I'd like to wear Versaci, or Hugo Boss. But I couldn't. It's expensive. And it's not who I am, when I fantasize about wearing Versaci. I have to fantasize about being a male model. But it's not enough to just be something, in a fantasy. One has to be a super something.

I am a male model. My name is Ennui. I am a male super-model, the fourth one. That's the worst one to be. We are rare, like a band's albums, or books by a hot young writer. The first book receives critical acclaim for it's fresh new voice, vigorous style, the way it says what's always been said but in a way that's never been before. That's Zane. Zane is just like the female super-models except he's male. The band's first album wakes people up to a new sound. Maybe the sound was always there, boiling in the underground. There have been other male models. But none of those bands was picked up by a major label and given a high rotation on MTV. Coincidentally, Zane has had a high rotation on MTV, too.

Douglas Elinias Fugotti is the second male supermodel. This is bad. The second book always sucks. One might say the hot young writer gets too full of himself, thinks he's a magician before he's even thirty, and can't deliver on time-number-two. Like a football team that's beaten the school rival in the last 12 games gets a big head and loses game number 13 because they blew off practice. That's Douglas Elinias Fugotti. Everybody thought male supermodels was the new thing, thanks to Zane, but Douglas Elinias Fugotti just wasn't what Zane was. Actually, it's not the band's fault. They have their sound, but people were trying to say what the sound was too hard, and found in it things that even the band didn't know were there. So when they made their second album, doing what they knew how to do, not what folks saw in the first album, of course people were disappointed. Douglas Elinias Fugotti is good. Real good, But he sucks. Everybody says so.

Famous Ted is the third male supermodel. He's more mature than Zane, doesn't have the flash but has more staying power. I think he's married. He's been in not only Flaunt and Bikini and GQ but also Time, Newsweek and once he was even in Cosmo, with Nancy Travis. She played Mike Meyers' babe wife in So I Married an Axe Murderer. She's so hot, in a sort of unassuming high-school crush on a girl no one else has a crush on kind of way. She and Famous Ted were in Cosmo in a Hugo Boss ad. Hugo B makes denim skirts now. He said he never would. I digress. It's easy to digress when talking about Famous Ted. He's like a male ballerina. Strong, competent, but really just there to make the ballerina look good. And Famous makes everything look good. A band's third album is solid, for fans and newcomers who appreciate accomplished tight playing, not just wild and crazy energy. And it's easy, when talking about the third album, or the third book, to end up comparing it to the first two. People get into arguments. This third book is better than the first? The first is not as good, but has more energy? Whatever. Fake intellectuals who try to compare Zane and Famous Ted get a resounding "whatever" from true fans of male super-modeling.

I'm the fourth book. I'm the fourth album. I'm Ennui. I considered not capitalizing that. I look good. For women being a super model is legs ass hips tits neck and cheeks. For men it's abs arms face. Abs and arms are standard. But it's face which designers pay for. Zane has face. Douglas Elinias Fugotti has face, but the wrong one. Famous Ted has face. I've got face too, and now, my face is the standard. Boys get their haircut like me, have their noses done to look like mine, where earrings like I do, get braces, suntans, waxjobs on their jawlines so they're smooth like mine.

I've fucked so many wannabe actresses I'm usually the one being fucked. I hardly exist anymore. But Versaci cuts pants to look good on my legs, and so what's left of me is pretty damn hot.

I decide not to buy the magazine. I buy too many magazines. I like to look at the pictures. Hey, ever notice how all magazines have women in them? Men's magazines, women's magazines. The world is obsessed with women. Women are objects. I don't mind. I'm not a woman.

I look at Seventeen, Seventeen is for women. Usually ones who aren't seventeen. It's for fourteen year old girls who want to be seventeen, and nineteen year old girls who don't want to be 33. It has an advice column. Maybe Kurt Cobain should have written to an advice column. I wrote to one once. The ones in this magazine are kind of cute.

Dear Dr. Knowitall. I have a crush on my best friends guy. Help! Sincerely, Guilty Pleasure. Dear Guilty Pleasure. Get a guy for yourself who is even better than your best friend's guy. But whatever you do, don't lose your best friend. Boys last about four months or so. But friends are for life! Sincerely, Dr. Knowitall.

Dear Dr. Knowitall. My best friend has a crush on my guy. It's so obvious. She's always flirting with him and stuff. Help! Sincerely, Mad as a Cat. Dear Mad as a Cat. Are you sure it's just your friend? It takes two to tango, afterall. Don't choose between your pal and your beau. Boys may come and boys may go, but buddies R 4ever! Sincerely, Dr. Knowitall.

Dear Dr. Knowitall. I want to kill myself, but I don't have the guts. How do I find the guts? Please don't tell me not to kill myself, because I'll just use your reply to make paper airplanes. Rather, show me how to have the guts to do it. And I don't care how, either. I mean, I'm not afraid of pain. I'll use a gun, a rope, a razor, pills, wild dogs, high buildings. I don't care. I think that's my problem, Dr. Knowitall. I just don't care. Actually, if I could, I'd like to be crucified. That seems like the best way. I mean, it would be pretty cool to have my clothes ripped off my skinny body, be lashed, be forced to carry the beam, have the nails rammed through the ulna and the humerus at the wrist, then have the beam tied to a post and erected. Hanging a few feet off the ground, blood slowly running down my arms to pool on my chest and dry in the sun, until the weight of my own body crushes my lungs and I drown, defeated. I think I would find that very satisfying.

Maybe I'll start a club, Dr. Knowitall, a crucifixion club. We'll be the best of friends, we'll recruit and crucify people, good people who know they're good but willing to die because ultimately death is the only justification for anything, it is the only proof of purity, the only real way to convince anybody of anything. And this is a world where anybody who does not believe you hates you. Dr. Knowitall, everybody hates me, and I want to die.

In my club they'll decide when it's my turn, they will beat me until breathing hurts, until the very coursing of the blood in my veins hurts. And then they'll drag me to that beam, they'll pierce me with those great rusty metal spikes, a new soul-piercing pain that wholly replaces the mundane pains of before, all the pains I've ever felt at the hands of an indifferent world, and then they'll hoist me up and let the wild, terrified beating of my heart push the blood out ounce by little ounce through my wrists and feet, caking up, drawing flies, biting flies, and I will fight it, Dr. Knowitall, my body will fight it like it has fought everything else, ever, I will try to pull myself up, breath deep, until my arms fail me again and again and again and I let them fail, I accept failure, I accept that I am a human and a failure and I will let the failure suffocate me and my heart will stop even before my lungs do, I will be at peace before I die, and I will die.

If you know of anyone who might like to do this let me know, Dr. Knowitall, because as much as I liked to be nailed to a cross, it's the one form of murder that cannot be committed as suicide. Sincerely, Sisyphus.

Dear Sisyphus. You are clearly depressed. And I appreciate that you do not want to be told to try and live. But it seems like you do have a strong will to live. The way you describe crucifixion: it's almost as if you are describing life. Life is pain, life is hate, life is struggle and consumption and yes, Sisyphus, life is murder. I'm not saying you should go murder people, nor am I suggesting you seek pain, hatred, and struggle. Seek peace. If you do not have the guts to kill yourself, if you do not have the will, then what good will assistance be? It would be like putting a new battery in a car with no engine.

You have no direction. You have no focus. You have nothing to which you look forward everyday. I suggest simply allow yourself to die. Allow the judgmental parts of your soul to wither away, and you will be able to find the joy in simplicity. Yes, you may become a drooling idiot. But no one can deny that idiots are happy.

They say ignorance is bliss. Try to forget that you exist. Lose yourself in something. A hobby, a job, a significant other, friends, a cause, a political ideal. You are clearly not fit to contemplate yourself, so, contemplate something else. If it kills you, you'll have gotten what you wanted anyway.

Luck, Dr. Knowitall.

I look at another magazine. It is called AdBusters. Inside, I see a picture of a bunch of people marching angrily. They are carrying a sign which says: "The Earth is not a Casino for the Rich." I want to ask them why? Why isn't it? Why are they complaining? Why do they think they know what wrong and right is, and that these rich people aren't following it? Why is it wrong to force animals into extinction, to eat meat, to smoke, abandon your children, have unprotected sex, look at pictures of little girls on the internet, support the right to bear arms, have abortions, worship a Christian God? Why does anybody think they can stay what's moral?

But why do I think I can question these people too? That is why Kurt Cobain killed himself. He realized there is no system of judgment. And putting a shotgun in your mouth is just as easy as singing about it, isn't it, Kurt? Occam's Razor. The simpler of two theories that explain the same thing is the better theory.

Everything is the same. Everything is. Is is. The to be verb killed Kurt Cobain.

I walk out of the bookstore. I spy orange snowballs, baked by Hostess, in the nearby convenience store. I eat these instead, because I don't have a shotgun. Occam's Razor.