was the result of a simple typesetting error that erroneously transposed the paragraph you actually wrote with a personal from the !!? section of Lustlab, you owe me an apology for raping my brain.
Posted by chriswiggles on October 1, 2009 at 11:41 AM

But chriswiggles, has your brain had a rape kit? Has your brain been raped before? Are you sure your brain was not asking for it? What was your brain wearing?