Attention all Chumps:

Mr Nash is in need of your assistance. Being that you live in the only city in america that is fueled primarily by loose, tawdry, wonderful sex, I can think of no better place to turn for advice.

Why did I become convinced that sex and death were inextricably linked?

I'm not talking about the Bataille or Kerouac variety of this belief, (i.e. that, in Bataille's case, the knowledge of sexuality and the knowledge of death are the two things that set humans apart from animals, that the orgasm is a "little death", or in Kerouac, that, at best results in pregnancy, and what is a baby? a thing that will inevitably die) I'm talking about the belief that I have that every sexual experience has the very sincere capability to kill me. Again, to clear up any confusion, I know that this is physiologically true, what with terminal illnesses being transmitted through sex. But as I lay in bed with a sweet young german lady recently, I could only think to myself, "Is this the moment, the infinitesimal lack of good judgment that will finally do me in?" It is as though my psychosis has surpassed a more rational, accessible regard for sexual "safety" and settled nicely with the presupposition that I'm taunting god with a sharp stick every time I have sex. Like Baudrillard, I am so convinced with the verity of this imminent demise that I can no longer question it. I can simply focus on the moment in which the system breaks down and the constituents gorge on each other until the host dies. With him, it's the moment of the collapse of a meaningful society, with me it''s the collapse of a meaningful exertion of control over my own faculties. Sex and death have now ceased to be differing things. Through years of discourse between them, they have moved into a hybrid of their former selves that I cannot seem to restore to any recognizable semblance of otherness. Is there no way for me to "fuck death away?"

Furthermore, saying that the sex/death creature is the only instance of this monster in my life would be short sighted. I have made great friends with the drinking/death monster, the laughing/death monster, the eating/death monster, the muni/death monster, and soon, the breathing/death monster. It is as though I have become crippled with anxiety and have no course to correct it. Still, I continue to do these things, fuck, drink, smoke, laugh, ride public transportation, and breathe, but I do them with varying degrees of worry (loosely from the top of the list to the bottom) and cannot seem to have a moment of true peace or joy that is not tempered in some way by the peace/death or joy/death monsters in turn.

If you gentlemen have any information on these subjects, please reply posthaste with all suggestions and relevant personal anecdotes. Your confidence is assured. Good day to you all.

JTNash