from the desk of the GOOEY Overlord
You’re starved for fun. I can see it in your weary little eyes. You’re groveling in a poorly lit corner, mascara running down your cheeks, over someone’s latest sad attempt at pretending to be Edgar Allen Poe. Dark and ultra-meaningful art has you in an anaconda chokehold, and by gosh, it’s not going to let go until it crushes your ribs, gapes its jaw, and swallows you like a Costco hotdog.
You’ve had sad and pretentious stories rammed down your throat for years now and there’s no end in sight. You have no idea what any of it means. You’re left asking one question over and over again: was that really Casey Affleck under the bedsheet the whole time?
Dark stories, dark art, it’s all important, but seriously, maybe there’s room for something else? Being sad is cool. But this is GOOEY, and GOOEY has no time for that. GOOEY’s the strange, barbaric voice screaming through the night. It’s the calloused hand that slaps you across the mouth when you complain too much. It’s the cherry lips that kiss you passionately so that you’ll stop crying because you look kind of ugly when you cry. GOOEY’s made for eutherian mammals and by golly, that’s you.
So, it’s time to dry your bitch tears, pull up your jeggings, and read this issue of GOOEY. You’ll find stories to electrify your soul, interviews to break your heart, and art to melt your brain.
GOOEY is your mother, and you are its fetus. Sink into GOOEY’s placental love. Float in its amniotic fluids. Hook into its umbilical cord and let it pump self-absorbed and barbaric fun into your belly button. Come on. Don’t be a nerd. Just do it. You’ll finally be one of the cool kids.
With warm and rageful love,