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POOR BOY
SUPPER SHRINE
meals of necessity / diary fragments / fluorescent survival
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are you really here?
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Name: Wolf Johnson
Age: Older than I look
Height: 6'2"
Weight: 190 lbs
Favourite Food: Pussy
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I'm Wolf. I'm a multidisciplinary artist. That's a bullshit way of saying I do too much and accomplish too little. I like to write. I like to eat too. But I live in extreme poverty. I have a place to live and a car to get to work.
What I make at work, though, is just enough to keep workin'. Not complaining though. I get by and have lived through much worse. Anywhere, I thought I'd lament here over food and occasionally reflect upon sexual interactions. You have been warned.
If you'd like to contact me, please feel free to send an electronic mail (eMail, as the nerds call it) and I may get back to you at my earliest convenience. That eMail is: theclashthechaos@gmail.com. Alternatively, you can observe my expressions on places like BlueSky thewolfjohnson.bsky.social
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latest suppers
A can of Sardines with what I could scrape out of my ashtray
Cost: $3.25
Contents: a can of sardines, on a tortilla, on a stainless steel camping plate
State of Being: bordering ideation
Time: 6:75 pm
The yolks gave way immediately, as though they too had grown tired of
resisting the shape of things. I ate standing up in the kitchen with one
hand braced against the counter, the room lit in that especially unkind
way only rented places seem to know.
It was not a meal that aspired to beauty, and yet there was something
briefly sacred in its heat. A little pepper, a little salt, the soft ruin
of yellow over white rice. Enough to continue. Enough to call supper.
current status
wallet: strained
fridge: technically occupied
mood: purple
dishes situation: survivable
spiritual condition: still online
dominant food group: eggs
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