you realize she was never bisexual after she's drunk herself into a raging stupor and shouts at you that you are a "cock sucking faggot."
Clean with alcohol only. Do not attempt to replace blown fuses. Do not remove access panels. Return to certified mechanic for regular maintenance. Made in the USA.
Showing posts with label sexuality. Show all posts
Showing posts with label sexuality. Show all posts
10/19/19
3/7/18
Dear (_____)
Dear Arousal,
There is nothing that can be done at this time. It is the bodies understanding, with the exception of a few dissidents, that it is in fact time to eat some breakfast and go to bed for a few hours before work begins in the cold, wet, and largely miserable weather outside of the windows. It is also the bodies understanding, with objections noted, that it is absolutely not the time to gratify sexual lusts, especially when those chemical cocktails of senses and emotions can be shared with the bodies partner, or as you so delicately put it "tear one off." Unfortunately, you will have to wait until such time as the moment can be shared at which juncture you will be free to share it as many times and in as many degrees as you like. Please vacate the premises immediately.
Thank you,
Executive Officer of Intimate Relations
c.c.
Fluids Exchange Commision
There is nothing that can be done at this time. It is the bodies understanding, with the exception of a few dissidents, that it is in fact time to eat some breakfast and go to bed for a few hours before work begins in the cold, wet, and largely miserable weather outside of the windows. It is also the bodies understanding, with objections noted, that it is absolutely not the time to gratify sexual lusts, especially when those chemical cocktails of senses and emotions can be shared with the bodies partner, or as you so delicately put it "tear one off." Unfortunately, you will have to wait until such time as the moment can be shared at which juncture you will be free to share it as many times and in as many degrees as you like. Please vacate the premises immediately.
Thank you,
Executive Officer of Intimate Relations
c.c.
Fluids Exchange Commision
4/27/17
Fireflies for the Child In Me
I know I have to get back to writing. I've been feeling sexual pins and needles, like a blanket in a dry room with a fireplace. It's been a very confusing sensation. Electric and warm and immaginary, though sensate. The land of a half million new pairs of knit socks rubbed along a tightly curled rug by one million feet, except I feel that warmth running through my hips and arm pits and around my nips and ribs and the backs of my knees and my tailbone and right behind my ears. For days. I know I have to get back to writing. I know this isn't what it feels like to not write. I don't know what this sensation is, but I want to bury my mouth and eyes and nose in it and wrap my whole body up tight in it like a cigarillo, light the end, and pitch myself into a twinkling sunset from the lip of a bridge. I will get back to writing. The awareness of sexual solitary confinement is blitzingly real and oddly ember drift.
I want to watch and feel the fireflies depart with the breeze. Little by one. One by little. Until the only light is from the evening sky and the threat of sunrise. I think it is the only part of that spectrum I'll get to know and share with other people in a reasonable way.
Why not enjoy it?
Will you ever have sex again? I don't know, but I hope it feels something like this.
I want to watch and feel the fireflies depart with the breeze. Little by one. One by little. Until the only light is from the evening sky and the threat of sunrise. I think it is the only part of that spectrum I'll get to know and share with other people in a reasonable way.
Why not enjoy it?
Will you ever have sex again? I don't know, but I hope it feels something like this.
4/20/16
That Instant
Your 58-year-old neighbor is on his sixth paragraph of your conversation about his new girlfriend and you can feel the pulse deep inside of him wishing he were gay because everything he has described about her is essentially you with the exception of genital make up and you notice on paragraph eight that you are biting your own lip and the conversation should've ended seven paragraphs and a sentence ago with "...doing great, it is indeed a beautiful afternoon."
5/9/15
Stand Up Act 11
Stand Up Act 10
Some people stick by the words in line with the idea of everything you need to know you learn in kindergarten. Be nice to each other. Don't drop your pants in public. Share. Be quiet and listen when the time is right. Take time to make things. Take naps. I don't know what the whole NY Times best seller's list was, but you get the point. Coming to grips with the fact that I will probably never dunk a basketball has brought me an up to date version of that book. In no particular order:
Everyone gets old and dies and the best you can do is be a little worse than your worst the day before. That's right. At some point your body stops growing and starts failing. Bit by bit. Part by part. Sure, you may beat the odds and be one of the few freakish human beings that cannot be destroyed through attrition and must be struck down with sudden and violent illness or circumstance. The chances are very good that you are not. Once you hit your mid thirties, that's pretty much it. The next decade or so, you may hold serve or at least keep even with your physical abilities the day prior, but it all ends in a gutter. If you haven't dunked a basketball by now, you probably never will without a trampoline or other marvel of engineering.
You can't be whatever you want to be. You can be a version of what you want to be. You can be somewhere in the ballpark of what you wanted to be. You cannot be whatever you want to be. Well you can be whatever you want to be inside your head. That is absolutely attainable. However, you may wake up inside a very welcoming dormitory environment where breakfast always comes at 8:30 and bed time is 9 sharp and a guy keeps pounding his head against the wall loud enough to interrupt your 500 piece puzzling and your pants have no pockets and the shower always smells a little bit off. You can't be whatever you want to be. There are always outliers in great numbers because it's a perceptual lens. Think of the planet as an aircraft carrier. There are, I dunno, 150 pilots. There are always 150 or so pilots. There are 6000 other people doing all of the other stuff to make sure it doesn't crash or sink and feed the people that help the people that help the people that feed the people that help other people make sure it doesnt crash or sink so that the people that fly the planes and fix the planes can fly and fix things and make sure it doesn't get blow'd up. Chances are really good, if you're born on that carrier, you're not going to be flying anything unless you steal it or are a pilot's kid or pilot's friend's kid. If you aren't born with the genetic ingredients to Chia pet out into a frame capable of dunking, guess what? That's right, you can work your ass off and add 6" to your vertical leap, but your wingspan and height have already conspired to make sure the best you'll achieve is a left handed layup with your finger tips grazing the rim.
Allow your passions to lead to your goals. Your goals cannot kick start your passion. That element of life is a one way valve. You may not be able to dunk, but you do enjoy the game. If you like to play with smash and grab abandon, get good at it. Embrace it. Set your goal to being the best slasher in the neighborhood. Cut defenses to ribbons and bounce off the low block to grab rebounds because your game will never be above the rim... doesn't mean it can't be wicked fast. When you set goals apart from your passions, your hearts never in it. Doing things because you want to do them and doing things because you cannot not do them are too very different things. There is an "I think I can" gray area muddled in there. A little bit of chicken and egg, what came first, questioning, but for the larger part, save your mind the wear and tear. Gravity will still be gravity tomorrow, and last I heard, the ability to go from zero to "don't blink" is pretty rare in itself.
The list goes on, but you get the point. Along those lines, I was considering going back to trying to rip out a poem every day. Just one. There's the whole idea that you have to dig through the trash and start tossing things off of the top of the stack to get down to what you really want to weave and work with. The thought behind it is that every time, every instance, that ends with the idea of "hey, I should write that down" is the lattice of your brain adding a new bit of graph that gets buried and grown in and grown over with the events and experiences that come after it. And then you hit another branching point where you say to no one in particular "I should write that down".
By the time you actually get to the point of sitting down, all is forgotten. Not really forgotten. Buried. Grab a shovel You've got two choices. Try to hammer and chisel all the way back to the fly in the center of the glacier, or sample and blast it apart, while mapping and scaling and measuring and cataloging it.
Eventually you may get all the way back to the granule of the thing you thought you should write down. Nothing along the way will be known or preserved or brought into consideration to cut the journey or work shorter the next time around. If you slice it up and hold it up to inspection and hang the samples on slides along the route, you've not only achieved the point of origin- you've possibly stumbled upon data for further examination and perhaps other points of interest that must be investigated before the entire land mass melts into the polar seas of your own consciousness.
Scary as hell, the prospect, no? Oh yes. In years of your decaying brain you've lost so much. It's alright though. Breath easy. Release your testicles back out of your stomach and unclench your pelvises. It's never too late to start getting some exercise and start tagging the fauna living inside your head.
Speaking of things living inside the mind, I've been up late a lot of days thinking about whether or not I should pursue a mate. You know the whole mating thing. The whole pairing off with other people to raise other littler people to become good big people to raise more little people to become good big people or horrible little terrors. That whole thing. I don't want to do it to raise other little people. Let's get that out of the way first. Maybe. I think I would either be a great father or a horrible father, but there's no gray in there. Trust me. I've been over the idea drunk, sober, high, smashed, apotheotic, grounded, slippy, glowing, based, depressed, you name it. It's going to go one way or another and frankly I don't care to flip a coin everyday hoping I raise someone who doesn't want to kill me every day of its waking life until I do actually die. That shit is terrifying.
I want to do it for a companion. A second voice, because the angel and devil on my shoulders like to play dress up so sometimes I glance over and there's a teddy bear and a bowling pin on the other side or a pacman and a doily. What the hell, indeed.
I don't hate company. This is how it all boiled down; I'll give you the most obvious that occurred to me last first.
While browsing reviews of Tinder and Grinder, I realized that my apartment, though of a healthy square footage, is laid out like one giant room with a side room (full of weight lifting equipment.... it's essentially a regularly used gym so that I don't have to pay to go to one). I have enough space to house one person. Exactly one person. Trying to pack another person into this space will lead to a violent civil war, ultimately. I don't live alone. I'm in my apartment with me and the rest of the machinations and defects and words and whispers and screams and general artifacta of my minds functioning. It's a packed house already. Where am I supposed to go to escape if the side room is occupied and I can't go outdoors?
The second thing is there must be sex. If you live with me, we have to fuck eventually or someone has to go. Not immediately, but eventually. If we don't have sex, that's fine, but you'd better be prepared for gratuitous nudity because I cannot stand clothing. I hate clothes. Once they've served their function it's time to discard them. They're uncomfortable. If I'm wearing something, I probably had to. If it's something I enjoy wearing it's because if you're going to wear clothes, you may as well wear something you can have fun wearing or need to wear to bring happiness to the act of dressing my pretty innards.
I didn't live to the ripe old age of 30 to hear "don't touch me there" "it's four o'clock in the morning" "I'm tired" "I just ate lunch" "I want to shower first". I don't care. You can use me when you want to as well. It's a two way street. I damn sure am not going to catch flak for masturbating at midnight when they've turned in early.
I don't care if it's bad sex or the kind of sex you tell your friends about when I'm not around where you know I think I rocked the house, but really I fizzed about as pleasantly as having an ashtray dumped on your tongue, getting to wash it off, and finding grit behind your molars the next morning. It's gotta be there. I am a contact person. When I know I can't touch you, things get weird. Things get real weird. Ever found a sheet of a paper folded in half six times inside your purse? Ever found three razor blades in your wallet? Ever found your jacket on the same hook except literally inside out? Ever found everything that could possibly be unplugged unplugged? Ever found everything you brought over laid out to the level of where your hands might swing as you picked up an item and progressed onward toward the door? Ever found your car keys behind your head when you woke up?
The point is this: I realized I don't own enough space to support two people to the point where one person can disappear from the other person's engagement and forget for a time that they are now part of the other person they are living with and dive into their own engagements. I'd have to add a floor at best and another two rooms at the least so that I or they would not know exactly where to find me, because knowing exactly where someone is hiding is the same as having them immediately present. You need only to recite the incantation to summon them. There has to be some mystery and trial and error to at least give them a chance to relocate and make it interesting.
The other point is that I own enough stuff to support exactly one person. There are enough chairs to support one person and an occasional party. There are enough dishes and cups and utensils to support one person who makes their own meals and washes their own dishes. Enough bedding for one. Enough closet space for one. Enough food and fridge space for one. Enough toiletries for one. Just a matter of fact.
Not that there's been no effort to expand the coffers. There has been. Through the strain and the strife and the good and bad times, the covering radar is still only big enough to account for the airspace over a single atoll. Above and beyond that controlled airspace, all bets are off. Everyone and everything flying in or out is at its own risk. There simply is no room in the budget for fighter escorts and first response marines and a space program and, hell, the DPW is backlogged by years, not months or days. Years. Bringing someone else into the equivalent of District 9 is not going to end well for anyone who doesn't live somewhere near or lesser than there already. This may be an open hoodrat invitation. It's not.
Recognizing where my passions are, we can make this work. I gotta acquire more space at some point if I want another human being around or, adding another human being, there will very quickly be just one. We can work out the details after the acres. Plus it'll be good to have places to bury things and plant growing things to just walk out on my porch and sit down and peer across the field and say to no one in particular "I remember when that tree was a foot tall," kick my feet up on a flat basketball , take a little sip of gin and apple juice, scrawl some notes, and tsk tsk at online dating messages I still receive, setting aside the gems to tell you when dinner rolls around and we play two handed hearts to see who sets the menu and who does the cooking that night.
Some people stick by the words in line with the idea of everything you need to know you learn in kindergarten. Be nice to each other. Don't drop your pants in public. Share. Be quiet and listen when the time is right. Take time to make things. Take naps. I don't know what the whole NY Times best seller's list was, but you get the point. Coming to grips with the fact that I will probably never dunk a basketball has brought me an up to date version of that book. In no particular order:
Everyone gets old and dies and the best you can do is be a little worse than your worst the day before. That's right. At some point your body stops growing and starts failing. Bit by bit. Part by part. Sure, you may beat the odds and be one of the few freakish human beings that cannot be destroyed through attrition and must be struck down with sudden and violent illness or circumstance. The chances are very good that you are not. Once you hit your mid thirties, that's pretty much it. The next decade or so, you may hold serve or at least keep even with your physical abilities the day prior, but it all ends in a gutter. If you haven't dunked a basketball by now, you probably never will without a trampoline or other marvel of engineering.
You can't be whatever you want to be. You can be a version of what you want to be. You can be somewhere in the ballpark of what you wanted to be. You cannot be whatever you want to be. Well you can be whatever you want to be inside your head. That is absolutely attainable. However, you may wake up inside a very welcoming dormitory environment where breakfast always comes at 8:30 and bed time is 9 sharp and a guy keeps pounding his head against the wall loud enough to interrupt your 500 piece puzzling and your pants have no pockets and the shower always smells a little bit off. You can't be whatever you want to be. There are always outliers in great numbers because it's a perceptual lens. Think of the planet as an aircraft carrier. There are, I dunno, 150 pilots. There are always 150 or so pilots. There are 6000 other people doing all of the other stuff to make sure it doesn't crash or sink and feed the people that help the people that help the people that feed the people that help other people make sure it doesnt crash or sink so that the people that fly the planes and fix the planes can fly and fix things and make sure it doesn't get blow'd up. Chances are really good, if you're born on that carrier, you're not going to be flying anything unless you steal it or are a pilot's kid or pilot's friend's kid. If you aren't born with the genetic ingredients to Chia pet out into a frame capable of dunking, guess what? That's right, you can work your ass off and add 6" to your vertical leap, but your wingspan and height have already conspired to make sure the best you'll achieve is a left handed layup with your finger tips grazing the rim.
Allow your passions to lead to your goals. Your goals cannot kick start your passion. That element of life is a one way valve. You may not be able to dunk, but you do enjoy the game. If you like to play with smash and grab abandon, get good at it. Embrace it. Set your goal to being the best slasher in the neighborhood. Cut defenses to ribbons and bounce off the low block to grab rebounds because your game will never be above the rim... doesn't mean it can't be wicked fast. When you set goals apart from your passions, your hearts never in it. Doing things because you want to do them and doing things because you cannot not do them are too very different things. There is an "I think I can" gray area muddled in there. A little bit of chicken and egg, what came first, questioning, but for the larger part, save your mind the wear and tear. Gravity will still be gravity tomorrow, and last I heard, the ability to go from zero to "don't blink" is pretty rare in itself.
The list goes on, but you get the point. Along those lines, I was considering going back to trying to rip out a poem every day. Just one. There's the whole idea that you have to dig through the trash and start tossing things off of the top of the stack to get down to what you really want to weave and work with. The thought behind it is that every time, every instance, that ends with the idea of "hey, I should write that down" is the lattice of your brain adding a new bit of graph that gets buried and grown in and grown over with the events and experiences that come after it. And then you hit another branching point where you say to no one in particular "I should write that down".
By the time you actually get to the point of sitting down, all is forgotten. Not really forgotten. Buried. Grab a shovel You've got two choices. Try to hammer and chisel all the way back to the fly in the center of the glacier, or sample and blast it apart, while mapping and scaling and measuring and cataloging it.
Eventually you may get all the way back to the granule of the thing you thought you should write down. Nothing along the way will be known or preserved or brought into consideration to cut the journey or work shorter the next time around. If you slice it up and hold it up to inspection and hang the samples on slides along the route, you've not only achieved the point of origin- you've possibly stumbled upon data for further examination and perhaps other points of interest that must be investigated before the entire land mass melts into the polar seas of your own consciousness.
Scary as hell, the prospect, no? Oh yes. In years of your decaying brain you've lost so much. It's alright though. Breath easy. Release your testicles back out of your stomach and unclench your pelvises. It's never too late to start getting some exercise and start tagging the fauna living inside your head.
Speaking of things living inside the mind, I've been up late a lot of days thinking about whether or not I should pursue a mate. You know the whole mating thing. The whole pairing off with other people to raise other littler people to become good big people to raise more little people to become good big people or horrible little terrors. That whole thing. I don't want to do it to raise other little people. Let's get that out of the way first. Maybe. I think I would either be a great father or a horrible father, but there's no gray in there. Trust me. I've been over the idea drunk, sober, high, smashed, apotheotic, grounded, slippy, glowing, based, depressed, you name it. It's going to go one way or another and frankly I don't care to flip a coin everyday hoping I raise someone who doesn't want to kill me every day of its waking life until I do actually die. That shit is terrifying.
I want to do it for a companion. A second voice, because the angel and devil on my shoulders like to play dress up so sometimes I glance over and there's a teddy bear and a bowling pin on the other side or a pacman and a doily. What the hell, indeed.
I don't hate company. This is how it all boiled down; I'll give you the most obvious that occurred to me last first.
While browsing reviews of Tinder and Grinder, I realized that my apartment, though of a healthy square footage, is laid out like one giant room with a side room (full of weight lifting equipment.... it's essentially a regularly used gym so that I don't have to pay to go to one). I have enough space to house one person. Exactly one person. Trying to pack another person into this space will lead to a violent civil war, ultimately. I don't live alone. I'm in my apartment with me and the rest of the machinations and defects and words and whispers and screams and general artifacta of my minds functioning. It's a packed house already. Where am I supposed to go to escape if the side room is occupied and I can't go outdoors?
The second thing is there must be sex. If you live with me, we have to fuck eventually or someone has to go. Not immediately, but eventually. If we don't have sex, that's fine, but you'd better be prepared for gratuitous nudity because I cannot stand clothing. I hate clothes. Once they've served their function it's time to discard them. They're uncomfortable. If I'm wearing something, I probably had to. If it's something I enjoy wearing it's because if you're going to wear clothes, you may as well wear something you can have fun wearing or need to wear to bring happiness to the act of dressing my pretty innards.
I didn't live to the ripe old age of 30 to hear "don't touch me there" "it's four o'clock in the morning" "I'm tired" "I just ate lunch" "I want to shower first". I don't care. You can use me when you want to as well. It's a two way street. I damn sure am not going to catch flak for masturbating at midnight when they've turned in early.
I don't care if it's bad sex or the kind of sex you tell your friends about when I'm not around where you know I think I rocked the house, but really I fizzed about as pleasantly as having an ashtray dumped on your tongue, getting to wash it off, and finding grit behind your molars the next morning. It's gotta be there. I am a contact person. When I know I can't touch you, things get weird. Things get real weird. Ever found a sheet of a paper folded in half six times inside your purse? Ever found three razor blades in your wallet? Ever found your jacket on the same hook except literally inside out? Ever found everything that could possibly be unplugged unplugged? Ever found everything you brought over laid out to the level of where your hands might swing as you picked up an item and progressed onward toward the door? Ever found your car keys behind your head when you woke up?
The point is this: I realized I don't own enough space to support two people to the point where one person can disappear from the other person's engagement and forget for a time that they are now part of the other person they are living with and dive into their own engagements. I'd have to add a floor at best and another two rooms at the least so that I or they would not know exactly where to find me, because knowing exactly where someone is hiding is the same as having them immediately present. You need only to recite the incantation to summon them. There has to be some mystery and trial and error to at least give them a chance to relocate and make it interesting.
The other point is that I own enough stuff to support exactly one person. There are enough chairs to support one person and an occasional party. There are enough dishes and cups and utensils to support one person who makes their own meals and washes their own dishes. Enough bedding for one. Enough closet space for one. Enough food and fridge space for one. Enough toiletries for one. Just a matter of fact.
Not that there's been no effort to expand the coffers. There has been. Through the strain and the strife and the good and bad times, the covering radar is still only big enough to account for the airspace over a single atoll. Above and beyond that controlled airspace, all bets are off. Everyone and everything flying in or out is at its own risk. There simply is no room in the budget for fighter escorts and first response marines and a space program and, hell, the DPW is backlogged by years, not months or days. Years. Bringing someone else into the equivalent of District 9 is not going to end well for anyone who doesn't live somewhere near or lesser than there already. This may be an open hoodrat invitation. It's not.
Recognizing where my passions are, we can make this work. I gotta acquire more space at some point if I want another human being around or, adding another human being, there will very quickly be just one. We can work out the details after the acres. Plus it'll be good to have places to bury things and plant growing things to just walk out on my porch and sit down and peer across the field and say to no one in particular "I remember when that tree was a foot tall," kick my feet up on a flat basketball , take a little sip of gin and apple juice, scrawl some notes, and tsk tsk at online dating messages I still receive, setting aside the gems to tell you when dinner rolls around and we play two handed hearts to see who sets the menu and who does the cooking that night.
2/8/14
Stand Up Act 9 (dialogues)
Stand Up Act 8
I don't want to go fishing today.
Why not, I was just putting on pants after you called?!
I changed my mind.
Why?
It's gross out.
Seriously? A little rain?? It's got damn Pittsburgh in Autumn. It's a perfect day.
Nope, its not.
You're from Pittsburgh! What the hell is wrong with you?
You're being unreasonable!
It's beautiful outside!
You're being unreasonable!!
Am I?
Yeah.
Okay.............when are you free next? I'm looking at the ten day forecast right now.
Throwing a rager tonight?
Yeah.
What time?
Sixish.
Nine?
Sixish.
Sixish?
Yes, sixish.
Have you thought about nine?
No. Well, I did. For a while. Then I remembered I had shit to do. Before. After I remembered.
Whatever, you know where I live. Hit me up and we'll combine parties at nine.
Ninish?
We're going to ramble on, because we can, and also why not. The longest set ever.
Cats have short memories. They have learned behaviors, but I think it's fair to say they have short memories. They're beings of routines. That can make you functional. If you have a short memory, but a solid routine, you can definitely get by alright. No harm no foul. What you have to keep in mind is what really defines getting by. Do you want to get by as well as a human being does or as well as a cat does? Granted, cats have it pretty good.
Defining work aside, not to say that it's easy to be a cat. Can you imagine having to sleep so much? Yeah, I need to eat lunch, but first I have to take this three hour siesta in this sun beam because it's really god damn warm right here. Yes, I know your car died on the shoulder of interstate 376 and you cancelled your triple A because there was an order of 30 pounds of catnip you had to get in so that you could ensconce yourself in plant matter on demand for the year, but this sun beam is really really warm and if I get into my car right now I will fall asleep immediately if traffic stops for longer than five minutes and I'm not trying to get stopped by the police with my inspection sticker out of date. I'll see you in a few hours. Yes, I'm in the shower right now. I just ate. I'll be done when I'm done. Whether or not I'll be jerking off for the next hour before I take this nap is frankly none of your business. If you keep talking like an asshole we are definitely brawling when I get there. What's it to you anyway? We're not family. If I could live without a housemate I would! Well, I didn't touch your snack stash, I just ate all of the food you left after you took off after breakfast. Yes, including the things you set aside for lunch. No, I didn't touch your stash or your green. If I did, I would be too busy not answering the damn phone.
It's a little bit alarming though when you look up from repairing a broken laptop or keeping up with email nonsense and see your cat dangling from the side of the fish tank you specifically perched on top of bookshelf because, the last time you checked, cats couldn't climb bookshelves.
From a purely physics standpoint, it shouldn't work. There's a reason cat trees are covered with carpeting instead of smooth faced fake wood. On top of that you've seen them try to climb it before close to forty times. They jump in three shelves up, the earliest possible landing point and watched them look at and sniff at the fourth shelf like a hardcore dungeon crawling RPG player trying to find the secret entrance to the glitch cave. As though, if they looked hard enough and poked around long enough, somehow the bookshelf programming would split apart and instantly teleport them to the next level up if they jabbed the right pixel with their nose.
Yet, there he is. Climbing on top of the fish tank with no lid. I'm scrambling to find my camera and trying to keep one eye on him to make sure he doesn't fall in, because the only thing worse than a cat soaked to the bone in fish poop filled water is washing that cat. And somehow he figures out how to step from edge to edge and not fall in AND terrorize the fish dumb enough to come near the surface with a thing twenty times their size looming overhead and thrusting enormous claws through the surface of the water with the only thing in mind being poking one of those two foot long (by scale if fish were people) talons through their itty bitty eye holes.
How the hell did he get up there? I took him down and watched him attempt it again and again for a good day and a half and he never managed to pull it off again. Which was kind of disappointing. It reminded me of how shitty my own memory was. Not to harp on passwords, but I have made passwords and forgotten them not more than a handful of days later. The security question is what was the make and model of your first car. Two days removed, I'm asking myself "the make and model of the first car I ever drove or the first car I ever crashed?" "The make and model of the first car I can remember riding in or the first car I ever drove myself." "The make and model of the first car I fell in love with or the make and model of the first car I knew I wanted in my dream garage." Ending with "your account is locked, please call customer service at 1-800-555" five five, five five. How are achievements so forgettable?
I want to sit the cat down with translator boxes strapped to our throats so we can understand each other the way it happens in science fiction and go over what exactly went on. Because maybe he just needs some coaching? Maybe he did it once and it was a wild success and he got so caught up in the success that he forgot to make mental notes of how he actually got there and now he's broke and sitting on the floor, looking up at the fish tank angrier than ever, and clueless with how to actually deal with it.
I at least wish he had opposable thumbs and manners enough to ask me to pass him the sugar dish so we could sit down at the kitchen table and talk about our short comings. Or at least sip tea and nod instead of stalking around the apartment in circles mad at things we can't discuss and counter mad at each other for being mad about things we can't talk about and madder that the atmosphere is so hostile when we both have nowhere else to be and nothing else to look at besides our counter counter madness.
So treat yourself. Nothing cures unhappiness like a good nosh on something yummy. It makes the world go pretty swell, when at the end of the day you go over the steps that got you to where you were the month before only to find utter soul crushing DMV line wait times to find you never filled out form H-09 and you can't forge the notary stamp in the bathroom anyway so there's no need to explain that you have explosive diarrhea from the fast food joint you never went to and will be back in a moment.
Get out the cat treats and their having pork sauteed with salmon juices and beans and rice so they poop good, and you have bleu cheese buffalo wing flavored butter crackers with nothing but mayonaise to dip them in (if you want to go so far as to dip them in to something).
There are some things, some foods, that have no business here on this green earth. I don't know how they get passed beyond their developmental stages or who fell asleep at the wheel, but they do enter the realm of otherwise useful, palatable, strange and uncommonly tasty besides the fact, sometimes unassuming, palette expanding digestables. If it's not broke, don't fix it holds true for most foods. Sure, stick a turbo charger on there. Put some bigger rims on there. Maybe some slicker tires. Change the paint scheme and put some tint on the windows. Lower the suspension. Make that vehicle of flavor crystals sexier to my tongue and I won't complain.
Maybe though, it would be a good idea to take the concept sketchers out of the room when you get down to the nitty gritty of actually putting together the deliverable? Maybe, instead of a massive grille with chrome highlights, go with a slight variation and make it a few inches bigger instead of a foot and a half bigger with ten inch wings sticking out of the sides? Consider the Ruffle potato chip. Let's make the ridges bigger, but just by a few millimeters. Sure: instantly better. Let's take the barbecue flavor and make it a little more peppery and a little more salty and a little more savory. Sure: instantly better. Let's take the barbecue flavor and make it a million times sweeter and a thousand times more sour and paint it orange! No.
Part of what makes these x-foods so ridiculously awful is the half commitment. Case in point: parmesan garlic bread flavored anything. That never works out. In every essence lab there's probably some guy or team of people working on distilling the essence of a food that is an experience unto itself. You will never be able to distill the experience of chomping into a piece of properly toasted, well seasoned, garlic bread. Ain't gonna happen. God bless you for trying, and enjoy the pay check in the meantime, but you are trying to get through a brick wall by poking it with a finger tip. Chicken and waffle potato chips? Nope. Gimme the chicken and the waffle and some hot syrup please. In a bag. On a shelf. That I can buy, take home, pull a tab and trigger an exothermic reaction that heats it all up, and then pour it out on a plate with a knife and fork and a little plastic baggie of syrup and a packet of salted butter to bust open on top of it. I'll pay the extra ten dollars for rehydrated deep fried meat, science, and happiness instead of a $3.50 bag of sadness.
It's tiring. I keep falling for it and it's tiring. I imagine the woman at the gas station where these unspeakable abominations of food stuffs keep showing up (am I shopping at one of the test kitchens? I DON'T KNOW, but I wish I did) sees me stumble in at five in the morning looking for something, nay anything, besides what is already in my pantry or my fridge and watches me walk up and down the aisles and sees my eyes light up at the latest new riff on an old classic and waits for my shoulders to fall. Waits for the long sigh of defeat because she knows I'll try anything once because we had a long conversation three days after the first time I tried heroin and she eventually came up to me and asked me if she could help me with something and it scared the living daylights out of me to the point where I literally jumped backward from her because I was convinced I was there alone somehow at the time and my brain was still maladjusted to person to person contact in ways far worse than they are now.
I imagine her watching that long breath and knowing I'm going to come to the counter with some Island of Dr. Moreaux shit to put in my gut and she'll check me out and wish me the best of luck again and she knows I could just ask, because she's tried it before, but she knows I won't listen. "You could've just called." Instead of waiting to get hammered until two in the morning expecting people to show up and packing an entire evening of inebriation into the three hours before the sun comes up and having to deal with them already completely soused and begging you to slow down because they're already ready for sleep and you're just getting started and they are in no mood to field your thirteen text messages about the things you normally talk about when you party and collaborate and get drunk at the same pace together.
But that's when you know you can die happy. Assuming your death isn't brought about by being fed feet first into a wood chipper while you're still conscious, you can definitely pass quietly and quite happy into death knowing you did call who you were supposed to, when you were supposed to, and remembered the things you were supposed to remember how to do along the way, and didn't fall for things like a taco shell made of doritos that tasted like hot vagina cheese vomit on the way down and nothing like an electro statically cheese powdered tortilla chip casing taco fixings at all, and everything you did or at least some of what you did was what you were supposed to do.
"Hell, I'm two days and six hours late for work" is never a good feeling. When you get that sensation that what you're on to is something you can fade out doing and never wake up from, you know it's something good. Sure, you can get that feeling artificially (see Patton and the suicide drug), but when you've earned your way on to that path toward what you do better than anything else, don't get comfortably confused with doing best because there is very little comfortable about writing or art or whatever keeps the motor spinning when you'd rather have it idle or, better yet, shut down completely, you know you're on to something worth while and pursuing. Perhaps in vain, but like I said before (not really) vanity is a poor man's occupation.
I can't wait to operate out of ego. Vanity is sport. Ego is conquest.The definition of poor being not within the scope of ... being too tired to masturbate.
You really do have to reevaluate your life if you reach a point where you are literally too tired to masturbate. When you cross that line where the prospect of masturbation puts the same look on your face as when you want a nip of a candy bar, but can't decide which brand or make or model or if it should have ground effects on it, or if the candy bar just has speed holes punched in it or a new paint job, but it'll let you down in the end and even the piss amount of money you spent on it will lead to days of regret later when you are one dollar and 33 cents short of getting the one thing you actually needed later on in the month, you know it's time to make some changes.
No one should ever have to suffer being too tired to masturbate. It's natures gift to the animal kingdom and as the king of the kingdom you should be and are entitled to, by the mandate of science and creation itself, masturbate. That's one thing I will never understand about relationships. The person that gets upset about your masturbating is so clearly in the wrong, it's practically insane. In terms of pure practicality, absolutely insane.
I'm not cheating on you. You're not having sex with me. I need to feel sexually fulfilled nightly so I don't kill you and then all of our children and then my coworkers tomorrow morning and then myself. What's the big deal? You're happy, because I did not sexually assault you during the night when my dick got hard and I couldn't sleep for the third night in a row. You're happy because I wake up in a good mood and feel rested and you feel rested and don't have to wash cum off of your ass and out of your cooter or off your dick and thighs. I feel fulfilled because I slept well beside you and you feel good because I slept well beside you and enjoyed breathing in your sleep smells. You feel good because you're not obligated to fuck me and I feel good because you feel good about that. Who cares what I'm actually thinking about? Brain space is brain space. It's no ones property. It's no man's land. So it's okay to think about baseball and dismantling an engine block and nun's elbow fat to keep myself from cumming while we fuck, but it's not okay to think about fucking if we're not fucking? Do you know how ridiculous you sound right now? Can you see why this might not work for me?
If you're too stressed to masturbate you need to reevaluate your life choices.
I do think I am becoming a bit asexual. It's getting close to the point where it is impossible to meet a good shag without the baggage. I don't want to know your life story. I'll listen. I'll talk. I won't ask, but if you ask I'll tell. I think it comes with moving up the age bracket and getting to that point where everyone begins pairing off and eggs start to get few and far between and people either start to go more and more insane or more and more stable and there is less and less gray area between the extremes because it really does take a good portion of your life just to figure out who and what you are and what the hell you are projecting and how the hell it's actually being perceived.
That moment in middle school at the graduation dance when the dance floor cleared out and the chaperons were busy talking about futures and "oh my gawd, my son..." and "I know, my daughter..."s and other bullshit parents talk about to stay sane around other parents and not sound weird or give any indication that their little bastards backwards tendencies have anything to do with what goes on after he/she gets home from school, and everyone is in a circle talking to someone or listening to someone and you realize you're looking up at the lights in the ceiling and listening to everyone listening and talking to each other and you're happy there, happens all over again when you get older. Except this time around you're fully aware of it.
And that's when you realize you should stop suggesting things to do with other people because they're flat not interested, no matter how enthusiastic about it you try to come across. Maybe there was an inkling of interest when the topic first came up, but by the fourth phone call and the tenth text message over the course of a month with no success it's time to face facts: they don't want to hang out with you the same way you want to hang out with them and it's only going to get more pronounced as they continue to grow and you continue to grow and you're not growing apart, by no means. You're just not roll dogs the way you used to be.
Eventually it's going to get creepy and they're going to cut you off entirely so simmer down. That's hard to do though. Especially when you get pity-vited to hang out. That's always the worst. A pity-vite followed by endless pursuit leads to call off after call off after call off, because, let's be honest, they're trying to let you down easy and if you think about it a little bit, had you met them outside of the circumstances in which you actually met, you never would have known they existed in the first place. Your blip is over. The good thing is though, if you do relax the pursuit a little bit, you might get to have a fun pop in/pop up later when you've had enough time away to have something interesting to relay to them and that's nothing to sneeze at. Unless you sneeze when someone turns on the light. Then it is something to sneeze at. Something to sneeze at and explain while you run for some toilet paper and your clothes because finding people that fuck with the lights on is almost as hard as not forcing the issue.
It's kind of like coveralls. You either understand their value or you don't. There's a large age divide in understanding the coverall. There's a large age divide and a large occupation divide too. When it comes to occupations the idea of the coverall is pretty obvious. You either have to stay really really clean or you have to get really really dirty. Either way, any sort of regular clothing is not going to cut it, but whatever job you are doing at either end of the spectrum is absolutely essential to the furthering of civilization. You're either working at the very top end of technology and physiology or you're working at the machine level where the rubber meets the road. Either way, if you show up in regular clothes or a suit and tie someone is going to say "what the fuck were you thinking" and/or "go home and change or don't come back at all."
The other area is a little more finicky. The other area is weather related. If it's just that damn cold outside it makes sense to wear coveralls. Plain and simple. The children in snow suits will nod and nearly high five you up until you hit the tweens and teens and young adults. That's when you run into the girl still wearing heels in an inch of snow and the guy in all leather skinny jeans and bubble jacket vest with the flat brimmed sports hat that still has its sticker on it. That's when you have to share the sidewalk with the guy with the vintage belt buckle and man purse shivering at a bus stop and the mom in enormous sunglasses faux studded with diamonds with a stroller. That is, however, also when you run into the gal in her early thirties who stops you and asks you where you bought those coveralls because waiting at the bus stop at 7 A.M. with a windchill of -5 has had the presence of mind to understand a skirt and leggings with knee high leather boots was a bad idea.
The logic gap from age 13 to 23 is a strange one. Everything is very obvious after, I dunno, say 26. After 26 it's just a matter of execution and can do, will do, won't do, can't do, on the books and ready to go, or still thinking it over indefinitely postponed. It does make me laugh sometimes walking home from work in nice thick coveralls perfectly fine, the wind breaking in front of me and not feeling a thing knowing that I score a 0 on style points and 100% on no regrets or thoughts about "if I lived here, I'd be home already" because I know in coveralls I can walk for days. Hell, I could curl up and take a nap, but we know how that usually ends (flashlights in the face and "where do you live"s and "this is a public park, you can't sleep here"s, but those days are behind us).
Growing up is a shame but necessary. I got my first gray hair a few weeks ago. Right in the middle of my chin. A friend of mine said "you're going to be one of those creepy 40 year olds with gray hair all over," I told him it's not true. The preferred term is silver fox. It's a badge of honor. I honestly didn't think I'd live long enough to see a gray hair on my head so it's actually a badge I am happy to wear. I can run with it. Chicks dig salt and pepper fellas right? Even though I don't particularly dig chicks. It's still nice to be prized a little bit. Let's you know you're not a complete dumpster fire. If you're not a shock jock, I'm pretty sure not being branded a dumpster fire is a good thing.
Unlike most people, I've been waiting for gray hair for a very long time. It's welcome. My hair will finally start catching up to the miles I've put on my brain. If someone took me home they'd be calling up lawyers about lemon laws and scam artists even though there is still a heart beating 10 years old inside of me. Flipping through channels you'd be well advised to skip cartoon network because I will start jumping up and down and shouting that we have to stop to watch All Dogs Go to Heaven and Up coming on right after and we can't miss Courage the Cowardly Dog marathon after; Law and Order and the NBA game be damned!
With the kid does come soap dodging. I still don't shower enough. Then again, as you get older, the value of washing tends to increase. Aside from my own OCD showering because... well... because! If you shower six times in one day you've either done way too much coke, done something really bad, are absolutely breaking down mentally and can't stop touching your own skin to save your life (if someone pointed a gun at you and sad the next time you rub your forearm I am going to put a bullet inside your fucking brain and you actually had to think long and hard about whether or not that itch right at the crook of your elbow was worth investigating because technically it's not your forearm and besides you really really have gone way too long without checking to make sure you were still inside the skin wrapped around your muscles, veins, arteries, and bones), or you just really like showering.
If I could live in my shower I probably would, Seinfeld style. It breaks my heart sometimes, making references to things kids have never seen. By kids, I mean early 20 somethings. I can live with it. It still grates my nerves though.
I did realize I was soap dodging the other day. After I realized my shower fetish was getting out of control I decided to shower as little as possible and went to visit a friend. I sat down right beside their fan boosted space heater. Terrible idea, I know, but there was nowhere else to sit. Let's just say, I got comfortable sitting on the floor beside it and spread my legs a little bit to sit cross legged. The temperature wasn't particularly high or particularly low, but the fan was boosting airflow continuously and, yeah, it felt great blowing through my paints and airing out my junk because I'd been at work all day and it's nice to get a breeze going when your sack is stuck to your thigh.
I thought I smelled alright. Ten minutes in, the girl sitting next to me asks me if I want to turn the heater off. The heater is in passive mode so my answer is no. The temperature is fine. Ten minutes later she asks me again and this time we make eye contact and her eyes have that "something is not going well" slit to them. So I put two and two together and made four. Whatever funk I thought was contained has been let loose like the dogs of war all up on her face. It was the nicest way anyone has told me I reeked in a long time.
I respected that, switched to a kneeling pose to pin down the crotch sweat dragon, and turned off the blower. It's one of those simple things you can do to help other people feel more comfortable without other people being too shame faced. It's kind of like masturbating in that way. If you ever masturbate to a particular person, they don't want to hear about so don't say anything about it. The sentiment will be appreciated, but there's no reason to go as far as treading on graces and enjoying company. Be easy, be tactful, and they'll respect you for it. The thing is you won't know they respect you because you'll never bring it up, but understand that given the alternative to not knowing... yeah, they'll respect you for it and take the complement. Play it out in your head. Run the dialogues and the dialog trees and superimpose their characteristics on those dialogs to guide the decision forks and you'll always end up at the same conclusion: take more showers, take more time, die happy, and in the meantime don't eat shitty food and keep memories in tow better than a cat can.
I don't want to go fishing today.
Why not, I was just putting on pants after you called?!
I changed my mind.
Why?
It's gross out.
Seriously? A little rain?? It's got damn Pittsburgh in Autumn. It's a perfect day.
Nope, its not.
You're from Pittsburgh! What the hell is wrong with you?
You're being unreasonable!
It's beautiful outside!
You're being unreasonable!!
Am I?
Yeah.
Okay.............when are you free next? I'm looking at the ten day forecast right now.
Throwing a rager tonight?
Yeah.
What time?
Sixish.
Nine?
Sixish.
Sixish?
Yes, sixish.
Have you thought about nine?
No. Well, I did. For a while. Then I remembered I had shit to do. Before. After I remembered.
Whatever, you know where I live. Hit me up and we'll combine parties at nine.
Ninish?
We're going to ramble on, because we can, and also why not. The longest set ever.
Cats have short memories. They have learned behaviors, but I think it's fair to say they have short memories. They're beings of routines. That can make you functional. If you have a short memory, but a solid routine, you can definitely get by alright. No harm no foul. What you have to keep in mind is what really defines getting by. Do you want to get by as well as a human being does or as well as a cat does? Granted, cats have it pretty good.
Defining work aside, not to say that it's easy to be a cat. Can you imagine having to sleep so much? Yeah, I need to eat lunch, but first I have to take this three hour siesta in this sun beam because it's really god damn warm right here. Yes, I know your car died on the shoulder of interstate 376 and you cancelled your triple A because there was an order of 30 pounds of catnip you had to get in so that you could ensconce yourself in plant matter on demand for the year, but this sun beam is really really warm and if I get into my car right now I will fall asleep immediately if traffic stops for longer than five minutes and I'm not trying to get stopped by the police with my inspection sticker out of date. I'll see you in a few hours. Yes, I'm in the shower right now. I just ate. I'll be done when I'm done. Whether or not I'll be jerking off for the next hour before I take this nap is frankly none of your business. If you keep talking like an asshole we are definitely brawling when I get there. What's it to you anyway? We're not family. If I could live without a housemate I would! Well, I didn't touch your snack stash, I just ate all of the food you left after you took off after breakfast. Yes, including the things you set aside for lunch. No, I didn't touch your stash or your green. If I did, I would be too busy not answering the damn phone.
It's a little bit alarming though when you look up from repairing a broken laptop or keeping up with email nonsense and see your cat dangling from the side of the fish tank you specifically perched on top of bookshelf because, the last time you checked, cats couldn't climb bookshelves.
From a purely physics standpoint, it shouldn't work. There's a reason cat trees are covered with carpeting instead of smooth faced fake wood. On top of that you've seen them try to climb it before close to forty times. They jump in three shelves up, the earliest possible landing point and watched them look at and sniff at the fourth shelf like a hardcore dungeon crawling RPG player trying to find the secret entrance to the glitch cave. As though, if they looked hard enough and poked around long enough, somehow the bookshelf programming would split apart and instantly teleport them to the next level up if they jabbed the right pixel with their nose.
Yet, there he is. Climbing on top of the fish tank with no lid. I'm scrambling to find my camera and trying to keep one eye on him to make sure he doesn't fall in, because the only thing worse than a cat soaked to the bone in fish poop filled water is washing that cat. And somehow he figures out how to step from edge to edge and not fall in AND terrorize the fish dumb enough to come near the surface with a thing twenty times their size looming overhead and thrusting enormous claws through the surface of the water with the only thing in mind being poking one of those two foot long (by scale if fish were people) talons through their itty bitty eye holes.
How the hell did he get up there? I took him down and watched him attempt it again and again for a good day and a half and he never managed to pull it off again. Which was kind of disappointing. It reminded me of how shitty my own memory was. Not to harp on passwords, but I have made passwords and forgotten them not more than a handful of days later. The security question is what was the make and model of your first car. Two days removed, I'm asking myself "the make and model of the first car I ever drove or the first car I ever crashed?" "The make and model of the first car I can remember riding in or the first car I ever drove myself." "The make and model of the first car I fell in love with or the make and model of the first car I knew I wanted in my dream garage." Ending with "your account is locked, please call customer service at 1-800-555" five five, five five. How are achievements so forgettable?
I want to sit the cat down with translator boxes strapped to our throats so we can understand each other the way it happens in science fiction and go over what exactly went on. Because maybe he just needs some coaching? Maybe he did it once and it was a wild success and he got so caught up in the success that he forgot to make mental notes of how he actually got there and now he's broke and sitting on the floor, looking up at the fish tank angrier than ever, and clueless with how to actually deal with it.
I at least wish he had opposable thumbs and manners enough to ask me to pass him the sugar dish so we could sit down at the kitchen table and talk about our short comings. Or at least sip tea and nod instead of stalking around the apartment in circles mad at things we can't discuss and counter mad at each other for being mad about things we can't talk about and madder that the atmosphere is so hostile when we both have nowhere else to be and nothing else to look at besides our counter counter madness.
So treat yourself. Nothing cures unhappiness like a good nosh on something yummy. It makes the world go pretty swell, when at the end of the day you go over the steps that got you to where you were the month before only to find utter soul crushing DMV line wait times to find you never filled out form H-09 and you can't forge the notary stamp in the bathroom anyway so there's no need to explain that you have explosive diarrhea from the fast food joint you never went to and will be back in a moment.
Get out the cat treats and their having pork sauteed with salmon juices and beans and rice so they poop good, and you have bleu cheese buffalo wing flavored butter crackers with nothing but mayonaise to dip them in (if you want to go so far as to dip them in to something).
There are some things, some foods, that have no business here on this green earth. I don't know how they get passed beyond their developmental stages or who fell asleep at the wheel, but they do enter the realm of otherwise useful, palatable, strange and uncommonly tasty besides the fact, sometimes unassuming, palette expanding digestables. If it's not broke, don't fix it holds true for most foods. Sure, stick a turbo charger on there. Put some bigger rims on there. Maybe some slicker tires. Change the paint scheme and put some tint on the windows. Lower the suspension. Make that vehicle of flavor crystals sexier to my tongue and I won't complain.
Maybe though, it would be a good idea to take the concept sketchers out of the room when you get down to the nitty gritty of actually putting together the deliverable? Maybe, instead of a massive grille with chrome highlights, go with a slight variation and make it a few inches bigger instead of a foot and a half bigger with ten inch wings sticking out of the sides? Consider the Ruffle potato chip. Let's make the ridges bigger, but just by a few millimeters. Sure: instantly better. Let's take the barbecue flavor and make it a little more peppery and a little more salty and a little more savory. Sure: instantly better. Let's take the barbecue flavor and make it a million times sweeter and a thousand times more sour and paint it orange! No.
Part of what makes these x-foods so ridiculously awful is the half commitment. Case in point: parmesan garlic bread flavored anything. That never works out. In every essence lab there's probably some guy or team of people working on distilling the essence of a food that is an experience unto itself. You will never be able to distill the experience of chomping into a piece of properly toasted, well seasoned, garlic bread. Ain't gonna happen. God bless you for trying, and enjoy the pay check in the meantime, but you are trying to get through a brick wall by poking it with a finger tip. Chicken and waffle potato chips? Nope. Gimme the chicken and the waffle and some hot syrup please. In a bag. On a shelf. That I can buy, take home, pull a tab and trigger an exothermic reaction that heats it all up, and then pour it out on a plate with a knife and fork and a little plastic baggie of syrup and a packet of salted butter to bust open on top of it. I'll pay the extra ten dollars for rehydrated deep fried meat, science, and happiness instead of a $3.50 bag of sadness.
It's tiring. I keep falling for it and it's tiring. I imagine the woman at the gas station where these unspeakable abominations of food stuffs keep showing up (am I shopping at one of the test kitchens? I DON'T KNOW, but I wish I did) sees me stumble in at five in the morning looking for something, nay anything, besides what is already in my pantry or my fridge and watches me walk up and down the aisles and sees my eyes light up at the latest new riff on an old classic and waits for my shoulders to fall. Waits for the long sigh of defeat because she knows I'll try anything once because we had a long conversation three days after the first time I tried heroin and she eventually came up to me and asked me if she could help me with something and it scared the living daylights out of me to the point where I literally jumped backward from her because I was convinced I was there alone somehow at the time and my brain was still maladjusted to person to person contact in ways far worse than they are now.
I imagine her watching that long breath and knowing I'm going to come to the counter with some Island of Dr. Moreaux shit to put in my gut and she'll check me out and wish me the best of luck again and she knows I could just ask, because she's tried it before, but she knows I won't listen. "You could've just called." Instead of waiting to get hammered until two in the morning expecting people to show up and packing an entire evening of inebriation into the three hours before the sun comes up and having to deal with them already completely soused and begging you to slow down because they're already ready for sleep and you're just getting started and they are in no mood to field your thirteen text messages about the things you normally talk about when you party and collaborate and get drunk at the same pace together.
But that's when you know you can die happy. Assuming your death isn't brought about by being fed feet first into a wood chipper while you're still conscious, you can definitely pass quietly and quite happy into death knowing you did call who you were supposed to, when you were supposed to, and remembered the things you were supposed to remember how to do along the way, and didn't fall for things like a taco shell made of doritos that tasted like hot vagina cheese vomit on the way down and nothing like an electro statically cheese powdered tortilla chip casing taco fixings at all, and everything you did or at least some of what you did was what you were supposed to do.
"Hell, I'm two days and six hours late for work" is never a good feeling. When you get that sensation that what you're on to is something you can fade out doing and never wake up from, you know it's something good. Sure, you can get that feeling artificially (see Patton and the suicide drug), but when you've earned your way on to that path toward what you do better than anything else, don't get comfortably confused with doing best because there is very little comfortable about writing or art or whatever keeps the motor spinning when you'd rather have it idle or, better yet, shut down completely, you know you're on to something worth while and pursuing. Perhaps in vain, but like I said before (not really) vanity is a poor man's occupation.
I can't wait to operate out of ego. Vanity is sport. Ego is conquest.The definition of poor being not within the scope of ... being too tired to masturbate.
You really do have to reevaluate your life if you reach a point where you are literally too tired to masturbate. When you cross that line where the prospect of masturbation puts the same look on your face as when you want a nip of a candy bar, but can't decide which brand or make or model or if it should have ground effects on it, or if the candy bar just has speed holes punched in it or a new paint job, but it'll let you down in the end and even the piss amount of money you spent on it will lead to days of regret later when you are one dollar and 33 cents short of getting the one thing you actually needed later on in the month, you know it's time to make some changes.
No one should ever have to suffer being too tired to masturbate. It's natures gift to the animal kingdom and as the king of the kingdom you should be and are entitled to, by the mandate of science and creation itself, masturbate. That's one thing I will never understand about relationships. The person that gets upset about your masturbating is so clearly in the wrong, it's practically insane. In terms of pure practicality, absolutely insane.
I'm not cheating on you. You're not having sex with me. I need to feel sexually fulfilled nightly so I don't kill you and then all of our children and then my coworkers tomorrow morning and then myself. What's the big deal? You're happy, because I did not sexually assault you during the night when my dick got hard and I couldn't sleep for the third night in a row. You're happy because I wake up in a good mood and feel rested and you feel rested and don't have to wash cum off of your ass and out of your cooter or off your dick and thighs. I feel fulfilled because I slept well beside you and you feel good because I slept well beside you and enjoyed breathing in your sleep smells. You feel good because you're not obligated to fuck me and I feel good because you feel good about that. Who cares what I'm actually thinking about? Brain space is brain space. It's no ones property. It's no man's land. So it's okay to think about baseball and dismantling an engine block and nun's elbow fat to keep myself from cumming while we fuck, but it's not okay to think about fucking if we're not fucking? Do you know how ridiculous you sound right now? Can you see why this might not work for me?
If you're too stressed to masturbate you need to reevaluate your life choices.
I do think I am becoming a bit asexual. It's getting close to the point where it is impossible to meet a good shag without the baggage. I don't want to know your life story. I'll listen. I'll talk. I won't ask, but if you ask I'll tell. I think it comes with moving up the age bracket and getting to that point where everyone begins pairing off and eggs start to get few and far between and people either start to go more and more insane or more and more stable and there is less and less gray area between the extremes because it really does take a good portion of your life just to figure out who and what you are and what the hell you are projecting and how the hell it's actually being perceived.
That moment in middle school at the graduation dance when the dance floor cleared out and the chaperons were busy talking about futures and "oh my gawd, my son..." and "I know, my daughter..."s and other bullshit parents talk about to stay sane around other parents and not sound weird or give any indication that their little bastards backwards tendencies have anything to do with what goes on after he/she gets home from school, and everyone is in a circle talking to someone or listening to someone and you realize you're looking up at the lights in the ceiling and listening to everyone listening and talking to each other and you're happy there, happens all over again when you get older. Except this time around you're fully aware of it.
And that's when you realize you should stop suggesting things to do with other people because they're flat not interested, no matter how enthusiastic about it you try to come across. Maybe there was an inkling of interest when the topic first came up, but by the fourth phone call and the tenth text message over the course of a month with no success it's time to face facts: they don't want to hang out with you the same way you want to hang out with them and it's only going to get more pronounced as they continue to grow and you continue to grow and you're not growing apart, by no means. You're just not roll dogs the way you used to be.
Eventually it's going to get creepy and they're going to cut you off entirely so simmer down. That's hard to do though. Especially when you get pity-vited to hang out. That's always the worst. A pity-vite followed by endless pursuit leads to call off after call off after call off, because, let's be honest, they're trying to let you down easy and if you think about it a little bit, had you met them outside of the circumstances in which you actually met, you never would have known they existed in the first place. Your blip is over. The good thing is though, if you do relax the pursuit a little bit, you might get to have a fun pop in/pop up later when you've had enough time away to have something interesting to relay to them and that's nothing to sneeze at. Unless you sneeze when someone turns on the light. Then it is something to sneeze at. Something to sneeze at and explain while you run for some toilet paper and your clothes because finding people that fuck with the lights on is almost as hard as not forcing the issue.
It's kind of like coveralls. You either understand their value or you don't. There's a large age divide in understanding the coverall. There's a large age divide and a large occupation divide too. When it comes to occupations the idea of the coverall is pretty obvious. You either have to stay really really clean or you have to get really really dirty. Either way, any sort of regular clothing is not going to cut it, but whatever job you are doing at either end of the spectrum is absolutely essential to the furthering of civilization. You're either working at the very top end of technology and physiology or you're working at the machine level where the rubber meets the road. Either way, if you show up in regular clothes or a suit and tie someone is going to say "what the fuck were you thinking" and/or "go home and change or don't come back at all."
The other area is a little more finicky. The other area is weather related. If it's just that damn cold outside it makes sense to wear coveralls. Plain and simple. The children in snow suits will nod and nearly high five you up until you hit the tweens and teens and young adults. That's when you run into the girl still wearing heels in an inch of snow and the guy in all leather skinny jeans and bubble jacket vest with the flat brimmed sports hat that still has its sticker on it. That's when you have to share the sidewalk with the guy with the vintage belt buckle and man purse shivering at a bus stop and the mom in enormous sunglasses faux studded with diamonds with a stroller. That is, however, also when you run into the gal in her early thirties who stops you and asks you where you bought those coveralls because waiting at the bus stop at 7 A.M. with a windchill of -5 has had the presence of mind to understand a skirt and leggings with knee high leather boots was a bad idea.
The logic gap from age 13 to 23 is a strange one. Everything is very obvious after, I dunno, say 26. After 26 it's just a matter of execution and can do, will do, won't do, can't do, on the books and ready to go, or still thinking it over indefinitely postponed. It does make me laugh sometimes walking home from work in nice thick coveralls perfectly fine, the wind breaking in front of me and not feeling a thing knowing that I score a 0 on style points and 100% on no regrets or thoughts about "if I lived here, I'd be home already" because I know in coveralls I can walk for days. Hell, I could curl up and take a nap, but we know how that usually ends (flashlights in the face and "where do you live"s and "this is a public park, you can't sleep here"s, but those days are behind us).
Growing up is a shame but necessary. I got my first gray hair a few weeks ago. Right in the middle of my chin. A friend of mine said "you're going to be one of those creepy 40 year olds with gray hair all over," I told him it's not true. The preferred term is silver fox. It's a badge of honor. I honestly didn't think I'd live long enough to see a gray hair on my head so it's actually a badge I am happy to wear. I can run with it. Chicks dig salt and pepper fellas right? Even though I don't particularly dig chicks. It's still nice to be prized a little bit. Let's you know you're not a complete dumpster fire. If you're not a shock jock, I'm pretty sure not being branded a dumpster fire is a good thing.
Unlike most people, I've been waiting for gray hair for a very long time. It's welcome. My hair will finally start catching up to the miles I've put on my brain. If someone took me home they'd be calling up lawyers about lemon laws and scam artists even though there is still a heart beating 10 years old inside of me. Flipping through channels you'd be well advised to skip cartoon network because I will start jumping up and down and shouting that we have to stop to watch All Dogs Go to Heaven and Up coming on right after and we can't miss Courage the Cowardly Dog marathon after; Law and Order and the NBA game be damned!
With the kid does come soap dodging. I still don't shower enough. Then again, as you get older, the value of washing tends to increase. Aside from my own OCD showering because... well... because! If you shower six times in one day you've either done way too much coke, done something really bad, are absolutely breaking down mentally and can't stop touching your own skin to save your life (if someone pointed a gun at you and sad the next time you rub your forearm I am going to put a bullet inside your fucking brain and you actually had to think long and hard about whether or not that itch right at the crook of your elbow was worth investigating because technically it's not your forearm and besides you really really have gone way too long without checking to make sure you were still inside the skin wrapped around your muscles, veins, arteries, and bones), or you just really like showering.
If I could live in my shower I probably would, Seinfeld style. It breaks my heart sometimes, making references to things kids have never seen. By kids, I mean early 20 somethings. I can live with it. It still grates my nerves though.
I did realize I was soap dodging the other day. After I realized my shower fetish was getting out of control I decided to shower as little as possible and went to visit a friend. I sat down right beside their fan boosted space heater. Terrible idea, I know, but there was nowhere else to sit. Let's just say, I got comfortable sitting on the floor beside it and spread my legs a little bit to sit cross legged. The temperature wasn't particularly high or particularly low, but the fan was boosting airflow continuously and, yeah, it felt great blowing through my paints and airing out my junk because I'd been at work all day and it's nice to get a breeze going when your sack is stuck to your thigh.
I thought I smelled alright. Ten minutes in, the girl sitting next to me asks me if I want to turn the heater off. The heater is in passive mode so my answer is no. The temperature is fine. Ten minutes later she asks me again and this time we make eye contact and her eyes have that "something is not going well" slit to them. So I put two and two together and made four. Whatever funk I thought was contained has been let loose like the dogs of war all up on her face. It was the nicest way anyone has told me I reeked in a long time.
I respected that, switched to a kneeling pose to pin down the crotch sweat dragon, and turned off the blower. It's one of those simple things you can do to help other people feel more comfortable without other people being too shame faced. It's kind of like masturbating in that way. If you ever masturbate to a particular person, they don't want to hear about so don't say anything about it. The sentiment will be appreciated, but there's no reason to go as far as treading on graces and enjoying company. Be easy, be tactful, and they'll respect you for it. The thing is you won't know they respect you because you'll never bring it up, but understand that given the alternative to not knowing... yeah, they'll respect you for it and take the complement. Play it out in your head. Run the dialogues and the dialog trees and superimpose their characteristics on those dialogs to guide the decision forks and you'll always end up at the same conclusion: take more showers, take more time, die happy, and in the meantime don't eat shitty food and keep memories in tow better than a cat can.
11/25/13
Atari
Going back in time to enjoy the things I love. It has been strange hanging out with people I've only just met and their siblings. The day before was silly violent and antagonized by the middle child in her family. Her being the middle child and antagonizing everyone around her. She was the back end of an eight banger. It was difficult to identify and made more hilarious by our friend asking if he could bang her older sister. I'm pretty sure it was not up to me or her sister's fiance. Pretty sure whether or not she wanted to get mucky was and still is completely up to her. You can come along for the ride if you want to.
"I've sucked enough dicks in my life." ~ Tammy
We had this ongoing bet about how long it would take before she ran to history no one else knew, and I chimed in,but it was half hearted. I just wanted to belong in the conversation. Not a pissing contest of abuse as much as a revisiting of the things that inform and continue to inform our existence. It's kind of like driving a car. Think about it this way: put in 40 degrees of left input to your road facing wheels and they will turn fifteen degrees. Learning compensation. Learning how much you actually do burn when you proclaim you've torched it to soil.
It really is that simple though and that laughable and that much more enjoyable than trying to slug away one for one. That much more enjoyable than trying to get one unit of output for each understood unit of input. Existence does not work that way. There are boosters constantly. Whether you like it or not, everything that you do is boosted and amplified upon reception. It's the combat feedback loop. I hit you. How hard did I hit you? Seven? Six? How hard will you hit me back? At least a six. What will I feel a six is? Put a number on it. At least a five, but you don't know so tag me at least at a six, but that six comes in at an eight because I already ate a six and you know that because you've been hurt before and know what a six feels like and know I probably played it soft and a jump cut is in order.
Into the flame, into the fire. I have a lot of love pent up and no way to spend it. Why you no want to cuddle no more?
Fucking cowards.
Sometimes we have to back off because we know they will take it the wrong way and run with it. Does it hurt to be alone? Sure. Does it hurt enough to make changes? No. One thing I've learned about myself is that distance is still necessary. What I view as an appropriate relationship is still not, by and large, viewed the same way and it's not heartbreaking the way it used to be. It used to break me apart in fantastic ways and now it's more of a "okay, we're here right now. Option A, B, and J." Cash out now, because two more steps will lead to two more steps will lead to two more steps will lead to two more steps and we're at J anyway.
I'm getting back to the things I love and it's been difficult. It's been a battles by turn. I have been trying not to think about it, but the successful artists I know had a pretty solid backing before they had outside backing making their whiles worth something. I want to cut their faces off and wear them and drink the blood that trickles into my mouth while I talk behind their skin and I want to be able to talk to them about it, but "that's not okay." And still they call themselves artists and photographers in the meantime never having actually known what the mean times really are. I'm no teacher, but I am willing to crash course them.
Stop cock teasing me. Stop front loading me. I cannot handle that kind of nonsense. Take your vacations and enjoy your languages, but do not fucking... ....I'm going to war. There are rules. Aligning with my own. Measures not drastic.
Deterioration. Leaving memories at least as fast as they come. I drive toward new ones as constantly as I can because there really is nowhere else to be and I am okay with that. It's a riot. I feel silly sometimes bending over to pick up the shards of myself and sometimes the entire exercise feels machinated. What I really want to do is tattoo you and have you tattoo me whatever you want. Battling down the brain chiggies. The glitch farm.
I could look back in time, but it won't change the view. The hardest I ever cheated was kissing another woman and being truthful about it. What makes you okay? Violently successful people who don't understand how they were set up to succeed aggravate me. Everything they know are things I should have known when they did, but had to learn later because, like those post coin op machines with the news on their face, I had no coins to insert and no nudge on top of that to pay attention to them and am now taking notice and am now earning quarters to slot in and am now getting up to speed with and am not mad about it. A little sorry, but not mad.
Through the TV eye. A wrecka. I said "hey!" Being bummy with no standards is okay. I'm not going to hurt you if you promise not to hurt me. Dhali Lama and llama beans and trying to be profound in every little thing. It's silly. The outside world bleeds in and the inside world bleeds out and really i just want you to say you're sorry. Even that will be and is meaningless because I won't remember it until I'm steamed and wishing I was not so forgettable.
Power. Something cosmic. It takes a lot out of me to be here and I know it takes a lot out of you to be here with me. Diet on anxiety. I wish I could fill my stomach whenever I wanted to, but I've been grained to the scale of rice to need as little as possible and digest want as a hack hazard that is a crumple zone. I want to be a foodie. I really do. Up chucked bringing to do more with less.
Every time I get something new to me I expect it to break down immediately or somehow fail me because no one gives something valuable to them up for grabs. Except people like me who do not deal in currency. Your word is your word. Your bond is your bond. Everything starts and ends at that initial hand shake. No farther and no less. Things new to me are things old and decrepit to others. Not a revitalization as much as a re-purposing. There is love in that.
Time elapsed, time remaining.
There was this one time I set my cat's whiskers to flame, not understanding that he was made of fur. The whiskers caught and burned down to his coat and we were both surprised at how fast it was able to go. Needless to say, or perhaps, for everyone's sake, we never got that ticky tacky mad again, but if I need to I know some good out of the way spots to bury you if you want to roll those dice. I'm a bad liar and a good forgetter. Push upstairs ;")
I will play asteroids with you for days.
///Daedelus - "My Beau" at night, I think of you and do not call because our wars are different and mounting a head after a battle means something wildly different to me than it does to you, no slight
"I've sucked enough dicks in my life." ~ Tammy
We had this ongoing bet about how long it would take before she ran to history no one else knew, and I chimed in,but it was half hearted. I just wanted to belong in the conversation. Not a pissing contest of abuse as much as a revisiting of the things that inform and continue to inform our existence. It's kind of like driving a car. Think about it this way: put in 40 degrees of left input to your road facing wheels and they will turn fifteen degrees. Learning compensation. Learning how much you actually do burn when you proclaim you've torched it to soil.
It really is that simple though and that laughable and that much more enjoyable than trying to slug away one for one. That much more enjoyable than trying to get one unit of output for each understood unit of input. Existence does not work that way. There are boosters constantly. Whether you like it or not, everything that you do is boosted and amplified upon reception. It's the combat feedback loop. I hit you. How hard did I hit you? Seven? Six? How hard will you hit me back? At least a six. What will I feel a six is? Put a number on it. At least a five, but you don't know so tag me at least at a six, but that six comes in at an eight because I already ate a six and you know that because you've been hurt before and know what a six feels like and know I probably played it soft and a jump cut is in order.
Into the flame, into the fire. I have a lot of love pent up and no way to spend it. Why you no want to cuddle no more?
Fucking cowards.
Sometimes we have to back off because we know they will take it the wrong way and run with it. Does it hurt to be alone? Sure. Does it hurt enough to make changes? No. One thing I've learned about myself is that distance is still necessary. What I view as an appropriate relationship is still not, by and large, viewed the same way and it's not heartbreaking the way it used to be. It used to break me apart in fantastic ways and now it's more of a "okay, we're here right now. Option A, B, and J." Cash out now, because two more steps will lead to two more steps will lead to two more steps will lead to two more steps and we're at J anyway.
I'm getting back to the things I love and it's been difficult. It's been a battles by turn. I have been trying not to think about it, but the successful artists I know had a pretty solid backing before they had outside backing making their whiles worth something. I want to cut their faces off and wear them and drink the blood that trickles into my mouth while I talk behind their skin and I want to be able to talk to them about it, but "that's not okay." And still they call themselves artists and photographers in the meantime never having actually known what the mean times really are. I'm no teacher, but I am willing to crash course them.
Stop cock teasing me. Stop front loading me. I cannot handle that kind of nonsense. Take your vacations and enjoy your languages, but do not fucking... ....I'm going to war. There are rules. Aligning with my own. Measures not drastic.
Deterioration. Leaving memories at least as fast as they come. I drive toward new ones as constantly as I can because there really is nowhere else to be and I am okay with that. It's a riot. I feel silly sometimes bending over to pick up the shards of myself and sometimes the entire exercise feels machinated. What I really want to do is tattoo you and have you tattoo me whatever you want. Battling down the brain chiggies. The glitch farm.
I could look back in time, but it won't change the view. The hardest I ever cheated was kissing another woman and being truthful about it. What makes you okay? Violently successful people who don't understand how they were set up to succeed aggravate me. Everything they know are things I should have known when they did, but had to learn later because, like those post coin op machines with the news on their face, I had no coins to insert and no nudge on top of that to pay attention to them and am now taking notice and am now earning quarters to slot in and am now getting up to speed with and am not mad about it. A little sorry, but not mad.
Through the TV eye. A wrecka. I said "hey!" Being bummy with no standards is okay. I'm not going to hurt you if you promise not to hurt me. Dhali Lama and llama beans and trying to be profound in every little thing. It's silly. The outside world bleeds in and the inside world bleeds out and really i just want you to say you're sorry. Even that will be and is meaningless because I won't remember it until I'm steamed and wishing I was not so forgettable.
Power. Something cosmic. It takes a lot out of me to be here and I know it takes a lot out of you to be here with me. Diet on anxiety. I wish I could fill my stomach whenever I wanted to, but I've been grained to the scale of rice to need as little as possible and digest want as a hack hazard that is a crumple zone. I want to be a foodie. I really do. Up chucked bringing to do more with less.
Every time I get something new to me I expect it to break down immediately or somehow fail me because no one gives something valuable to them up for grabs. Except people like me who do not deal in currency. Your word is your word. Your bond is your bond. Everything starts and ends at that initial hand shake. No farther and no less. Things new to me are things old and decrepit to others. Not a revitalization as much as a re-purposing. There is love in that.
Time elapsed, time remaining.
There was this one time I set my cat's whiskers to flame, not understanding that he was made of fur. The whiskers caught and burned down to his coat and we were both surprised at how fast it was able to go. Needless to say, or perhaps, for everyone's sake, we never got that ticky tacky mad again, but if I need to I know some good out of the way spots to bury you if you want to roll those dice. I'm a bad liar and a good forgetter. Push upstairs ;")
I will play asteroids with you for days.
///Daedelus - "My Beau" at night, I think of you and do not call because our wars are different and mounting a head after a battle means something wildly different to me than it does to you, no slight
9/12/13
Dissolving (some) Isolation, September 11th, Launch, and Laughter (touching roots)
It's been a long time. It had to be. I had a lot of things I needed to think about and learn an acceptable way to grasp, but I did! That's good. You know what else is good? Coke's slogan. I thought about it all day when I heard the commercial and now I can't remember what the hell it was, but I'm sure it'll come back to me tomorrow when I'm not thinking.
I will think of coke and remember the slogan for Coke that cracked me up because it was so dual apt they couldn't have done it by accident. Look it up. I don't assign homework in general and almost as a rule, but look it up. I was just thinking though, I have never assigned homework unless I had to. I kind of make a bad teacher in that way sometimes. I think that's the way it should be though; if you always come to class and never miss one you should be as well informed as the person who never goes to class, but reads the textbook cover to cover.
Sorry, I got distracted. I didn't know where to start and I've been looking for a way to start again, but nothing has lead back here the way I expected it to and then I was all out for starting points and so far away that I was all in for whatever I could find to begin again and I found what I was not happy to find but I'll throw it off from the edge of the rooftop and watch it fall down and try to make sense of it. Okay? Let's go:
September 11th. The day that changed 'merica. It didn't. America is still what it was. Only a little more paranoid. This day used to have a little more bite. I used to remember the servicemen I know and knew (not because they died, we just stopped being as close as we used to be) and the new ones I've met while fishing the river on a slow Thursday. I used to remember them with incredible reverence. Not so much anymore.
The one's still in are in because they want to be. The ones that are out are out on good terms and very well compensated, on the pay scale I aspire to climb toward that kind of stability, and have awesome resumes. I guess that still burns me a little on this day. Getting near perfect scores on the entrance test and damn near perfect on the physicals and getting bounced on psychological failures. The whole talk my dad gave me about "the family standard of excellence." I didn't want to cry or weep. I just wanted to pop out of existence with a genie wink when going in and making it as an infantryman and working a way up could be viewed as tarnishing "the family standard of excellence." I still makes me laugh out loud today to say it aloud.
Part of what makes me laugh is that, incidentally, he was right. After taking a year or two to think about it a little harder, I can see that I would have been a skittish, trigger happy, blood hungry, question asking, thinking, liability to the cause. I would have gotten myself and other people killed, given a uniform, a weapon, and a theater. That's just coincidence, though, pure coincidence, so it doesn't really count. At all.
Serendipity.
"Are you dead or are you sleeping, God, I sure hope you are dead." Dealing with a little paranoia break, but that's neither here nor there.
September is also the anniversary of the longest intimate relationship I ever was able to be a part of and it was fantastic. I forgot the date the first three years we were together. Finally made the brilliant move to add it to my phone. It stayed there after we broke up. I can vaguely remember some of the gifts, one of the gifts, I gave her. I think the others were holiday related. I can remember trying to figure out how to get flowers delivered to her office and the whole runaround I got. I can also vividly remember the violent times. The times when my brain fractured. The times when truth was too much for me to eat.
I am laughing because it is remembering the times when, more than anything else, I wanted the laws of interpersonal physics to suspend themselves. I do not know, though. Life is long. Who else are you going to travel the spectrum of drugs with when you're too old to work and done everything else and the prospect of shagging is as interesting as scrubbing your bathtub? Blackouts. Retirement is going to be an amazing thing.
So, September 11th used to be like holding a revolver in my mouth and pulling the trigger until the chamber clicked over several times while fingering an empty casing from the gun range. Not anymore. I'm passed it. Nothing's going to change my world, sweetness.
We will modify, sometimes ad hoc, we will destroy and build, we will continue to drive toward some kind of perfect state, but we will mow down no one else along the way. We will remain honest and not overly dramatic, maybe, we will masturbate to idle thoughts of bodily violence, we will maintain course and get to know the new ship, we will cultivate friendship, and build ourselves into better people instead of weapons. We will.
I don't want to spend too much time on this. I've been trying to structure my paragraphs better and slash the blocks into verses. The poet that keeps clawing it's way out of my mouth. I don't want to spend too much time on this and I'm three hours in so let's call it close.
I love you. I do. I shouldn't. If I could bury you each and be the one with the shovel over night, I would cum. It is a strange thing, I know. I love helping people, so much. There is no replacing the feeling of helping someone solve a problem and secure a future outcome 100%. 100% assured that what they wanted was what they were going to get. Nothing replaces that. Wherever you are.
I've been working to dissolve some isolation. It's important. An important thing. Once I finish the project I am working alone I am going to need to be able to interact on a normal basis to get another job to fill the money void. Money drives everything, doesn't it? More than that is learning how to interact with people without a group to diffuse the messy bits to. It's easy to do when there are many other magnetic orientations to diffuse field lines to. Not so much otherwise.
I am approaching a point where isolation will become counterproductive. Flat out. For a time. There are many options for filling the counter point to weigh it into a cantilever support system. Ad hocced. Performing the expense reports in my mind. It's not going to work. I think that is part of growing up. Growing the capacity to do that and know with some certainty what is bound to fail when it comes to tolerable and intolerable acts of personality.
I am getting closer toward dissolving some aspects of isolation. One finger on the trigger that will close fire bulkheads. I don't know what process or loop or instantiation will trigger something terrible, but I am prepared to eject instantaneously. I'm not your project. I am project enough for myself. Here come old flattop.
We are you friends. We are your friends. We are shoving off from the scrap yard brand new in many ways. The new ship is troubleshot and configured. There is nothing more to it than to do it. We are launching. We are reentering circles and seeing what snow will fall and where and what kinds of sculpture we can make of it until the sun comes up and melts it all. We are launching. Granted we were stocked up and manned up a week prior, but we didn't have the heart at the wheel to give chase to open sea. We do know. We are ready. Cobbled together from many different pieces, we are ready to see if it works. Shove off, baby.
Getting back to laughter. Getting back to what makes us laugh. Back to the roots of what made me start in the first place. Gain some understanding. At first it was a reaching out, it became a gps, and now it's a tough out. I don't like to think inwardly. As tough an out as they come. It's still a map. I'm on the far edge of it and it keeps drawing beyond the dark part of the space of influence. I think I am getting back to laughter.
Back to being able to really, really, indulge in the spaces life does afford for taking nothing too seriously and taking everything too seriously. That magical place where living life, at least the way you understand it presently, like it is your last day jives with the fact that, barring absolute worst outcomes in tandem, it probably isn't.
You're going to have to live with, regardless of how you or someone else can spin it, what you did today.
I want to spend that time laughing. We're launching again. We are equipped for combat, need it arise, we are equipped for food, it will arise, and we are equipped to question ourselves and somethings (not everythings) anew. We are equipped to observe and equipped for some closeness. We have an L six two D load out and we are ready to rock.
I am perpetually intermittently disappointed with myself. Lack of ability to grow networks combined with... grows. I wonder if I am some kind of cancer embodied sometimes. A walking carcinogen. You go back to her and I go back to... I feel like I am in a very long race to eliminate myself or as many people as I can take down at once. It's nothing personal. It's sporting. Not immediately but, I don't know.
Some days, walking down the street, I look at myself in the store front windows reflected, and it's a pretty damn cool thing to see that ambulating to wherever and enjoy that remove. There's no vanity there for me. Just trekking and knowing that we're doing it. We're doing it! We are out of doors and doing alright. I don't love the birds looking back sometimes with that "not if you were the last man on Earth" look. What the hell is that about?
We're doing this. I am as over myself as I'll ever be. It's passed time to laugh again. Laugh about little things genuinely. It's easy to see the world as whole. It's passed time to really chew on it again. Launch probes. Explore and navigate from afar or as far as possible, but do not be afraid to take readings from the machines you employ. It's time, however briefly, to try again to square up vision with reality and you'll never know how far off you are, or've been, unless that depleted round sails downrange.
///DJ? Acucrack - "Allegra" ... this is the soundtrack to stalking yourself. Searching out, the movie score. This is, bassed up, the chase; the quiet chase between functional and passable (between blending and fitting in).
I will think of coke and remember the slogan for Coke that cracked me up because it was so dual apt they couldn't have done it by accident. Look it up. I don't assign homework in general and almost as a rule, but look it up. I was just thinking though, I have never assigned homework unless I had to. I kind of make a bad teacher in that way sometimes. I think that's the way it should be though; if you always come to class and never miss one you should be as well informed as the person who never goes to class, but reads the textbook cover to cover.
Sorry, I got distracted. I didn't know where to start and I've been looking for a way to start again, but nothing has lead back here the way I expected it to and then I was all out for starting points and so far away that I was all in for whatever I could find to begin again and I found what I was not happy to find but I'll throw it off from the edge of the rooftop and watch it fall down and try to make sense of it. Okay? Let's go:
September 11th. The day that changed 'merica. It didn't. America is still what it was. Only a little more paranoid. This day used to have a little more bite. I used to remember the servicemen I know and knew (not because they died, we just stopped being as close as we used to be) and the new ones I've met while fishing the river on a slow Thursday. I used to remember them with incredible reverence. Not so much anymore.
The one's still in are in because they want to be. The ones that are out are out on good terms and very well compensated, on the pay scale I aspire to climb toward that kind of stability, and have awesome resumes. I guess that still burns me a little on this day. Getting near perfect scores on the entrance test and damn near perfect on the physicals and getting bounced on psychological failures. The whole talk my dad gave me about "the family standard of excellence." I didn't want to cry or weep. I just wanted to pop out of existence with a genie wink when going in and making it as an infantryman and working a way up could be viewed as tarnishing "the family standard of excellence." I still makes me laugh out loud today to say it aloud.
Part of what makes me laugh is that, incidentally, he was right. After taking a year or two to think about it a little harder, I can see that I would have been a skittish, trigger happy, blood hungry, question asking, thinking, liability to the cause. I would have gotten myself and other people killed, given a uniform, a weapon, and a theater. That's just coincidence, though, pure coincidence, so it doesn't really count. At all.
Serendipity.
"Are you dead or are you sleeping, God, I sure hope you are dead." Dealing with a little paranoia break, but that's neither here nor there.
September is also the anniversary of the longest intimate relationship I ever was able to be a part of and it was fantastic. I forgot the date the first three years we were together. Finally made the brilliant move to add it to my phone. It stayed there after we broke up. I can vaguely remember some of the gifts, one of the gifts, I gave her. I think the others were holiday related. I can remember trying to figure out how to get flowers delivered to her office and the whole runaround I got. I can also vividly remember the violent times. The times when my brain fractured. The times when truth was too much for me to eat.
I am laughing because it is remembering the times when, more than anything else, I wanted the laws of interpersonal physics to suspend themselves. I do not know, though. Life is long. Who else are you going to travel the spectrum of drugs with when you're too old to work and done everything else and the prospect of shagging is as interesting as scrubbing your bathtub? Blackouts. Retirement is going to be an amazing thing.
So, September 11th used to be like holding a revolver in my mouth and pulling the trigger until the chamber clicked over several times while fingering an empty casing from the gun range. Not anymore. I'm passed it. Nothing's going to change my world, sweetness.
We will modify, sometimes ad hoc, we will destroy and build, we will continue to drive toward some kind of perfect state, but we will mow down no one else along the way. We will remain honest and not overly dramatic, maybe, we will masturbate to idle thoughts of bodily violence, we will maintain course and get to know the new ship, we will cultivate friendship, and build ourselves into better people instead of weapons. We will.
I don't want to spend too much time on this. I've been trying to structure my paragraphs better and slash the blocks into verses. The poet that keeps clawing it's way out of my mouth. I don't want to spend too much time on this and I'm three hours in so let's call it close.
I love you. I do. I shouldn't. If I could bury you each and be the one with the shovel over night, I would cum. It is a strange thing, I know. I love helping people, so much. There is no replacing the feeling of helping someone solve a problem and secure a future outcome 100%. 100% assured that what they wanted was what they were going to get. Nothing replaces that. Wherever you are.
I've been working to dissolve some isolation. It's important. An important thing. Once I finish the project I am working alone I am going to need to be able to interact on a normal basis to get another job to fill the money void. Money drives everything, doesn't it? More than that is learning how to interact with people without a group to diffuse the messy bits to. It's easy to do when there are many other magnetic orientations to diffuse field lines to. Not so much otherwise.
I am approaching a point where isolation will become counterproductive. Flat out. For a time. There are many options for filling the counter point to weigh it into a cantilever support system. Ad hocced. Performing the expense reports in my mind. It's not going to work. I think that is part of growing up. Growing the capacity to do that and know with some certainty what is bound to fail when it comes to tolerable and intolerable acts of personality.
I am getting closer toward dissolving some aspects of isolation. One finger on the trigger that will close fire bulkheads. I don't know what process or loop or instantiation will trigger something terrible, but I am prepared to eject instantaneously. I'm not your project. I am project enough for myself. Here come old flattop.
We are you friends. We are your friends. We are shoving off from the scrap yard brand new in many ways. The new ship is troubleshot and configured. There is nothing more to it than to do it. We are launching. We are reentering circles and seeing what snow will fall and where and what kinds of sculpture we can make of it until the sun comes up and melts it all. We are launching. Granted we were stocked up and manned up a week prior, but we didn't have the heart at the wheel to give chase to open sea. We do know. We are ready. Cobbled together from many different pieces, we are ready to see if it works. Shove off, baby.
Getting back to laughter. Getting back to what makes us laugh. Back to the roots of what made me start in the first place. Gain some understanding. At first it was a reaching out, it became a gps, and now it's a tough out. I don't like to think inwardly. As tough an out as they come. It's still a map. I'm on the far edge of it and it keeps drawing beyond the dark part of the space of influence. I think I am getting back to laughter.
Back to being able to really, really, indulge in the spaces life does afford for taking nothing too seriously and taking everything too seriously. That magical place where living life, at least the way you understand it presently, like it is your last day jives with the fact that, barring absolute worst outcomes in tandem, it probably isn't.
You're going to have to live with, regardless of how you or someone else can spin it, what you did today.
I want to spend that time laughing. We're launching again. We are equipped for combat, need it arise, we are equipped for food, it will arise, and we are equipped to question ourselves and somethings (not everythings) anew. We are equipped to observe and equipped for some closeness. We have an L six two D load out and we are ready to rock.
I am perpetually intermittently disappointed with myself. Lack of ability to grow networks combined with... grows. I wonder if I am some kind of cancer embodied sometimes. A walking carcinogen. You go back to her and I go back to... I feel like I am in a very long race to eliminate myself or as many people as I can take down at once. It's nothing personal. It's sporting. Not immediately but, I don't know.
Some days, walking down the street, I look at myself in the store front windows reflected, and it's a pretty damn cool thing to see that ambulating to wherever and enjoy that remove. There's no vanity there for me. Just trekking and knowing that we're doing it. We're doing it! We are out of doors and doing alright. I don't love the birds looking back sometimes with that "not if you were the last man on Earth" look. What the hell is that about?
We're doing this. I am as over myself as I'll ever be. It's passed time to laugh again. Laugh about little things genuinely. It's easy to see the world as whole. It's passed time to really chew on it again. Launch probes. Explore and navigate from afar or as far as possible, but do not be afraid to take readings from the machines you employ. It's time, however briefly, to try again to square up vision with reality and you'll never know how far off you are, or've been, unless that depleted round sails downrange.
///DJ? Acucrack - "Allegra" ... this is the soundtrack to stalking yourself. Searching out, the movie score. This is, bassed up, the chase; the quiet chase between functional and passable (between blending and fitting in).
5/28/13
Sex Sells, and Tolerance Versus Promotion
Sex sells. Everybody know's that. America is becoming a more tolerant place, probably more tolerant than ever before when it comes to homosexuality. It's becoming a little more tolerant when it comes to smoking weed, but that's something for another time. Still, though, a soused conversation I had, a quick back and forth really if not for doing it through twitter drawing it out over a couple hours (if we were speaking face to face it would have been maybe a two minute conversation), brought back to mind that actual tolerance is a long way off and it's kind of annoying.
Sex does sell. Everyday, everywhere you go, everything you watch on television, every fourth commercial on the radio, hetero sex is promoted. It's fired into you constantly. It can't be avoided and as a gay person I don't really have a problem with it. Sure sometimes it gets particularly awkward or annoying when I'm hanging out with straight friends and they want me to comment and I'm completely blank faced because it has nothing to do with me or what actually tips my scales or fires me up. For the most part though, I'll make something up or laugh or do whatever to move on and just like that, it's done and I'm fine and they're fine and the world turns on and everyone is okay. Sex sells. It is promotion of the hetero relationship and it's not the end of the world. I'm tolerant. I don't go grab pitch forks and torches and raise a mob every time some couple gets married or a guy and girl get all kissy touchy feely in front of me. I'm okay with it and it doesn't hurt me, but I also don't go out of my way to express the fact that I could care less.
Back handed tolerance is different. The back handed tolerance is the kind where people do go out of their way to express that "hey, whatever, I don't care, that's your business" sentiment to the point where it becomes obvious that they do care, and it does irritate them, but they are saying what they're supposed to say because they're supposed to say it because it would be a million times worse for their image and relationships with others around them if they did express whatever hate or revulsion they felt. It's better than nothing, but when it happens it makes me want to roll my eyes, yawn, and just walk away from the crap coming out of the person's mouth.
Back handed tolerance comes in other flavors too. It also comes in the "I'm okay with gay people, but you don't have to promote it, come on" flavor. Which is simply silly. If the world is to become a more tolerant place you can't say tolerance and "shut the hell up about it" in the same sentence. That's just asinine. Obviously there is going to be some degree of promotion. There has to be. Sex sells. If sex sells you can't just say you refuse to sell to an entire segment of the population. If you did simply black out promotion that would be pretty intolerant. That sort of behavior would also reduce people's exposure to homosexuality as a normal thing or at least damage their ability to observe and understand it as a normal thing. It's aggravating. It's annoying. And it's pretty back handed.
What does that even mean? To be okay with gay people, but intolerant of them talking about their lives the same way other people do because it's promoting a gay lifestyle? Didn't America finally more or less get beyond the "is it a choice or not debate"? What are these people even worried about? Promoting homosexuality is not going to turn people away from heterosexuality. It's not going to magically revolutionize someone's long held beliefs or belief system. What are they possibly afraid of? If anything it would make life more comfortable or normal for homosexuals. Could you imagine seeing commercials with gay couples selling things like lawn mowers, dinners, dating websites, concerts, and credit cards. Are these promotion haters afraid they'll see a commercial for something they like and refer to it to their straight friends and be made fun of because it was a gay commercial? If they are, I could understand. How hilarious would it be if the major hang up was feeling that tiny pang of discomfort I feel throughout a day, that I'm so used to it barely raises a blip in my mind most of the time.
I don't understand what the big deal is, but I do understand back handed tolerance and I do understand that sex sells. Maybe it's not a bad thing. It's a step in the right direction for people and I'm happy for that. I just wish people walked a little faster. It makes life a little more comfortable for me and people like me to at least know if someone were to openly persecute us, there would be massive support for us, not them. It's tiring and annoying knowing that the newer intolerance is this whole anti-promo sentiment, but at least no ones telling me I'm going to straight to hell and should be killed for my sexual orientation. Don't be scared 'merica, sometimes a little discomfort is part of life.
///Grimes - "Genesis" gots to start somewhere
10/17/12
What Makes You Laugh
I was just thinking about unfortunate super powers and I laughed a little bit because of a dream I had. Not a dream, but a day dream while I was riding. I was burning down Center Avenue on my bicycle next to a tanker truck that had the high polished aluminum finish that was so glassed I could see my face and helmet and glasses in it when I glanced to my right. I was going fast enough to pass it, but the light was red so I cruised next to it while we rolled up to the intersection together.
I could of waited, but I was about to pull a right turn at the next light after the stretch of 200 feet, once the next light came up, so I figured (correctly) I would be out of the gate fast enough to beat him there by enough of a long shot and why suck truck exhaust and obstruction when you know what the score already is. Plus, sometimes it's just fun to flirt with disaster when you know the whale couldn't give two blinks for what you want to do, you being so small and flit a fish. They know you know if you knew what was good for you, you'll stay away from their fins and wheels, and I for the most part do. Sometimes I am a reckless jackass, but most of the times, this being one of those times, we both know I'm operating at my own risk and out not to cause trouble and enjoy the sights and speed. At least that's what I think.
It occurred to me, in day dreaming about it, how awesome it would be to see the tanker explode in slow motion, but not have to actually be there physically, yet have my point of view so close and so slowed down to see it happen. And then I wondered if, in real time, I would be able to see the flash or if my eyes would be disintegrated and turned to mist before my brain could know what was going on.
The whole thing made me think, in the few seconds before the light turned green, what an awful super power that would be. The power to make flammable things explode as long as you were close enough to be exploded too. You wouldn't die, but the one drawback, because super powers with no actual drawback besides responsibility makes you a comic book caricature, would be that you always experience the pain of death even though you are immediately reconstituted and the pain stays fresh. Furthermore you experience the compounded pain of everyone else who dies in the blast, directly and indirectly, so that even the people that don't immediately die still channel and communicate their living, burn ward, debilitated, living pain for as long as they live directly into your brain beneath the layers upon which drugs can intervene. So you have to really think about who and what you blow up and when and where, but not necessarily why.
Unfortunate super powers. Like the power to make yourself drunk. Like you can think about a specific BAC and put yourself there instantaneously. Instantaneously. However, you still get to deal with the health repercussions and you still have to figure out ways around hangovers and you still have to live your life. But, you get to be as drunk as you feel like, whenever you feel like, because you can call upon a secret power within yourself to generate alcohol directly into your blood stream from your bones. So, if, for instance, you have painted yourself into a corner and you know you are about to get the ass beating of a lifetime, you can instantly push yourself up to .2 BAC and not feel a thing and then meter yourself when you wake up at a solid .05 and continue to not feel a thing, but still be functional enough to ride a bus to work and do your job and go home. You could, potentially, never be hung over again, but will likely poop out your foam sponge liver by the time you're 40. I don't know, man. Every boring movie would suddenly be interesting. Every bad hookup would be forgettable, because you could have the power to black out instantaneously. It would be one hell of an unfortunate super power.
Speaking of explosions, I got an exploding pound today at the gas station. It was pretty absurd, because it came out of the blue. From a man who was clearly in his sixties. I don't know what that means. I wish I knew why I was attractive to older people. I have no idea. And why, of all things, the explosion pound? Is that what they think we're up to? Because I have no idea what the kids are up to today being the age that I am, I guess I probably would have no idea what the people my age are up to when I will be his age so I guess I will probably fire shots in the dark after the same fashion when I meet people my age when I am his age so I will probably go for some antiquated (but what I consider timeless) dap and talk about long resolved issues and the merits of industrial music, dub step, and the last relevant artist I knew or maybe go on a good fifteen minute rant about Goldie and underground hip hop by people that sold out decades before.
I have no idea why they love me, but I have no misgivings about loving them back. I think we ended up talking for a solid five minutes in the parking lot, smoking cigarettes. When I was walking home I couldn't help snickering a little bit. Still though, it was nice to connect briefly. I've been taking some talking point notes in working this up, mostly because I couldn't sleep, still can't, and didn't want to have to comb through my voice recordings to find the parts I wanted to expound upon.
Which brings to the point that people that fire their cum must have a hard time jerking off on short notice. Not super short notice, but I mean like you just rubbed one out and someone rang your doorbell, but you didn't go get toilet paper because you are almost broke and you're down to your last bit of lotion anyway, and who rings a doorbell at 1 P.M. on Saturday anyway and you're already downstairs opening the door before you realized you spooged four feet away from your computer and your chair is angled in such a way as to avoid spraying your monitor, but is pointed directly into the swatch of sunlight where your cum landed and when your guest comes upstairs to shoot the shit with you it'll be there sparkling like pixie dust on a Pan's head if a Pan's head were floor boards and pixie dust were cum? Did that turn into a question half way through? The next time you feel like less of a man for not having rocket cum, just remember it's a two edged talent. And everything will be okay.
Which is more than I can say about late night commercials. It seems every commercial after ten at night is about talking to people while jerking off, jerking off better, having sex with strangers, having sex with strangers better, buying cars, buying food that is somehow more expensive than it was last year even though it is in principle the same fucking thing it was the year before, buying cars, buying cars that cost the same for less money somehow and letting strangers jerk you off over the phone if you sit on your hand long enough and download the latest application that lets you download the latest application for getting strangers wet in the pants or making you feel less inadequate in your powers to make strangers wet in the pants. That and sleep aids that are non-addictive, and what fun is a drug without the blown relationship of all out love? An excuse, is what that is. Is what that is? Nyeh. Television outside of the hours of ten P.M. and 5 A.M. is garbage anyway, unless it's football. Plus, we all know commercials are lies. Sexy, colorful, somewhat intriguing lies.
Kinda sort of brings me to comics. Comedians. You like to think that maybe if you met them you'd be good friends, but they actually hate you. In real life. Which is in itself a little bit hilarious. They can't stand you. But they're so accessible, aren't they? The trip up is that you get excited and thrilled about the small, obscure, things they don't give two shits about. Where the common ground lies, they find very little joy because the joy in them is in the spaces where differences are most acute. I'm kidding. I'm sure they're nice people in real life if you are a part of the things they don't like. But they don't like so many things. Do they do that on purpose? I suppose this is a bad venue for dissecting comedy. The dissection simply reminds me of when you tell someone that you're going home, and sometimes suffix that comment with "to jerk off" or "to play some video games and then jerk off" and the person you are talking to comes back with some absurd bullshit like "well, I'm going yachting tomorrow so I should probably turn in."
What the fuck is that? Number one: I did not ask you what you were doing tomorrow. Did you decide to throw that in to make me feel worse about what I'm doing for the rest of tonight? That's kind of fucked up. It's not like I'm thrilled to say "yeah, my big plans are pretty much encapsulated in two hours of shame followed by sleeping into Saturday until the NCAA games start and then I'll get up and jerk off some more while half watching them and then go back to bed until the bars open and I can thinly veil a little afternoon sousing in catching late afternoon games." Did you want me to feel bad about myself for not having plans as grand? Because if you wanted me to feel included in your adventures you could have invited yourself over for the yankfest, but that would have been understandably awkward, but at least give me the chance to say so and decline instead of feeling left out of your life altogether, if that's where we're going. Because I mean, I only broached the topic of plans so you would know that I know my plans are not as great as yours, but at least you know that I know I'm not leaving the party because I don't want to be there, it's just because I can't over stay my fucking welcome.
I didn't ask you what you were going to go do, and you didn't ask me either, but I'm rolling over. It's a complement to your party. Why can't you take a complement? And that's why comics will never be your friends. Because you get excited about dumb, irrelevant, shit that is basically the frills and lace on the sides of granny panties to life. Granted, I'm not going to break into your house, duct tape your wrists together behind your back, drive you out to New England in the middle of the night until dawn, haul you out of the trunk in the middle of nowhere, and shove your face into the leaves by the side of a one lane road and scream "this is Fall!!! This is what autumn tastes like!!!" That's just not me. Plus, who has the time to do that these days? I don't. But forgive me if I don't give a !@#$ about the latest tech or music or who's hot on what coast and is performing half price and where. I'm never going to be in that sphere and the people that are also are not particularly fond of folks like me anyway.
And that's what's made me laugh these days.
I could of waited, but I was about to pull a right turn at the next light after the stretch of 200 feet, once the next light came up, so I figured (correctly) I would be out of the gate fast enough to beat him there by enough of a long shot and why suck truck exhaust and obstruction when you know what the score already is. Plus, sometimes it's just fun to flirt with disaster when you know the whale couldn't give two blinks for what you want to do, you being so small and flit a fish. They know you know if you knew what was good for you, you'll stay away from their fins and wheels, and I for the most part do. Sometimes I am a reckless jackass, but most of the times, this being one of those times, we both know I'm operating at my own risk and out not to cause trouble and enjoy the sights and speed. At least that's what I think.
It occurred to me, in day dreaming about it, how awesome it would be to see the tanker explode in slow motion, but not have to actually be there physically, yet have my point of view so close and so slowed down to see it happen. And then I wondered if, in real time, I would be able to see the flash or if my eyes would be disintegrated and turned to mist before my brain could know what was going on.
The whole thing made me think, in the few seconds before the light turned green, what an awful super power that would be. The power to make flammable things explode as long as you were close enough to be exploded too. You wouldn't die, but the one drawback, because super powers with no actual drawback besides responsibility makes you a comic book caricature, would be that you always experience the pain of death even though you are immediately reconstituted and the pain stays fresh. Furthermore you experience the compounded pain of everyone else who dies in the blast, directly and indirectly, so that even the people that don't immediately die still channel and communicate their living, burn ward, debilitated, living pain for as long as they live directly into your brain beneath the layers upon which drugs can intervene. So you have to really think about who and what you blow up and when and where, but not necessarily why.
Unfortunate super powers. Like the power to make yourself drunk. Like you can think about a specific BAC and put yourself there instantaneously. Instantaneously. However, you still get to deal with the health repercussions and you still have to figure out ways around hangovers and you still have to live your life. But, you get to be as drunk as you feel like, whenever you feel like, because you can call upon a secret power within yourself to generate alcohol directly into your blood stream from your bones. So, if, for instance, you have painted yourself into a corner and you know you are about to get the ass beating of a lifetime, you can instantly push yourself up to .2 BAC and not feel a thing and then meter yourself when you wake up at a solid .05 and continue to not feel a thing, but still be functional enough to ride a bus to work and do your job and go home. You could, potentially, never be hung over again, but will likely poop out your foam sponge liver by the time you're 40. I don't know, man. Every boring movie would suddenly be interesting. Every bad hookup would be forgettable, because you could have the power to black out instantaneously. It would be one hell of an unfortunate super power.
Speaking of explosions, I got an exploding pound today at the gas station. It was pretty absurd, because it came out of the blue. From a man who was clearly in his sixties. I don't know what that means. I wish I knew why I was attractive to older people. I have no idea. And why, of all things, the explosion pound? Is that what they think we're up to? Because I have no idea what the kids are up to today being the age that I am, I guess I probably would have no idea what the people my age are up to when I will be his age so I guess I will probably fire shots in the dark after the same fashion when I meet people my age when I am his age so I will probably go for some antiquated (but what I consider timeless) dap and talk about long resolved issues and the merits of industrial music, dub step, and the last relevant artist I knew or maybe go on a good fifteen minute rant about Goldie and underground hip hop by people that sold out decades before.
I have no idea why they love me, but I have no misgivings about loving them back. I think we ended up talking for a solid five minutes in the parking lot, smoking cigarettes. When I was walking home I couldn't help snickering a little bit. Still though, it was nice to connect briefly. I've been taking some talking point notes in working this up, mostly because I couldn't sleep, still can't, and didn't want to have to comb through my voice recordings to find the parts I wanted to expound upon.
Which brings to the point that people that fire their cum must have a hard time jerking off on short notice. Not super short notice, but I mean like you just rubbed one out and someone rang your doorbell, but you didn't go get toilet paper because you are almost broke and you're down to your last bit of lotion anyway, and who rings a doorbell at 1 P.M. on Saturday anyway and you're already downstairs opening the door before you realized you spooged four feet away from your computer and your chair is angled in such a way as to avoid spraying your monitor, but is pointed directly into the swatch of sunlight where your cum landed and when your guest comes upstairs to shoot the shit with you it'll be there sparkling like pixie dust on a Pan's head if a Pan's head were floor boards and pixie dust were cum? Did that turn into a question half way through? The next time you feel like less of a man for not having rocket cum, just remember it's a two edged talent. And everything will be okay.
Which is more than I can say about late night commercials. It seems every commercial after ten at night is about talking to people while jerking off, jerking off better, having sex with strangers, having sex with strangers better, buying cars, buying food that is somehow more expensive than it was last year even though it is in principle the same fucking thing it was the year before, buying cars, buying cars that cost the same for less money somehow and letting strangers jerk you off over the phone if you sit on your hand long enough and download the latest application that lets you download the latest application for getting strangers wet in the pants or making you feel less inadequate in your powers to make strangers wet in the pants. That and sleep aids that are non-addictive, and what fun is a drug without the blown relationship of all out love? An excuse, is what that is. Is what that is? Nyeh. Television outside of the hours of ten P.M. and 5 A.M. is garbage anyway, unless it's football. Plus, we all know commercials are lies. Sexy, colorful, somewhat intriguing lies.
Kinda sort of brings me to comics. Comedians. You like to think that maybe if you met them you'd be good friends, but they actually hate you. In real life. Which is in itself a little bit hilarious. They can't stand you. But they're so accessible, aren't they? The trip up is that you get excited and thrilled about the small, obscure, things they don't give two shits about. Where the common ground lies, they find very little joy because the joy in them is in the spaces where differences are most acute. I'm kidding. I'm sure they're nice people in real life if you are a part of the things they don't like. But they don't like so many things. Do they do that on purpose? I suppose this is a bad venue for dissecting comedy. The dissection simply reminds me of when you tell someone that you're going home, and sometimes suffix that comment with "to jerk off" or "to play some video games and then jerk off" and the person you are talking to comes back with some absurd bullshit like "well, I'm going yachting tomorrow so I should probably turn in."
What the fuck is that? Number one: I did not ask you what you were doing tomorrow. Did you decide to throw that in to make me feel worse about what I'm doing for the rest of tonight? That's kind of fucked up. It's not like I'm thrilled to say "yeah, my big plans are pretty much encapsulated in two hours of shame followed by sleeping into Saturday until the NCAA games start and then I'll get up and jerk off some more while half watching them and then go back to bed until the bars open and I can thinly veil a little afternoon sousing in catching late afternoon games." Did you want me to feel bad about myself for not having plans as grand? Because if you wanted me to feel included in your adventures you could have invited yourself over for the yankfest, but that would have been understandably awkward, but at least give me the chance to say so and decline instead of feeling left out of your life altogether, if that's where we're going. Because I mean, I only broached the topic of plans so you would know that I know my plans are not as great as yours, but at least you know that I know I'm not leaving the party because I don't want to be there, it's just because I can't over stay my fucking welcome.
I didn't ask you what you were going to go do, and you didn't ask me either, but I'm rolling over. It's a complement to your party. Why can't you take a complement? And that's why comics will never be your friends. Because you get excited about dumb, irrelevant, shit that is basically the frills and lace on the sides of granny panties to life. Granted, I'm not going to break into your house, duct tape your wrists together behind your back, drive you out to New England in the middle of the night until dawn, haul you out of the trunk in the middle of nowhere, and shove your face into the leaves by the side of a one lane road and scream "this is Fall!!! This is what autumn tastes like!!!" That's just not me. Plus, who has the time to do that these days? I don't. But forgive me if I don't give a !@#$ about the latest tech or music or who's hot on what coast and is performing half price and where. I'm never going to be in that sphere and the people that are also are not particularly fond of folks like me anyway.
And that's what's made me laugh these days.
4/4/12
Over The River and Through The Woods
It's been a long trip here. Back here. I should say. A lot of different pressures. A lot of losses. One of those peculiar things. Not one, several. I got dumped. Not exactly big news. I also broke up with someone. Two different people. At the same time. In the same span of conversation. And then was propositioned again. By the person I just dumped and the offspring of the person who left me. Mainly all I could think was "how is this even possible." Mainly all I could do was do nothing and ask for some time to think about the entire course of the 48 hours.
A lot of my creative time was damaged leading up to that point, which was part of why I had to leave and be let go. Part of it was biological incompatibilities. Vaginas and tiny dicks. What's a boy to do? The proposition is worse than the original make up. Better in it's emotional make up. Worse in it's biological make up, but closer to normal than the previous one, but altogether worse because the venue is the same, with the same accouterments and attendant chemical problematics and it would be so much less, if it wasn't so much more. Hours to land on the same page, hours to read each other, hours to post script to everyone's satisfaction. Hours and hours of time I would rather spend writing. Hours to spend dreaming spent instead in interaction I need, but don't want.
Tripping round and round town and all the while stalking through my own dreams when I do sleep to find the nemesis. The dreaming has been spectacular in it's depth. And also time consuming. The hunt largely unsuccessful. The body count, however, relatively high. I have found, in there, many things to fear and many things that could bleed that I never thought would until I tried in moments I would normally wake from, but instead followed on. It's hard sometimes when they're the ones hiding from you and there is nothing to do beyond waiting. Sitting and waiting to feel well enough to wake up. Charged enough to support waking hours. Pacing through dreams. I've been over the territories. Every god damn way. Without success. I'm beginning to think he won't show until I stop looking. Like those stupid Super Mario ghosts. I'll get him though. Just a matter of time. Patience.
Things have been scatter formed. Trying to get back on a pace. Any pace. I had a pace you could set an erratic watch to. A watch that was missing some teeth. And had a cracked face. And the watch band was either too tight or too loose, but you could never lose it because the minute it was not on your wrist you knew it because you didn't feel anything at all. I lost my watch. I'm finding it again and I can't fuck it up again.
I mean, I can. I will. Because I've fucked it up at least ten times before. Closer to twenty. But I'm trying. This makes twenty one. Or something around there. The quality of the poetry has been. That is all. It just has been. Not too dark, not too light. So I have to keep doing that. I just wish the erratic and hit and miss was just one long string of things I could stand next to and be proud of instead of a whole lot of things I have to read twenty four hours later to understand and begin to appreciate or begin to hate and then it's like picking up old photographs on a coffee table at grandmother's house and you scratch your chin for a minute and then think oooooh yeah, I was there, wasn't I. God damn that sweater is terrible. What was I thinking. But, damn I looked good then. I hate grandmother's house.
Over the river and through the woods, to dreamland's houses we go. Off to slay the thoughts of the day and retrace my footsteps in snow.
I'm not going to talk about my mental state. There are things in the dark and there are things in the light and all of them would kill you given the chance. Stay alert. Watch the corners. Don't point at the sky, because one day it will point back at you. Don't chase the sounds, unless they are following. Don't chase the splits in the seams of your vision, because people will think you are crazy. Don't listen to the voices. If you ignore them long enough, they'll tell you something special you wouldn't have thought about on your own. And that thing will be so amazing the only way you could relate it to someone who was not there, inside you, is by saying nothing and leaving it all up to the rattle of tree leaves and two A.M. hounds that think they are scrap metal boatswains to rails.
///Mono - "High Life" ... all you live is the high life and never come down... loved this song in high school. still do. Mono always had a sound that completely took me in and I loved them for that.
///Mono - "Life in Mono" I never know exactly what to do, but they never make it easy to walk away. Expectations too great. I want to say. And then the little voice in the back of my head whispers, maybe this is it, for now. So leave nothing on the table.
A lot of my creative time was damaged leading up to that point, which was part of why I had to leave and be let go. Part of it was biological incompatibilities. Vaginas and tiny dicks. What's a boy to do? The proposition is worse than the original make up. Better in it's emotional make up. Worse in it's biological make up, but closer to normal than the previous one, but altogether worse because the venue is the same, with the same accouterments and attendant chemical problematics and it would be so much less, if it wasn't so much more. Hours to land on the same page, hours to read each other, hours to post script to everyone's satisfaction. Hours and hours of time I would rather spend writing. Hours to spend dreaming spent instead in interaction I need, but don't want.
Tripping round and round town and all the while stalking through my own dreams when I do sleep to find the nemesis. The dreaming has been spectacular in it's depth. And also time consuming. The hunt largely unsuccessful. The body count, however, relatively high. I have found, in there, many things to fear and many things that could bleed that I never thought would until I tried in moments I would normally wake from, but instead followed on. It's hard sometimes when they're the ones hiding from you and there is nothing to do beyond waiting. Sitting and waiting to feel well enough to wake up. Charged enough to support waking hours. Pacing through dreams. I've been over the territories. Every god damn way. Without success. I'm beginning to think he won't show until I stop looking. Like those stupid Super Mario ghosts. I'll get him though. Just a matter of time. Patience.
Things have been scatter formed. Trying to get back on a pace. Any pace. I had a pace you could set an erratic watch to. A watch that was missing some teeth. And had a cracked face. And the watch band was either too tight or too loose, but you could never lose it because the minute it was not on your wrist you knew it because you didn't feel anything at all. I lost my watch. I'm finding it again and I can't fuck it up again.
I mean, I can. I will. Because I've fucked it up at least ten times before. Closer to twenty. But I'm trying. This makes twenty one. Or something around there. The quality of the poetry has been. That is all. It just has been. Not too dark, not too light. So I have to keep doing that. I just wish the erratic and hit and miss was just one long string of things I could stand next to and be proud of instead of a whole lot of things I have to read twenty four hours later to understand and begin to appreciate or begin to hate and then it's like picking up old photographs on a coffee table at grandmother's house and you scratch your chin for a minute and then think oooooh yeah, I was there, wasn't I. God damn that sweater is terrible. What was I thinking. But, damn I looked good then. I hate grandmother's house.
Over the river and through the woods, to dreamland's houses we go. Off to slay the thoughts of the day and retrace my footsteps in snow.
I'm not going to talk about my mental state. There are things in the dark and there are things in the light and all of them would kill you given the chance. Stay alert. Watch the corners. Don't point at the sky, because one day it will point back at you. Don't chase the sounds, unless they are following. Don't chase the splits in the seams of your vision, because people will think you are crazy. Don't listen to the voices. If you ignore them long enough, they'll tell you something special you wouldn't have thought about on your own. And that thing will be so amazing the only way you could relate it to someone who was not there, inside you, is by saying nothing and leaving it all up to the rattle of tree leaves and two A.M. hounds that think they are scrap metal boatswains to rails.
///Mono - "High Life" ... all you live is the high life and never come down... loved this song in high school. still do. Mono always had a sound that completely took me in and I loved them for that.
///Mono - "Life in Mono" I never know exactly what to do, but they never make it easy to walk away. Expectations too great. I want to say. And then the little voice in the back of my head whispers, maybe this is it, for now. So leave nothing on the table.
3/20/12
Strange Ways
I'm sorry I've been away. Life has been strange in many ways. Not really strange as much as just strange in the ways I've come to understand normal. Sea change and all of that. One thing that has been occupying a lot of my time is meeting a couple of people that see me as close to eye to eye as I have ever known any one person to see me. Which has been exciting and ridiculously time consuming. Hard to talk about. Because threesomes aren't exactly normal. Let alone threesomes cemented by violence. Let alone threesomes that are probably on their last legs.
I enjoy belonging to people. That's no secret. I like to know that someone is holding my leash, and I had to revoke that privilege from one member of the threesome so now it's a twosome with occasional benefits for the odd man out. What are you going to do? I mean, I don't particularly enjoy fucking her, but I do enjoy the opportunity to be close to her psychologically so it's like doing dirty work to get the golden egg of her brain and personality because I'm pretty sure she likes fucking me more than what I have to say so it's a perfect fit in terms of what I want and what she wants and the odd piece out is the guy who refuses to kiss me, but wants my dick and nothing else, hence the revocation of leash privileges because if you want to fuck, you better be up for everything that comes with in my book, and I damn near revoked her privileges because she insisted on wearing socks at all times and that's just... ...what?! Seriously? Who does that?
And then there was the conversation where they both referred to me repeatedly as their toy, which is fine. I can accept and appreciate that role, but to then assert that I was worthless without sex, that was the line they crossed and things got violent, but have since settled down. Things and ways were explained to me in the simple terms I understand best and then stabilized into something enjoyable again. We saw fairly close to on the level. Everything since has been delicious. And time consuming. Time oft reserved for writing has been burned in sexual play which is not terrible, but not great either. Lost time in the run up to play and time lost in the run down from play, let alone the play time itself. I dunno. Fucking older people definitely presents problems and issues I never thought about, or even had to think about, before now. It is incredible the difference between older men and older women. Fascinating. It grows frightening sometimes, the potential for breaking their bodies with my own carelessness. At the same time it is deliriously appealing. Being the most capable thing they will likely ever know before they die. Being their first and probably last. I think I love that more than the sex itself. The making of a name. And they are just so adorable together. That's part of it too. The basking in dual praise. The lack of rejection. The fact that they have seen so many people that they can recognize you from one hundred yards out and see right through you and there's nothing to hide because they've seen it all.
I know it's not going to last because he won't fuck unless he's drunk and she won't take her socks off ever and that's just weird and he won't kiss me ever no matter how drunk he gets and she doesn't have a dick and his dick is too small to be anything more than an idle coffee table curiosity and her youngest kid is older than me and she insists that she is the only one allowed to fuck his ass, but until we break up I think this is the best thing to happen to me in a long time. But I also think the strangeness of it is what has been keeping me from talking about it and progressing. Or maybe understanding what kind of flash in the pan it is.
It's been zero to sixty in 2.5 seconds for me. Unbelievable speed. Fuck warp 9, this whole relationship has been warp 12. Engine room ablaze the whole way. More give and take than I've been privy too for better than two years. And yes, I have no idea how to deal with it or any idea of where it's going beyond failure. To top it off I met his daughter and apparently she wants me too. And I don't want sex nearly as much as I want to be useful and used. I play into that more often than I should. It makes me feel like a sociopath, which I don't like. I just enjoy making people feel good. It's a badge of honor. I entertain whatever it is you want to entertain because your happiness and bliss is a kiss upon my heart.
So I want to fuck her. Not because I enjoy women. Not even close. I have been able to love one woman my entire short life. And that is my ex. The rest aren't jetsam, they're just friends at best and confidants when closer. It's just a very odd situation. A very very odd and slowly unraveling situation between a boy a woman and a man who hurts her who wants to use the boy. Sounds like family.
I've been telling people I'm half Scott and half Irish, alternately, because I'm still not sure which. I'm pretty sure it's not half. I'm pretty sure it's a lot less than half. Probably less than quarter. It's fun to be exotic. It's more fun to know exactly where you're from. I always wish to have that, more than anything else. Not just for cheering purposes during the World Cup, but also for tattoo ideas. And also because everyone talks about their extended families on a first name basis and I have never been able to do that. That would be nice. The knowing. The belonging. Life has been strange. The dreams have been stranger and more real than anything else. I slept for 18 hours. It was unbelievably good to do so. I don't know when I'll be able to be awake for more than 13 and not feel like killing myself. An odd pile of ideas. Goodbye for now. Levity to come.
/// The Cardigans - "Heartbreaker" ...no, not again...
I enjoy belonging to people. That's no secret. I like to know that someone is holding my leash, and I had to revoke that privilege from one member of the threesome so now it's a twosome with occasional benefits for the odd man out. What are you going to do? I mean, I don't particularly enjoy fucking her, but I do enjoy the opportunity to be close to her psychologically so it's like doing dirty work to get the golden egg of her brain and personality because I'm pretty sure she likes fucking me more than what I have to say so it's a perfect fit in terms of what I want and what she wants and the odd piece out is the guy who refuses to kiss me, but wants my dick and nothing else, hence the revocation of leash privileges because if you want to fuck, you better be up for everything that comes with in my book, and I damn near revoked her privileges because she insisted on wearing socks at all times and that's just... ...what?! Seriously? Who does that?
And then there was the conversation where they both referred to me repeatedly as their toy, which is fine. I can accept and appreciate that role, but to then assert that I was worthless without sex, that was the line they crossed and things got violent, but have since settled down. Things and ways were explained to me in the simple terms I understand best and then stabilized into something enjoyable again. We saw fairly close to on the level. Everything since has been delicious. And time consuming. Time oft reserved for writing has been burned in sexual play which is not terrible, but not great either. Lost time in the run up to play and time lost in the run down from play, let alone the play time itself. I dunno. Fucking older people definitely presents problems and issues I never thought about, or even had to think about, before now. It is incredible the difference between older men and older women. Fascinating. It grows frightening sometimes, the potential for breaking their bodies with my own carelessness. At the same time it is deliriously appealing. Being the most capable thing they will likely ever know before they die. Being their first and probably last. I think I love that more than the sex itself. The making of a name. And they are just so adorable together. That's part of it too. The basking in dual praise. The lack of rejection. The fact that they have seen so many people that they can recognize you from one hundred yards out and see right through you and there's nothing to hide because they've seen it all.
I know it's not going to last because he won't fuck unless he's drunk and she won't take her socks off ever and that's just weird and he won't kiss me ever no matter how drunk he gets and she doesn't have a dick and his dick is too small to be anything more than an idle coffee table curiosity and her youngest kid is older than me and she insists that she is the only one allowed to fuck his ass, but until we break up I think this is the best thing to happen to me in a long time. But I also think the strangeness of it is what has been keeping me from talking about it and progressing. Or maybe understanding what kind of flash in the pan it is.
It's been zero to sixty in 2.5 seconds for me. Unbelievable speed. Fuck warp 9, this whole relationship has been warp 12. Engine room ablaze the whole way. More give and take than I've been privy too for better than two years. And yes, I have no idea how to deal with it or any idea of where it's going beyond failure. To top it off I met his daughter and apparently she wants me too. And I don't want sex nearly as much as I want to be useful and used. I play into that more often than I should. It makes me feel like a sociopath, which I don't like. I just enjoy making people feel good. It's a badge of honor. I entertain whatever it is you want to entertain because your happiness and bliss is a kiss upon my heart.
So I want to fuck her. Not because I enjoy women. Not even close. I have been able to love one woman my entire short life. And that is my ex. The rest aren't jetsam, they're just friends at best and confidants when closer. It's just a very odd situation. A very very odd and slowly unraveling situation between a boy a woman and a man who hurts her who wants to use the boy. Sounds like family.
I've been telling people I'm half Scott and half Irish, alternately, because I'm still not sure which. I'm pretty sure it's not half. I'm pretty sure it's a lot less than half. Probably less than quarter. It's fun to be exotic. It's more fun to know exactly where you're from. I always wish to have that, more than anything else. Not just for cheering purposes during the World Cup, but also for tattoo ideas. And also because everyone talks about their extended families on a first name basis and I have never been able to do that. That would be nice. The knowing. The belonging. Life has been strange. The dreams have been stranger and more real than anything else. I slept for 18 hours. It was unbelievably good to do so. I don't know when I'll be able to be awake for more than 13 and not feel like killing myself. An odd pile of ideas. Goodbye for now. Levity to come.
/// The Cardigans - "Heartbreaker" ...no, not again...
12/7/11
Moving Pictures
I have been dodging, though I hope artfully. I have been fairly thick into writing as I should be. I had a bad spate of poetry that was sexual frustration pure and simple. It never got resolved but like the urge to work out or smoke it went away with time so I could get back to imagination. It's still there on the back burner crisping up into something unrecognizable, but it's a thing I can at least be okay with.
Had a major identity crisis. Not really a crisis as much as a realization that there is no way I can use somebody or let somebody use me again. Even if it is a mutual causation, a mutual understanding of the fact of the reduction of the human being to object. Basically I came to the understanding that shifting my expectations of what fucking is backward to the level of what someone else understands it to be, successful or not, is a failure on my part. It gets to the point where trying to meet someone halfway, because they don't believe knives should be involved and pretending you think that is okay with you when you are on the hunt for someone at least as open and screwed in the head case as you and also homosexual and who will not turn pale when you describe your dream date, becomes an effort to use someone to fulfill, by most standards, bad fantasies. And I'm a user of many things, but I will never use a human being. Hell, I would never use an animal for that matter.
I don't care two licks for most classes of emotions just because I don't feel many of them as they relate to relationships and friendships fairly often unless they fall into my pretty obscure and unrecognized code of ethics and procedure, but I do care for the idea of the preservation of happiness. I think that should be the governing principle in life. If everyone did everything they possibly could every day to disappoint the least amount of people... who am I kidding. That would be a terrible policy. On an individual level, an isolated level, it works, but scale it up and you don't have to go far before it produces stinging and awful results.
The point is I have been dodging you. At first I was dodging you because I had nothing to show. Then I had something to show, but I was so long away I was ashamed to return. And then I had something to show and was ashamed and then on top of that I was gone so long I felt what I had to show did not justify the length of the absence. And it went around and around and around until I came to be here to face the music, my own music, an orchestration I gestured on my own, all the while missing you and the me that could still make sentences. The worst is over, again. Missed out on health insurance. Not by my own lack of action. I was excluded because of how the time line fell into place. So I don't have to worry about meds in the short term. Which means I do have to worry. It's aggravating. Disparaging? Is that even the right word? No it is not. Disappointing. Anti-soothed.
I did put together a pair of stories. It was difficult. They were souping up and I ended up forcing both endings because I ran out of time. The problem was that the stories still had a few thousand words to go before they reached reasonable clipping points where they would sew themselves up nicely and I jumped the gun. Not an honest mistake. Just a regular mistake, but sometimes being able to move on to other things is a good thing. It's not like I can't go back and reopen the sutures, dig my fingers back in, and get the knife out. That's the best thing about having them out there in the bin. And they're not complete still births. Some things worked well and part of the work is learning what works and then using the structure and pieces later on to make other things better. Same thing with poetry. Anyway. Rearranging some things to get more out of myself without pushing too far over the line and shutting down.
Take care. I'll try to. I've been thinking of what I actually use facebook for. I think at this point my wall is basically an art space. Just one big ball of expression. An interactive art piece of sorts. I think I'm happy with that. I don't really use it for connecting with people. I don't think people use it for connecting with me. Maybe they do. Maybe it's pretty much as close as some people should get. I think I am okay with that too, most of the time, as anger management and interpersonal relations are not exactly fortes these days. Those social skills keep eroding because I hardly use them. Partly my own fault. Circling the camps. Every time I go in I'm reminded of why I shouldn't be there. So I'll keep balling up art.
Later on.
///Tricky - "Excess" I believe in people being.
Had a major identity crisis. Not really a crisis as much as a realization that there is no way I can use somebody or let somebody use me again. Even if it is a mutual causation, a mutual understanding of the fact of the reduction of the human being to object. Basically I came to the understanding that shifting my expectations of what fucking is backward to the level of what someone else understands it to be, successful or not, is a failure on my part. It gets to the point where trying to meet someone halfway, because they don't believe knives should be involved and pretending you think that is okay with you when you are on the hunt for someone at least as open and screwed in the head case as you and also homosexual and who will not turn pale when you describe your dream date, becomes an effort to use someone to fulfill, by most standards, bad fantasies. And I'm a user of many things, but I will never use a human being. Hell, I would never use an animal for that matter.
I don't care two licks for most classes of emotions just because I don't feel many of them as they relate to relationships and friendships fairly often unless they fall into my pretty obscure and unrecognized code of ethics and procedure, but I do care for the idea of the preservation of happiness. I think that should be the governing principle in life. If everyone did everything they possibly could every day to disappoint the least amount of people... who am I kidding. That would be a terrible policy. On an individual level, an isolated level, it works, but scale it up and you don't have to go far before it produces stinging and awful results.
The point is I have been dodging you. At first I was dodging you because I had nothing to show. Then I had something to show, but I was so long away I was ashamed to return. And then I had something to show and was ashamed and then on top of that I was gone so long I felt what I had to show did not justify the length of the absence. And it went around and around and around until I came to be here to face the music, my own music, an orchestration I gestured on my own, all the while missing you and the me that could still make sentences. The worst is over, again. Missed out on health insurance. Not by my own lack of action. I was excluded because of how the time line fell into place. So I don't have to worry about meds in the short term. Which means I do have to worry. It's aggravating. Disparaging? Is that even the right word? No it is not. Disappointing. Anti-soothed.
I did put together a pair of stories. It was difficult. They were souping up and I ended up forcing both endings because I ran out of time. The problem was that the stories still had a few thousand words to go before they reached reasonable clipping points where they would sew themselves up nicely and I jumped the gun. Not an honest mistake. Just a regular mistake, but sometimes being able to move on to other things is a good thing. It's not like I can't go back and reopen the sutures, dig my fingers back in, and get the knife out. That's the best thing about having them out there in the bin. And they're not complete still births. Some things worked well and part of the work is learning what works and then using the structure and pieces later on to make other things better. Same thing with poetry. Anyway. Rearranging some things to get more out of myself without pushing too far over the line and shutting down.
Take care. I'll try to. I've been thinking of what I actually use facebook for. I think at this point my wall is basically an art space. Just one big ball of expression. An interactive art piece of sorts. I think I'm happy with that. I don't really use it for connecting with people. I don't think people use it for connecting with me. Maybe they do. Maybe it's pretty much as close as some people should get. I think I am okay with that too, most of the time, as anger management and interpersonal relations are not exactly fortes these days. Those social skills keep eroding because I hardly use them. Partly my own fault. Circling the camps. Every time I go in I'm reminded of why I shouldn't be there. So I'll keep balling up art.
Later on.
///Tricky - "Excess" I believe in people being.
10/21/11
Stand Up Act 6
Stand Up Act 5
I have been dreaming graphic. Memory graphic. It has been difficult to deal with still. A silly concern. Sometimes not silly. Trying to keep track of the comers and the goers cross bridge and who is lingering and who isn't in places they should and should not be. I feel like what would lend them all credibility is if they had names, but none have offered anything close to a name since I left Maryland. Since I left murderland. It's a strange thing. The namelessness. There is the thing in the white and tan ghili suit, man or woman, but definitely humanoid who shows up well in fluorescent lights and little else. The little man in the black trench coat. The woman in the blue dress. The tall and wide man who loves to wear khaki and from head to toe and never talks. The bone spur balls of things I can only really describe as pre sleep sheep skinned and tumbling. The seeing spots in the middle of the day. The thing who offered a name, whose name I cannot record because it would serve it's displeasure at my efforts to disseminate its existence on the crown of my head by day and by night and chew my nerves like dollar a pack gum and suck the insides of my skull like a starved lamprey.
Times have been strange at the cusp of awareness. Maybe not the cusp, but the interface of understanding and the known with the less known and the abstract removed thrice from the models and modes of deduction. The experience of the thing is not even close to ... I don't even know. They're not ghosts. Some are new. Many are old. Some of them change clothing and change sexes, but I can smell them beneath the dressings. I can smell their blood in the marrow of their bones as clearly as they can smell and find mine across state lines. With them it is always a matter of time. Sometimes I have to trick myself into being alone, put on the little blinders and the nose muzzle and slip the bit between my teeth so I don't swallow my tongue while I run so hard and so tuned, but I'm faking it.
and I'm just talking. Trying to talk some things out. Orient myself. I cannot tell if I'm air locked or just cold. It's 58 degrees in my apartment. I should fix that. Six hours later, the temperature is fixed, but my geography is not. There are a lot of things that made me laugh today and I'm trying to remember some of them. Trying to keep my insides in. Browsing my old day time notes. And by daytime I mean work time. And by work time I guess I mean night time.
As a side note though, do you ever get into those odd temperature situations? For instance the break room where I work is already kind of a hole in the wall with some chairs scattered around. Kind of like a refrigerator box behind K-Mart that someone saw and said to themselves "yeah, that would be a cool place to hang out for the next ten years of my life" and then adopted a stray one legged pigeon and fed it corn puffs until it was eaten by a stray cat. That kind of break room. Actually, I don't even believe it would be a stretch to say there are probably better cafeterias in most underfunded high schools than the place where I work. That's not the bad part about it though.
I'm the kind of person who just loves opportunities to eat. Not that I'm fat. Not that I particularly love delicious food, even though I do. Who would really say no to an open flame seared, seasoning rubbed slab of rare beef. Like, bleeding delicious, with buttery asparagus and sesame seeds and I am getting way ahead of myself as I can afford to eat that, maybe, twice a year. Two times out of a year. That's thirty minutes out of 60 minutes multiplied by 24 hours multiplied by three hundred and sixty five days. That's gotta be a tiny fraction. Anyway, I love eating. With a passion. My mouth just needs to have something in it at all times to be truly happy. I would have made a pretty awesome shark in another life. Perhaps a penguin. Also pornstar? That should probably be on the list. But I love food, so any opportunity to sit down and eat is a great thing. Not good, great.
How often do you run into opportunities where someone sits you down and says "if you pass this background check we won't pay you to sit and relax and eat for thirty minutes, but we will pay you to sit and relax and eat for another set of thirty minutes, but there's catch." And you slide to the edge of your seat and get nervous. Am I going to have to kill someone? Am I going to have to whore myself? Am I going to have to drown a family of kittens? And then they come back "the catch is the thirty minutes will be broken up into two fifteen minute blocks and settled at opposite ends of the thirty minutes we will not pay you for." Awesome. So any chance to sit down and eat is a good thing, because there are people with jobs that allow them to sit down and eat zero percent of the time. Literally if they are caught sitting and eating, like humans are wont to do, they will be fired for not being perfectly mechanical.
So the bad thing about this prison break room cafeteria hole in the wall with chairs that were shat out of plastic molding machine once every second and probably as ergonomic a bed a refrigerator box's floor is that it is eighty degrees in there. I bike to work. By the time I get in I am sweating pretty much from chin to ass cheek. Hiking up the stairs to the lockers and the break room after pummeling my body just to get to work is a bother. Not intolerable. Not even difficult. Sometimes tiresome. It is kind of ridiculous that if you were handicapped you would basically be ass out of luck if you wanted to watch tv or have a table in front of you while you took your breaks, but having eighty degree heat bust you in the face is like getting on a bus and having the fattest, sweatiest, cheese smellingest person get on the next stop and not sit next to you. Sitting next to you would be okay. Contact with people is unavoidable on a bus and sharing a bench is just part of the contact contract. However, when people stand next to you it's a whole different set of acknowledged boundaries, and when heavier set, fatties, stand next to you and your ear is two inches away from the bulging gut and you can hear the carnival of their digestion, it gets weird. It gets real weird and uncomfortable is all I'm saying.
Like, weird enough to make your ear hot and tingly for all the wrong reasons. Like having a complete stranger at a party come in really close to you and drop a hand in your lap. Your crotch sends the signals up to your head and your head is like "alright, this is good. We are on the right track here, drunken stranger" and then they bring their lips up close to your ear and you're playing it really cool. You're too cool for blushing. Highschool kids blush not adults (you pedophile), but even with all of your super pro control and James Bond coolness, your ear never does get the memo and all the blood that should be in your cheeks rushes to your prickling ear and then the person whispers something like "I'm so horny I could take a long walk on a beach, and knit for hours, because I really really need to use the bathroom after eating that many tacos and I want you to watch," and you kind of have to step back and rub your eyes because they either actually said that or you are way higher than you thought you were. And that's why I hate riding buses. Shit gets real weird, real fast. That's what it's like walking into this break room most days. It is break room in which it is impossible to relax. Someone basically said "hey, do you know all of the things that can make relaxation impossible? Well let's take all of those things, combine them into a single room with easy to clean floors (because someone is eventually going to throw up their lunch) and then let's put a television in there to lure them in and then a camera to capture the hilarity that ensues."
It's an odd temperatured situation. And I have no idea why. But when you run into a situation where the setting is alright, but the temperature is way off it becomes impossible to do what it is you went there to do. Try having sex at fifty degrees. Ain't going to happen. Sure, maybe you'll get it up, maybe you'll get all warm down there. But unless you've got a blanket, eventually your skin screaming at you "good lord, it is cold as fuck, what the hell are we doing without clothes on" will pretty much trump that. Try playing a sport at a grossly incorrect temperature. Baseball at one hundred degrees? Sure it can be done, but good luck keeping eighteen unpaid individuals in a pick up game when their couches, cold beers, and coldcuts are waiting for them back at their homes. I think that's what I ran into today. Trying to get my thoughts together when it was simply too cold to think.
Situations where you can't hear yourself over your body trying to survive. On a completely unrelated note, is the hallmark of the late eighties generation sarcasm? Maybe not completely unrelated. I was just thinking that maybe with all of the nebulous threats to being and the rise of open sharing and the sense of "what have you got that you have to hide" and the unrelenting standard of interrogation and search and destroy culture has given rise to a survival mechanism. Sarcasm. Sure, some people are beautifully sardonic. Some people try to be. I kind of feel like a lot of the younger people and peers that I am familiar with find a sarcastic, sardonic, dead pan stance to be the most comfortable base state of being. A variation of the poker face. It's like a poker face with burlesque sequined and feathered sunglasses on. A poker face with a little personal flare so not blank, but not telling in a world that has become one not available for questioning, but able and unceasingly questioning of identity and intent.
Like the question "what did you do to your hair." There are many responses that are acceptable. Many responses that are reasonable. I cut it: is one response. I wanted to try something new: is another. But, how many times can you be asked that question in different ways before you wig out and say something like "oh my god, did something happen to my hair? Is it still there? I could have swore I cut it yesterday. Oh god, why? Why could something happening to my hair have ever happened to me!" as you fall to the ground weeping and clutching at your scalp. It's just the nature of the world we live in. Everyone keeps asking you how old and who you are and where you're from and who you know that would also cop to knowing you.
Sure some people still give the standardized responses, but I think a lot of people in our generation who want to be slightly more than a string of numbers and a birth certificate and a photo i.d. and tax form fall into sarcasm as one of the last free forms of interpersonal, globally accepted, expression. Clothing as expression peaks and falls and peaks constantly. There isn't really an age of clothing as expression. Drugs as expression, I think peaked in the seventies. Is that fair? I know new drugs came along later on, or were in development and then came to fruition later on, but that's definitely a negative. People don't look at users of pharmaceuticals and think "wow, man you are seriously expressing your take on life and it's battles." What they think is "wow, man who raped you when you were five," or "wow, can you really not cope with your white bread existence," or "unlike bacon, everything is not better with glow sticks." Pot heads are probably the exception. And amphetamines that do not have to be smoked or injected. Those people aren't users by today's definition. They're modifiers. Suped up. For one reason or another they need to enhance certain abilities or muffle other sensitivities and so aren't really expressive. To say there are expressive is to say that someone who closes their eyes in a horror flick is expressing their inner self. Nope, they, like most normal people not desensitized to acts of brutal violence through television, news media, film, and video games, happen to not enjoy watching someone get their head twisted off. They are modifiers, not necessarily expressive. And that's what's up.
It's not the culture of harder drugs that are a way of life as much as they are a means to continue living. The old adage of "source of and solution to". Maybe if everyone wasn't so sarcastic things would be more straightforward. Hobbled senses of humor being symptomatic of hobbled senses of being maybe? As expression and avenues of expression become more vacant there is the old mainstay of sex. Being utterly personal and completely void of pretense sex still expresses who you are and in that opposite way of expression spread across the surface of being, sex is much more a sense of being spread across pure expression.
I mean think about it, the lady behind the desk at the dmv is in principle a sexual object. She is a vagina with a lot of extra things draped around it that define her self, but in a pure sense she is expressible by her vaginality at her core and everything else is in place to facilitate that expression. Same goes for the guy. It's like the core motive of man is perpetuating itself and everything else is in place to ensure its perpetuation. So if you're sitting on a train in rush hour and all you see are hovering breasts, vaginas, cocks, and balls all around you, you're not tripping. You're seeing through the bullshit. Or you are absolutely tripping your brains out and should probably not be inside a metal sardine can powered by coils of wire and magnetic fields twenty feet below the surface of the earth inside a dark tube. Or you are in highschool and are writing on post-it notes "you smell nice" to the person next to you and you realize you will probably never land that date to the prom because you are expressing yourself backwards, as far as the rest of the population is concerned, but hell, if you don't tell them, who will?
I have been dreaming graphic. Memory graphic. It has been difficult to deal with still. A silly concern. Sometimes not silly. Trying to keep track of the comers and the goers cross bridge and who is lingering and who isn't in places they should and should not be. I feel like what would lend them all credibility is if they had names, but none have offered anything close to a name since I left Maryland. Since I left murderland. It's a strange thing. The namelessness. There is the thing in the white and tan ghili suit, man or woman, but definitely humanoid who shows up well in fluorescent lights and little else. The little man in the black trench coat. The woman in the blue dress. The tall and wide man who loves to wear khaki and from head to toe and never talks. The bone spur balls of things I can only really describe as pre sleep sheep skinned and tumbling. The seeing spots in the middle of the day. The thing who offered a name, whose name I cannot record because it would serve it's displeasure at my efforts to disseminate its existence on the crown of my head by day and by night and chew my nerves like dollar a pack gum and suck the insides of my skull like a starved lamprey.
Times have been strange at the cusp of awareness. Maybe not the cusp, but the interface of understanding and the known with the less known and the abstract removed thrice from the models and modes of deduction. The experience of the thing is not even close to ... I don't even know. They're not ghosts. Some are new. Many are old. Some of them change clothing and change sexes, but I can smell them beneath the dressings. I can smell their blood in the marrow of their bones as clearly as they can smell and find mine across state lines. With them it is always a matter of time. Sometimes I have to trick myself into being alone, put on the little blinders and the nose muzzle and slip the bit between my teeth so I don't swallow my tongue while I run so hard and so tuned, but I'm faking it.
and I'm just talking. Trying to talk some things out. Orient myself. I cannot tell if I'm air locked or just cold. It's 58 degrees in my apartment. I should fix that. Six hours later, the temperature is fixed, but my geography is not. There are a lot of things that made me laugh today and I'm trying to remember some of them. Trying to keep my insides in. Browsing my old day time notes. And by daytime I mean work time. And by work time I guess I mean night time.
As a side note though, do you ever get into those odd temperature situations? For instance the break room where I work is already kind of a hole in the wall with some chairs scattered around. Kind of like a refrigerator box behind K-Mart that someone saw and said to themselves "yeah, that would be a cool place to hang out for the next ten years of my life" and then adopted a stray one legged pigeon and fed it corn puffs until it was eaten by a stray cat. That kind of break room. Actually, I don't even believe it would be a stretch to say there are probably better cafeterias in most underfunded high schools than the place where I work. That's not the bad part about it though.
I'm the kind of person who just loves opportunities to eat. Not that I'm fat. Not that I particularly love delicious food, even though I do. Who would really say no to an open flame seared, seasoning rubbed slab of rare beef. Like, bleeding delicious, with buttery asparagus and sesame seeds and I am getting way ahead of myself as I can afford to eat that, maybe, twice a year. Two times out of a year. That's thirty minutes out of 60 minutes multiplied by 24 hours multiplied by three hundred and sixty five days. That's gotta be a tiny fraction. Anyway, I love eating. With a passion. My mouth just needs to have something in it at all times to be truly happy. I would have made a pretty awesome shark in another life. Perhaps a penguin. Also pornstar? That should probably be on the list. But I love food, so any opportunity to sit down and eat is a great thing. Not good, great.
How often do you run into opportunities where someone sits you down and says "if you pass this background check we won't pay you to sit and relax and eat for thirty minutes, but we will pay you to sit and relax and eat for another set of thirty minutes, but there's catch." And you slide to the edge of your seat and get nervous. Am I going to have to kill someone? Am I going to have to whore myself? Am I going to have to drown a family of kittens? And then they come back "the catch is the thirty minutes will be broken up into two fifteen minute blocks and settled at opposite ends of the thirty minutes we will not pay you for." Awesome. So any chance to sit down and eat is a good thing, because there are people with jobs that allow them to sit down and eat zero percent of the time. Literally if they are caught sitting and eating, like humans are wont to do, they will be fired for not being perfectly mechanical.
So the bad thing about this prison break room cafeteria hole in the wall with chairs that were shat out of plastic molding machine once every second and probably as ergonomic a bed a refrigerator box's floor is that it is eighty degrees in there. I bike to work. By the time I get in I am sweating pretty much from chin to ass cheek. Hiking up the stairs to the lockers and the break room after pummeling my body just to get to work is a bother. Not intolerable. Not even difficult. Sometimes tiresome. It is kind of ridiculous that if you were handicapped you would basically be ass out of luck if you wanted to watch tv or have a table in front of you while you took your breaks, but having eighty degree heat bust you in the face is like getting on a bus and having the fattest, sweatiest, cheese smellingest person get on the next stop and not sit next to you. Sitting next to you would be okay. Contact with people is unavoidable on a bus and sharing a bench is just part of the contact contract. However, when people stand next to you it's a whole different set of acknowledged boundaries, and when heavier set, fatties, stand next to you and your ear is two inches away from the bulging gut and you can hear the carnival of their digestion, it gets weird. It gets real weird and uncomfortable is all I'm saying.
Like, weird enough to make your ear hot and tingly for all the wrong reasons. Like having a complete stranger at a party come in really close to you and drop a hand in your lap. Your crotch sends the signals up to your head and your head is like "alright, this is good. We are on the right track here, drunken stranger" and then they bring their lips up close to your ear and you're playing it really cool. You're too cool for blushing. Highschool kids blush not adults (you pedophile), but even with all of your super pro control and James Bond coolness, your ear never does get the memo and all the blood that should be in your cheeks rushes to your prickling ear and then the person whispers something like "I'm so horny I could take a long walk on a beach, and knit for hours, because I really really need to use the bathroom after eating that many tacos and I want you to watch," and you kind of have to step back and rub your eyes because they either actually said that or you are way higher than you thought you were. And that's why I hate riding buses. Shit gets real weird, real fast. That's what it's like walking into this break room most days. It is break room in which it is impossible to relax. Someone basically said "hey, do you know all of the things that can make relaxation impossible? Well let's take all of those things, combine them into a single room with easy to clean floors (because someone is eventually going to throw up their lunch) and then let's put a television in there to lure them in and then a camera to capture the hilarity that ensues."
It's an odd temperatured situation. And I have no idea why. But when you run into a situation where the setting is alright, but the temperature is way off it becomes impossible to do what it is you went there to do. Try having sex at fifty degrees. Ain't going to happen. Sure, maybe you'll get it up, maybe you'll get all warm down there. But unless you've got a blanket, eventually your skin screaming at you "good lord, it is cold as fuck, what the hell are we doing without clothes on" will pretty much trump that. Try playing a sport at a grossly incorrect temperature. Baseball at one hundred degrees? Sure it can be done, but good luck keeping eighteen unpaid individuals in a pick up game when their couches, cold beers, and coldcuts are waiting for them back at their homes. I think that's what I ran into today. Trying to get my thoughts together when it was simply too cold to think.
Situations where you can't hear yourself over your body trying to survive. On a completely unrelated note, is the hallmark of the late eighties generation sarcasm? Maybe not completely unrelated. I was just thinking that maybe with all of the nebulous threats to being and the rise of open sharing and the sense of "what have you got that you have to hide" and the unrelenting standard of interrogation and search and destroy culture has given rise to a survival mechanism. Sarcasm. Sure, some people are beautifully sardonic. Some people try to be. I kind of feel like a lot of the younger people and peers that I am familiar with find a sarcastic, sardonic, dead pan stance to be the most comfortable base state of being. A variation of the poker face. It's like a poker face with burlesque sequined and feathered sunglasses on. A poker face with a little personal flare so not blank, but not telling in a world that has become one not available for questioning, but able and unceasingly questioning of identity and intent.
Like the question "what did you do to your hair." There are many responses that are acceptable. Many responses that are reasonable. I cut it: is one response. I wanted to try something new: is another. But, how many times can you be asked that question in different ways before you wig out and say something like "oh my god, did something happen to my hair? Is it still there? I could have swore I cut it yesterday. Oh god, why? Why could something happening to my hair have ever happened to me!" as you fall to the ground weeping and clutching at your scalp. It's just the nature of the world we live in. Everyone keeps asking you how old and who you are and where you're from and who you know that would also cop to knowing you.
Sure some people still give the standardized responses, but I think a lot of people in our generation who want to be slightly more than a string of numbers and a birth certificate and a photo i.d. and tax form fall into sarcasm as one of the last free forms of interpersonal, globally accepted, expression. Clothing as expression peaks and falls and peaks constantly. There isn't really an age of clothing as expression. Drugs as expression, I think peaked in the seventies. Is that fair? I know new drugs came along later on, or were in development and then came to fruition later on, but that's definitely a negative. People don't look at users of pharmaceuticals and think "wow, man you are seriously expressing your take on life and it's battles." What they think is "wow, man who raped you when you were five," or "wow, can you really not cope with your white bread existence," or "unlike bacon, everything is not better with glow sticks." Pot heads are probably the exception. And amphetamines that do not have to be smoked or injected. Those people aren't users by today's definition. They're modifiers. Suped up. For one reason or another they need to enhance certain abilities or muffle other sensitivities and so aren't really expressive. To say there are expressive is to say that someone who closes their eyes in a horror flick is expressing their inner self. Nope, they, like most normal people not desensitized to acts of brutal violence through television, news media, film, and video games, happen to not enjoy watching someone get their head twisted off. They are modifiers, not necessarily expressive. And that's what's up.
It's not the culture of harder drugs that are a way of life as much as they are a means to continue living. The old adage of "source of and solution to". Maybe if everyone wasn't so sarcastic things would be more straightforward. Hobbled senses of humor being symptomatic of hobbled senses of being maybe? As expression and avenues of expression become more vacant there is the old mainstay of sex. Being utterly personal and completely void of pretense sex still expresses who you are and in that opposite way of expression spread across the surface of being, sex is much more a sense of being spread across pure expression.
I mean think about it, the lady behind the desk at the dmv is in principle a sexual object. She is a vagina with a lot of extra things draped around it that define her self, but in a pure sense she is expressible by her vaginality at her core and everything else is in place to facilitate that expression. Same goes for the guy. It's like the core motive of man is perpetuating itself and everything else is in place to ensure its perpetuation. So if you're sitting on a train in rush hour and all you see are hovering breasts, vaginas, cocks, and balls all around you, you're not tripping. You're seeing through the bullshit. Or you are absolutely tripping your brains out and should probably not be inside a metal sardine can powered by coils of wire and magnetic fields twenty feet below the surface of the earth inside a dark tube. Or you are in highschool and are writing on post-it notes "you smell nice" to the person next to you and you realize you will probably never land that date to the prom because you are expressing yourself backwards, as far as the rest of the population is concerned, but hell, if you don't tell them, who will?
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