So Full of Meat

It wasn't such a terrible day. 

   

I paid a beautiful woman thirty dollars to look at my penis and tell me it was all right.  

  

She also looked at the rest of me... and measured a freckle with a tiny plastic ruler.

   

Point is, I don't have any skin cancer.

   

.......

   

I'm not sure when it was, but a few years ago, I took an HIV test, ostensibly to satisfy some intense paranoia, but in reality, it was probably so that I'd have some good news. 

   

This is what I do, because I live in a scientific age, and I intend to take advantage of that.

   

       

It's the Fourteenth

I have a tradition for today. 

    

I go to a local barbecue restaurant, order a big-assed slab of ribs, and eat it without making eye-contact with any of the other lonely, sauce-smeared weirdos. 

     

I'm genuinely excited.  

February 13th

I've decided to significantly limit my exposure to entertainment and media sources. It's become clear to me that internalizing the expectations and witticisms of greater society is harmful for people who pay attention (probably for people who don't too, but I have limited experience with not investing too much thought/attention into popular culture).

    

Nearly all of my aborted blog-posts are seemingly pointed insights into human interaction that devolve, after a few paragraphs, into tired, expected, trite criticisms of the hegemonic themes one might infer from television and movies. I can tell when this is happening, because I start typing the phrase "society tells us it's okay to..." or "we are made to believe that ...." and so on, until what can be understood as "my experience" is dissolved into an alienated, all-together stunted critique of epistemological something or other.

    

I realize that what ends up being posted isn't spectacularly unlike what I've just described, but rest assured, I hold back when it's truly unbearable (I try to, at least).

    

Anyway, it occurs to me that if I'm not passively consuming the underlying themes presented in financially motivated/culturally approved narratives, then I'm complaining about them to people who either aren't interested (because it's not worth being interested in) or erroneously constructing a conception of everyone else based on what I assume they aren't finding objectionable.

   

So, we'll see how long this lasts.

I Fell Down One Stair

... and I smashed my hand against the railing. One of my knuckles is a barely-noticeable shade of purple.  

   

Tonight, I made eyes at an attractive blonde woman at Starbucks. Pretty soon thereafter, she and her friend started going on about their boyfriends who are army-guys. 

   

I have a strange reaction to women who date army-guys, specifically liberal women who date army-guys, which is something like confusion and disappointment. I specify "liberal women" because I've overheard, as I do, some of them complaining about their opposition to what their boyfriends have chosen to do, ie: shoot bullets into people — a complaint they make with the same tone and fervency that they might use to bemoan their fella's refusal to clean his beard-hair from the sink or his casual reliance on demeaning sexist humor... something that seems to bother them, but doesn't warrant a serious relationship discussion. 

    

What I notice (aside from the fact that men with a demonstrable willingness to kill people are more attractive to women than me) is that, once again, I expect people to use their conception of morality to disqualify potential romantic partners, and once again, my expectations are not made manifest by reality.

   

I grasp that there are people for whom an abstract willingness to kill for one's country isn't blatantly morally objectionable (I'm probably in this group), but weird fantasies aside, I can't imagine trusting someone who's willfully abdicated their moral responsibility vis-a-vis murder (as soldiers are required to do).   

   

Anyway, it's mid-February, so I'm going to drink some scotch and be asleep for a while.

    

......

   

Oh, also, I thought of a new life's ambition: write a story that isn't actively resentful of its audience. 

  

My greatest challenge to date.   

Took All the Laces Out of My Old Shoes

I have memories of shoe-laces snapping or aglets cracking open (making re-lacing damn near implausible), which, I believe is why I spent the past few minutes salvaging the useable laces from my soon to be discarded pairs of old shoes. 

   

It occurs to me that the sheer number of pristine shoe-laces I've amassed suggests that broken and unusable shoe-laces aren't as common as I seem to believe. 

   

So, now I've got a few feet of thin, relatively sturdy string just sitting in little spools on my bed, being potentially, but not especially, useful. 

   

Oh, and I found a white ribbon with little red hearts all over it. I have no use for this, so if someone who can justify this artifact's existence to themselves has any use for it, let me know. 

    

.......

  

Earlier today, I was at Starbucks (this is my life now, writing at Starbucks, coming home, busying myself with cleaning or reorganizing my pointless things until I can justify falling asleep), and I watched some very white people have an afternoon date. 

   

They were discussing deforestation and real-estate development, neither of which seem all that sexy (but then again, women hate me like poison), and one of them noted how sad it was that a nearby forest preserve is being razed to make way for luxury condominiums; the other nodded thoughtfully.

   

As it happens, no such buildings are planned — the area is being re-nativized (which is a word I might have just made up to imply that the wetlands that once were are being restored). In other words: conservation is happening. 

    

While I'm privy to this information for no particular reason (happenstance + over-heard conversations and giant-assed signs), it occurs to me that on this, like many another, issue, I'm right (ie: I have correct information) and alone while people who are wrong (ie: have poor/incorrect information) are happy bonding over their shared misconception.

   

I shouldn't hate this, nor should I hate them, nor should I attempt to base insight on so benign an anecdote, but I do, I do, and I will (mostly because those first two things are troubling). 

    

For most of my adult life (and beyond), I've taken it as granted that "knowing things" and "being right" is a sort of beneficial trait which may (or had ought to) be compelling to others. I've begun to suspect that nothing I've experienced has supported this evidence.

   

More damning still, a list is taking form in my big stupid brain, of instances in which my "knowing shit" has been described to me as "intimidating" or "depressing" and "annoying as fuck".

  

Moreover, I realize that this is not unlike having an absurdly large penis (not to imply that I'm right absurdly often, but I imagine anything less than an absurdly large penis wouldn't be problematic), in that there are clear benefits in other facets of my life (such as not being patronized by physicians, generally being considered trustworthy by family and friends, and rarely getting lost — all of which are, similarly, true for people who are very intelligent), but despite these very real upsides, what seems like "a problem you want to have" is, in actuality, a problem that keeps women from wanting to have sex with you, which is not a problem you want to have.

   

.......

   

I'm not sure I've accomplished anything here, which is all right, because I think being useful is dull. 

   

Mostly, I wasted some time I might otherwise have spent trying to ignore the almost constant refrain of "no one will ever love you; you're going to die alone; you should kill yourself" that floats through my mind when I'm trying to get to bed and haven't drunk enough wine.            

I'm Going to be Honest for a Minute

I seem to be irritating people — this tends to be my fault. 

    

I seem to be irritated by people — this, apparently, is also my fault.

  

........  

  

I want to start doing dangerous and stupid things. 

I'm Discontented with my Place in the Universe

This is a euphemism. I think euphemisms are vile. 

  

It's possible I'm coming on too strong. 

   

I'm feeling strong at the moment, and by strong, I mean indignant.

   

......

  

I'm not troubled by cosmic ambiguity; I'm troubled by people — not specific people, but then again, I'm not specifically troubled... which is probably why it's so easy to remain troubled. 

   

I don't expect more from people, but I do expect more from my interactions with them. I expect to enjoy people more, to find them more compelling/interesting/arresting, and to feel I've accomplished something by knowing them. 

  

But, I'm bored with some, disappointed in others, and envious of those who aren't. Moreover, I understand that failing to muster interest doesn't necessarily speak to the subject matter, that my inability to be impressed must be taken as an insult by those around me (not strictly as a dismissal of people, but of the people as they present themselves... though how does this soften the blow?), and that I'm trapped in a melancholic echo-chamber that keeps me from recalling or imagining any sort of delight other humans might offer.  

     

.......

      

I've been destroying remnants of past relationships. I can't decide if I think this is self-empowering or self-effacing. Either way, I feel lighter. 

Just Exactly How Difficult is Medical School?

I've got kind of a pattern. 

    

When I get depressed enough to internalize criticism (real or imagined) about my not making anything of myself, I start to consider whether or not I could, conceivably, if for no other reason than to shut everyone up, get through medical school and become a handsome doctor man. 

    

Eventually, though, I tend to remember that I'm not very good with math, I don't like being held accountable for anything, and as I understand it, being a doctor requires constant immersion in new medical research and other such complicated ephemera. 

   

But, then again, I am incredibly spiteful.   

Everyday

I wake up and think how soon can I physically make myself be asleep again?
 
Every day.

I Have Weird Inferences

While running (on a treadmill, because that's what I do now) and listening to Kansas (because I also do that), I noticed a woman on a treadmill infront of mine with old-timey Hollywood style hips (ie: curvy), and thought she's probably smart, before thinking to myself maybe I don't like nice people, maybe I like smart people, and maybe my trying to appreciate people who aren't very substantive is just as pathetic as those people who try to appreciate ginormous fake breasts and the vapid, insecure nut-jobs attached to them. 

  

And then, I ran a few more miles.  

My Day Starts When I Say It Starts, Damn It

So, three AM. I woke up at three AM, cracked some joints, and ate some yogurt with a banana, while drinking a tiny can of iced-coffee. 

  

I also put on my glasses. That's probably not interesting to most of my readers (although, given that I usually end up editing my posts before posting, which requires reading through them a few times, I might actually be most of my readers), but recently, I bought new glasses (because my insurance is running out), and I'm making an effort to use them — half to justify the expense, and half as a symbolic acceptance of my limitations (not wholly symbolic... they're not secret identity establishing glasses; I can see without them, but I suspect wearing them is better for me, for some reason I don't fully comprehend). 

   

Pretty soon, I'm going to post this (or maybe take a break from it, then return to post it later) and head off to the gym, so as to slip, undetected amongst those eager people who force themselves awake at four-thirty in the morning, get in a few miles on the treadmill, before rushing off to busy themselves by performing surgeries and venture capitalizing.

   

This, I believe, is what they refer to as a networking oportunity.  

I Was Going to Write About Something, But I Forgot What that Was... So, Sex?

I've been listening to podcasts, because my friends are busy being real people (working, learning useful things, having relationships with other well-formed humans), which is good for me, because podcasts are neat. 

  

What I'm noticing about podcasts is that my enjoyment of them is inversely proportional to how much sex the podcasters seem to be having and how willing they are to base their advice on those subjective experiences. 

  

By way of a for instance, one such podcast I've been listening to began with the hosts commiserating about the terrible dry-spell they'd both been forced to endure, a communal celibacy which kept them from having sex for almost three weeks. This was made all the more terrible by the fact that the next week's show began with a quick account of how they'd both managed to bump into implausibly great people on unrelated streets, whose phone-numbers they'd ascertained (which happens, I guess), before considering, at length, how their prolonged abstinence might make them better able to relate to people who aren't constantly inundated by a series of interesting and beautiful lovers. 

        

I don't mean to sound violent and crazy, but if I had the chance, I'd spend as much time as is necessary murdering both of these people with a dessert fork... not really, because, you know, I'm not a homicidal weirdo. Interesting side-note, I've been reading a book on self-harming behavior, and people who bite the skin off the side of their finger-nails are considered to be in this group — so, I guess I'm a self-harming weirdo.

    

But, back to the task at hand. 

  

Why is everyone and everything so terrible? I'm sure they're not. Something has biased my opinion. 

   

On another episode (of possibly a different podcast), during the viewer e-mails segment, the hilarious and cool (and I have every reason to believe good looking) host read an e-mail from some poor son of a bitch, in some poor son of a bitch town, who wanted advice on how to take his friendship with some super-great girl "to the next level" (why is this a phrase?). 

   

Deducing that the poor son of a bitch must be "a shy guy" (and he is, let's be honest with ourselves), the hosts — and their team of experts/other people — propose that the poor, shy, son of a bitch take a deep breath, collect his courage, and ask this woman on a date, because "why the hell not?" or something to that effect. The group noted that, worst case scenario, he ends up where he is now, that women love to be asked out, even when they aren't interested, and "the worst thing ever is living with the regret of not taking that chance". 

   

This is probably not terrible advice; their justifications may not be founded (in my experience, some women don't want to be asked out, at least not by some men; and unless their friendship is currently awkward and strained by a grand overture for which both will feel responsible, he will most definitely not end up where he is now), but since when is not having asked someone on a date the worst thing ever? 

  

And I'm not going for a cheap joke at the expense of hyperbole (eg: some would say polio was pretty bad, am I right?). What I want to know is, in what sense is being rejected by someone you've presumably invested in, in some emotional sense, worse than the delusional comfort that comes from having not been told you're super nice, but otherwise, wholly unappealing to someone you've chosen to care for deeply? 

   

Again, I don't mean to imply that they should have told the poor, shy, son of a bitch that he hasn't got a chance unless he's got a motorcycle or waits until he turns thirty (a substitute teacher said this to me in high-school, and it made me feel violated), but the idea that knowing the truth is somehow better than having a ridiculous memory, about which to feel a sort of creepy nostalgia, is absurd... or more realistically, absurd when not viewed from the vantage point of someone who's had a bunch of satisfying relationships and isn't a shy weirdo with nothing much to show for his efforts. 

    

It's possibly because I've been reading that introverts book (alluded to in a previous post), or because I'm sensitive to this sort of thing, but this strikes me as the sort of advice/justification cool, confident, well-meaning people offer because it's worked for them, and presumably, it had ought to work for everyone — like when a famous celebrity tells kids to stop taking their medication, because it'll kill their creative-soul (as opposed to keeping them from killing themselves), or when a super-wealthy politician tells people they could be super-wealthy too, if they'd only motivate themselves to work harder (because that's how America is).

    

This may be shoe-horned in (I haven't slept in thirty-something hours, so it's difficult to tell), but I think this speaks to a creepy divergence in our cognitive ability, namely that we are presented with a reality, with narratives that we base on that reality, as well as narratives from other people's experience of their reality. Often these are contradictory narratives. 

   

Example: I'm aware that some people are horrible, because I read the news and hear stories, yet people have always been super-nice to me (I'm affable). So, if I'm tasked with consolidating these narratives, say if I were asked "are people capable of being horrible?", I'll either have to give my experience-based answer (nope, they're great), or rely on the narratives presented to me (yes, apparently they are terrible). 

   

Along these lines, another phrase I hear on the podcasts, as trite as it will sound, is that women like sensitive men, but only after years of dating tough guys, so the key is to not become jaded by the years of rejection. I don't want to believe this, because it seems misogynistic, and if it's not, then I suppose I would have to be (in that, for it not to be misogynistic, the statement would have to be true, which would make women terrible, and thinking this would make me a misogynist).  

    

Point is (and this is how I start sentences when I'm tired), no matter how I interpret this sort of prattle — it's true, it's false, some other option — I'm essentially faced with the decision to base my expectations on my own experience (eg: existence is cold and aloof to your wants) or believe/accept what other people claim to experience, and based solely on faith, assume it must be true for me as well (eg: satisfying romantic entanglements exist for adults in reality). 

  

And that's not such a tall order. I take it on faith that humans share a common experiential capability all the god-damn time. 

   

But then again, I like folk music.

Turn and Face the Strange

My life has yet to be demonstrably changed by my strict adherence to the List of Shit to Do, although tonight, I ate a big bowl of peas, I'm blogging instead of looking at pictures of naked women, and I spent an hour feeling something while jogging on a treadmill, listening to an audio-book... that something was anger. 

  

The book I was listening to was Quiet: The Power of Introverts in a World That Can't Stop Talking, by Susan Cain, and I'm not yet sure how I feel about it. It's got sort of a self-helpy vibe, though if I had to point to a page directly supporting that assertion, I'm sure I couldn't (and not just because I bought the audiobook), but so far, there's no hint of smug, superiority over those damned extroverts who ruin everything (you know who you are, and I hate you). 

   

I was angry because reading this book has forced me to re-contextualize events from my childhood, specifically those episodes related to advice-giving, which has forced me to realize that the people I care about have, due to a blunt understanding of human interaction, been fucking me up with their ridiculous expectations and poorly-worded encouragement. I don't blame them, just as I don't blame them for not demanding I eat vegetables or for dragging me to church against my better judgement > comparatively, I haven't got much to complain about.

   

......

  

Suddenly, I'm tired. I was going to write something about how I think it's great that there are so many facets and nuances to even the smallest aspects of human interaction and how I think it's terrible that the urge to diminish and simplify is so ubiquitous — I get that people process new information by incorporating it into pre-established narratives and schemas (hence: "it's like I always say..."), but I think this is bullshit; terrible, lazy, dim-witted, ignorant bullshit. 

  

I'm going to write about this tomorrow... or get bored and maybe drunk and not do that. We'll see what happens.   

I'm Worried About This

This is from the introduction to a book I just started reading called 'The Sociopath Next Door' by Martha Stout Ph.D:

  

"Or let us imagine the opposite extreme:  You have no interest in power.  To the contrary, you are the sort of person who really does not want much of anything.  Your only real ambition is not to have to exert yourself to get by.  You do not want to work like everyone else does.  Without a conscience, you can nap or pursue your hobbies or watch television or just hang out somewhere all day long.  Living a bit on the fringes, and with some handouts from relatives and friends, you can do this indefinitely.  People may whisper to one another that you are an underachiever, or that you are depressed, a sad case, or, in contrast, if they get angry, they may grumble that you are lazy.  When they get to know you better, and get really angry, they may scream at you and call you a loser, a bum.  But it will never occur to them that you literally do not have a conscience, that in such a fundamental way, your very mind is not the same as theirs.

The panicked feeling of a guilty conscience never squeezes at your heart or wakes you in the night.  

Despite your lifestyle, you never feel irresponsible, neglectful or so much as embarrassed, although for the sake of appearances, sometimes you pretend that you do.  For example, if you are a decent observer of people and what they react to, you may adopt a lifeless facial expression, say how ashamed of your life you are, and talk about how rotten you feel.  This you do only because it is more convenient to have people think you are depressed than it is to have them shouting at you all the time, or insisting that you get a job.

You notice that people who do have a conscience feel guilty when they harangue someone they believe to be "depressed" or "troubled."  As a matter of fact, to your further advantage, they often feel obliged to take care of such a person.  If, despite your relative poverty, you can manage to get yourself into a sexual relationship with someone, this person - who does not suspect what you are really like - may feel particularly obligated.  And since all you want is not to have to work, your financier does not have to be especially rich, just relatively conscience-bound.

   

I trust that imagining yourself as any of these people feels insane to you, because such people are insane, dangerously so."

Shit I'm Going to Do This Year

It's on my blog now; it has to come true.

A Cartoon for Some of You

 
...
 

This one sort of petered out, but I'm posting it anyway, because I'm tired, and I don't make great decisions when I'm tired. 

  

How do I feel this cartoon succeeds? 

   

My alcohol analogy seems well-founded. I was going to add something about how macchiatos are like White Russians, which should make them all right to mock, but only if you (as a conservative reader) refuse to add cream and sugar to your coffee. 

   

Where do I think this cartoon could be improved?

   

Probably if it was better. You'll note, as the panels continue, the drawing gets shittier. Also, the writing. For instance, cappuccinos have nothing to do with World War Two Soldiers, or maybe they do... I have no idea, but that's not what the cartoon lady seems to be saying. 

   

Also, it doesn't end so much as stop. This is because I stopped caring about it, and by extension, your enjoyment of it. This is what happens, readers; I demand your attention and then tell you to fuck off once I've grown weary of your expectations.
     

Additionally, I was planning on getting into the fetishized (and false) authenticity of ordering a cheap cup of coffee (false, in the sense that flavor crystals aren't all that authentic) instead of a fancy, expensive, Italian sounding something or other... but I didn't get around to it.
      

...........

   

Also, unrelated, I'm entertaining a new idea wherein I wake up somewhere during the middle of the night, work until noon, take an hour or two to be among the common man, and then sleep when everyone else is hanging out, being gregarious, and having sex.  

   

Society has rejected me, so I, in turn, reject its norms.  

Failing the Bechdel Test, and Other Things that Happen at Starbucks

I'm hoping my blog doesn't become the place where I elaborate on my most recent Facebook status, but as I've probably got a few more posts before a pattern can be said to have been established, I'm going to keep doing that — worst case scenario, we can replace the phrase "status update" with the far more buzz-worthy "blog-preview" > I thought that would sound more exciting (I apologize for this).

     

Today, while at Starbucks, I noticed at least two things (probably more, but that's not important): the Starbucks was full of women (awesome), and not one of their conversations could be said to have passed the Bechdel test.

  

For those who are unaware, the Bechdel test is a short-cut to feminist media criticism, introduced in the comic Dykes to Watch Out For, wherein a text is said to have failed if at no point is there a scene in which two women discuss something other than a man/relationship. I'm paraphrasing, because my internet isn't working, and I may not remember to check after I've fixed it. Feel free to Google it. 

  

As I stood waiting for my fancy coffee-drink (espresso + hot water), I overheard a young woman explain to her friends that the worst thing about her boyfriend is how fast his beard grows (I've heard Anderson Cooper has this same problem — HD cameras force him to shave several times a day); after finding a seat on the other side of a display case, I was privy to another group's conversation (slightly older women), which was a sort of back-and-forth about whether someone (I'll call her Athena) should ask her boyfriend (Ronaldo) to be more something or other (tall... probably tall); and while considering the oddity of being set in this sort of misogynistic re-imagining of the local Starbucks, I noticed a pair of teenage-girls dash to some leather chairs (they dashed — it was weird), throw themselves into them (somehow balancing their fancy whipped-drinks), and debate feverishly as to which of the attractive young men in their circle of friends to invite to whatever sort of party teenage girls throw on a Saturday night (for which, I have no frame of reference). 

   

It struck me that there is a divergence between our aspirations and our reality. 

  

And, I don't mean to single out the ladies. I have similarly found reason to doubt any of the following claims, which I would very much prefer to accept as invariably true:

  

— People are kind, generous, and worthy of respect and admiration.

— It is better to have integrity than to be terrible.

— Life is enriched by knowledge.

— Existential insignificance does not diminish human worth.

— Murder is wrong.

— Looking for love is worth all the god-damned rejection.

  

These are the first examples that come to mind, but feel free to insert any of your own cherished beliefs that seem occasionally challenged by reality — not to say those delusional beliefs that are clearly wrong, but those that are almost certainly true, but vulnerable to cynical obfuscation.

   

It's also probably worth pointing out that Bechdel's test is not, presumably, about making films more realistic so much as making them less shallow/conventional in their presentation of women, and that similar tests could be constructed wherein films are said to be failures if they don't show their protagonists having emotional responses to shooting bad-guys — regardless of whether or not a real person might feel one way or another about murder, someone (particularly someone who feels film heroes are too sociopathic) might suggest a litmus test for emotional detachment (something more useful than the MPAA, I might add).            

   

But I'm worried about this. 

   

Television, movies, books, and to a lesser extent, my personal experiences have lead me to believe most everything I believe. Our minds construct reality based on narratives we present to ourselves, and ultimately, the narratives we're presented (in television, movies, books, and experience) determine what sort of narratives we're likely to construct about our reality. Somewhere in this is a strong argument against learning from history. 

  

I expect a lot from people; as such, I'm constantly disappointed (not actually... I am, but not in the sense that I'm wandering around thinking everyone is useless and terrible, I mean more that I'm disappointed by my experience of people — as in the case of meeting a spectacular author only to find neither of us have anything that interesting to say to one another > this happens to me a lot). 

  

And, I don't know how much of this is physical limitation (fiction lets us slip into people's interiority, which is probably why people in books seem to have substance while people in Starbucks seem to suck) and how much is due to my expectations being radically unrealistic — I envision a world in which no one watches the Jersey Shore, wherein no one can figure out why Ke$ha is a thing, and made up of deeply sensitive, intelligent individuals who suspect the worst of charming, wealthy people.

  

Does it bother me that as I drank my coffee, my thoughts were essentially, if these people were fictional, their existence would be trashy, shallow, and not worth watching, or is it that, because they're not fictional, I feel the need to redeem them (which seems, at the very least, insulting)? And how is this all that different from my walking into a grocery store and thinking these people aren't as attractive as the ones on television? 

  

My tenuous grasp of feminism has left me feeling petty and unsatisfied.  

I Want to Stop Doing the Things that Depress Me

I notice though, that most of the things I enjoy are things that depress me — more correctly, the things I enjoy doing create an environment wherein I am likely to become depressed. So, more correctly still, I don't want to stop doing the things that depress me, because I enjoy them, but I think I should, because I don't want to be depressed.  

  

Watching television, using Facebook, being awake at night, not following sports / being religious, and listening to nineties, acoustic, lady-songs (mostly the Cardigans) have, as I understand it, all been directly linked to an increase in sad-face time (maybe not the Cardigans per se).    

  

Running is probably an exception, although it could be argued that the larger rubric of "things I do alone for extended lengths of time" supersedes any endorphin-based benefit.

  

Aside from that, and the somewhat-deliberately ignored list of things I'd like to do but can't (omitted due to its "will to live sapping" nature), I'm noticing that the things I enjoy don't seem to be the things other people enjoy, which would be fine, except it's not the case that following my introverted little heart will lead to my own peculiar place of satisfaction; imagine "just follow your heart" as dieting advice. 

   

What I'm proposing, from here at least, sounds like doing things I can't stand, and refraining from doing things I don't hate, in hopes that this will make me not miserable; I believe psychologists refer to this as trusting the process.

  

Might help if my process wasn't just me making shit up as I go along.     

Things That Occur to Me While I Watch 'Intervention'

1. Skinny people are on drugs / sober people get chubby. Corollary insight: I have body image issues. 

  

2. If anybody's still out there genuinely making documentaries on addiction, then I can't help but picture some hapless bastard anxiously showing up for his scheduled 'final interview', only to be asked a few leading questions by a guy sitting in a folding chair, handed some release papers to sign and twenty bucks for his troubles, before being told to have a nice life. This thought makes me sad. 

   

3. I am capable of a terrible sort of delusional jealousy, wherein I can remain powerfully ignorant to the presented reality of addiction and unabashedly envious of the weird, insular relationships drugged-up people form with one another. 

  

On one (of what could have been any) episode, a concerned loved one of a meth-addicted twenty-something noted, of the addict's boyfriend, that he's just kept around because she likes to feel wanted. This was clearly meant as a criticism, but (and I admit an obvious bias) I couldn't help but side with the addicts, in that I can't imagine a person not having (or feeding, when able) the powerful urge to feel wanted. 

  

And, I understand that the criticism being made is more a note on the perceived character limitations of the boyfriend (ie: the best that can be said of him is that he wants to be around), but in the same way that I harbor a sort of shameful jealousy for characters on hospital dramas who may soon leave behind a devoted spouse (unless their life-threatening case of exploding organs is treated by the gruff but lovable head of diagnostics / scrappy lady-surgeon who's got enough on her plate just trying to make it in a man's world) or the truly unfortunate teen parents of MTV reality fame, I envy the easily digestible, dramatic display of "being wanted" set, as it usually is, in contrast with failure to live up to expectations (or just live, in general, what with the exploding organs). 

Lonely people are envious of even terrible relationships. So, that's a thing.  

  

4. If I'm ever intervened upon (take notes, friends and family), I will demand that all letters be as concise as is possible and lacking in idioms, euphemisms, and appeals to any sweet, beautiful little person inside of me. Also, there's every chance I'll agree to enter treatment before listening to the letters, because that's exactly the sort of spiteful thing I'd probably do.

  

5. My urge to mock is somewhat dependent on my assumption that the addict will enter treatment at the end of the show, and for the most part, I prefer to ridicule the show's editors than its subjects. By this, I mean that it's more satisfying (or less depressing) to chortle derisively at the juxtaposition of a narrator claiming "she is an expert manipulator" accompanied by a scene of the addict flatly demanding money so she can go buy drugs than it would be to giggle at the powerlessness and humiliation felt by the addict and their loved ones. 

  

6. Also, despite what I wrote about mocking the story-telling rather than the subjects, there is something shamefully amusing about people who can't seem to grasp the purpose of an intervention, who think it's their chance to finally berate the addict into sobriety (in hopes they'll finally see that they're wrong to be addicted to drugs), and who can't grasp that their stubborn, narcissistic need to avoid blame and assert an absurd (and unfounded) air of control and superiority is the sort of pathetic dishonesty they claim to decry in the addict. I say this is amusing, but not in a way that makes it less heart-breaking... I suppose the trick is not to think about it all that closely.

  

7. I'm not sure whether having an overtly-conservative, ultra-dogmatic religious figure in one's life drives one to drugs and alcohol or if having a self-destructive, emotionally-abusive addict in one's life drives one to religious zealotry, but what I notice is that these things coincide. 

I've Decided to Try This Again

It's been four months (possibly five) since I've had anything worth writing on this blog — which isn't really true, but it has a sort of emotional honesty to it, and that's something I'm working on now. This is an aspiration massively hindered by my poor understanding of the terms (hence the previous sentence's assertion that "I haven't had anything to say" is an emotionally, if not factually, true statement).

     

I've been writing. I've been journalling. I've even been Face-booking, which can be a sort of concentrated perversion of the blogging enterprise, save for the fact that you're just as likely (if not more so) to be interpreted as clever/terse as (than) sincere/thoughtful in their little blue-and-white boxes. 

    

This isn't meant to discount the tireless efforts of my blog's readership to undermine my attempts at sincerity (this is the internet, and Americans have an ugly/wonderful need to be clever/awful — even when they're not). If anything, I've returned to this arena (forum? podium? practice?) because I'm worried Facebook, or text-messaging (or theoretically twittering, which I haven't done, but that's not important), is making me glib. 

   

I find myself condensing ideas, which is an urge I sort of hate. 

   

For instance, a while ago, on my wall, I updated my status with the following missive:
   

I've had an epiphany.
    

I don't need to fabricate moral justifications to dislike people. There's nothing stopping me from despising morally upright human-beings. 

   

This changes everything.  

    

Obviously (painfully so), I was inviting a discussion which I suspect I knew would not be forthcoming, and rightfully so... Facebook would be a terrible place to develop ideas on the internet, second maybe to the comments section of a poorly constructed political satire video on Youtube. 

    

Ignoring my desperate need to fabricate instances of unrequited attention-seeking behavior, I meant some part of this statement sincerely, and posting it on Facebook strikes me as dishonest ... or maybe withholding?  

    

At the risk of alienating my readers (or maybe patronizing them), I'd like to give this thought some space in which to develop. 

    

Disperated (made up word, don't worry) as I am, both temporally and spatially, from this thought's conception, I can't recall if it was a petty reactionary thought (eg: someone was off-putting at Starbucks, so I've decided I must hate him) or the result of a long, deliberate (tedious) process of deduction — okay, it must have been the first. 

   

I imagine it happening like this; some fine, upstanding young-man at Starbucks (with a well-groomed beard and a cultivated easy-going attitude) stands, or rather leans, at the counter, recounting his weekend plans (which must be very exciting) as an attractive barista feigns/expresses interest by pausing between the muscle-memorized movements to smile or prod the young-man into further elaboration as to his weekend's grand design (which, as it turned out, was not very exciting). As this happens, I'm standing beside the display case of fatty foods, not wanting to put my hands on the glass or in my pockets (because someone else was doing that — not my pockets, obviously), thinking to myself I hate this man, he's awful, and I'm not sure why or something to that effect. 

  

Sipping my coffee (that's an ugly way to start a sentence), I thought to myself (even worse) there must be some reason I can't stand this man; he must have done something to justify my disinclination towards him. After dismissing petty jealousy (perhaps too hastily), I tried to convince myself that this young-man's cock-sure attitude and need to distract the barista with his inane (but by no means vile) droning was nothing less than a moral failing of massive proportions. 

   

This conclusion would have been idiotic. 

   

It occurred to me (or might have, had this actually been the impetus for my line of thought, which it very-well could have) that arguing for a moral imperative against polite chatter would be, in every way, stupid. Unfortunately, despite my acceptance that this young-man had done nothing wrong (or at least nothing particularly offensive), I still disliked him immensely. 

  

And, this wouldn't have been a novel experience, and generally, I'd have decided my irrational irritation was unwarranted, or that what I'd been annoyed by was a frustrating situation, and (because I'm a petulant child) I'm unable to move past that sort of thing without assigning blame, and given that I'm not a crazy person, the only option seemingly left to me would be to accept that, as no one could be blamed, I must not allow myself to be upset.

   

But, something about that wouldn't feel right, and that something was the fact that the young-man who'd done nothing morally wrong was responsible for my having to wait for my coffee and that while I didn't blame him, I did not care for him as a person.

   

In a sense, this notion of divorcing moral assessment from interpersonal relationships seems like a horrible idea, as it would seem to justify the worst sort of prejudice and bigotry (eg: I know gay people aren't doing anything wrong, but I still think they're creepy), but in another sense, I feel it may be a useful insight, in so far as requiring a moral justification for antipathy must, in some sense, be it's own sort of prejudice (leading the witness, as it were). 

   

It bothers me that people are so apt to interpret/intuit an explanation for their behavior, or worse still, a smug "universal" lesson from their subjective experiences (eg: if it seems too good to be true, it probably is; beer before liquor, never been sicker; god answers prayer), partially because people are terrible at this, and being terrible at this allows them to construct moronic beliefs (eg: buy gold; different alcohol effects you differently; genital mutilation). 

  

Accepting that there are people whom I will dislike for reasons that have nothing to do with their moral worth, I may be able to avoid conceptualizing affection as a reward for being good (take that society), learn to forgive those who've rejected my romantic intentions (ie: their rejection doesn't speak to my worth), and most importantly, allow me to experience my feelings (as I believe they're called) without feeling the need to either pervert my conception of morality (eg: it's immoral to waste a barista's time with polite nonsense) or diminish my experience (eg: my annoyance is unjustified, thus I will no longer feel annoyed). 

   

It's possible, this will allow me to become more human. It's also possible that this will allow me to become an unmitigated sadist. Only time will tell.

Made a Hamburger

I made a hamburger. 

     

It had romaine lettuce and fried shiitake mushrooms and smoked bacon and tomato slices and crispy onions and brown mustard and mozzarella-cheese and a ciabatta-roll and salt and pepper and, also, beef.

  

There were jalapeño flavored potato-chips.

   

It was slightly overcooked but still moist.

  

   

Last week, I made crepes with honey and black-cherry jam. There was bacon and sausage on the side.

   

 

Before that, I baked a banana-bread which was textured perfectly, because I added a banana and replaced half the sugar with honey.  

  

       

My point is, I'm pretty great at cooking. 

    

Ladies, tell your friends (who are also ladies... no dudes).  

PS

Drunk as shit.

Let's All Go to the Mall

Things I like about the mall:
  
— When I order coffee at Starbucks, the barista asks if I want room for cream, and I say "no thanks," there's often a smirk of admiration on their face.

  
Things I dislike about the mall:
— When the staff at Banana Republic tell me I'd look great in whatever I happen to have picked up.

Who's Ready to Feel Disappointed?

I have no intention of posting today. 

   

I did.

   

I made a post about it earlier.

  

Then, I wrote some stuff.

   

But that stuff was awful, syntactically and in a moral sense. It was a rumination on the topic "why I believe disinterested and selfish women are responsible for cold and cynical men," which turned into something about "how I believe young women who date older men are bad people, and if older women want to complain about men dating younger women, they shouldn't have ignored young men when they were younger," and then transitioned into "why hopelessness makes kindness arbitrary, which allows for bitter, alienated people to be nice, rather than cynical and cold, according to their preference."

   

I didn't like how it sounded.     

  
It's been that sort of day.
  
There was some other stuff, about an inability to dismiss regrettable thoughts (even when you're aware of their falsehood), but I'm not sure that was warranted.
 
Anyway, this was the first aborted attempt in a month or so to post something. Maybe next time will be better.   

I'm Going to Post Today

I'm posting this, so as to force my hand... lest I be labelled a liar.
   
You've been warned.

New Post

Nothing seems important nor interesting.
    
Outlook is bleak.  

Pages From My Master's Thesis

In case anyone was curious. 

 

 

  

Damn Documentaries

I'm watching a documentary on a video-game, in which players participate in the Columbine massacre (as either of the mass-murderers), and the ensuing controversy/outrage/discussion (which I only vaguely recall hearing about however many years ago it happened). 

  

What I notice about the film is the interview subjects' annexation (or misuse?) of the game to argue tangential beliefs. Aside from the talk-radio caricatures ("freedom of speech, damn it!"), there's a feeling that some guy has created an artifact (a thing — in this case an art thing, so a thing that's also sort of an ambiguous statement) that dozens of more interesting people have attempted to define as more interesting than it happens (or seems) to be; I've harbored similar feelings toward certain graduate students and Jacques Lacan. 

This bothers me, because (ignoring the radio-hosts who are as vocal as they are misinformed about their first amendment rights) the substantive arguments would be valid, were the work better... or rather, the arguments are, themselves, valid, but they suffer in that they're associated with the specific example that's being used. 

  

I accept that this could be my bias, in that the game's creator struck me as not unlike Shepard Fairey... which is to say someone who displays an astonishingly superficial understanding of his art (maybe they're both just poor speakers). Though, I should note that the game's creator doesn't claim a deeper understanding nor a pointed intentionality behind his work, which became championed by others as an amalgamation of documentary film-making and video-game design that raises questions about our society's refusal to allow for artistic expression in certain interactive mediums. I should also note that these intellectuals dismiss another game, one modeled after the Virginia Tech massacre, whose creator is considered to be sort of a dip-shit. 

 

Still, it worries me.

The trouble seems to be that the controversy surrounding bad art is being used as the catalyst for a defense of what art (even bad art) has the potential to be, which is to say vapid art is having depth applied to it by critics and its audience — which I think is great (eg: my appreciation for comic-book superheroes and Harry Potter), except it rings hollow in this particular case. 

Let's say I want to defend the medium of comics, but the only source I can cite is Family Circus. While I might feel that graphic narrative engages our brain in a unique and powerful way (it does), that it allows for the instantiation of typically silenced voices in a social arena, and that comics will remain relevant until (and possibly after) humans have been swallowed by some massive cosmic event, even if I were good enough to justify these claims relying upon only this dependably milquetoast strip (and I just might be), I wouldn't be able to escape the feeling that, as there are better examples, no matter how deep my insights are, my claims are diminished by the association with a piece of work that is so blissfully vacuous.

  

.....

  

I have, since beginning this point, finished the video-game movie, skipped through a conservative response to Michael Moore, and began watching a documentary on the media's lack of coverage of the civilians mutilated and killed in Iraq. 

  

It is, as the film seems to suggest (though, not specifically), difficult to focus on whether a particular video-game is a suitable example of a genre's artistic potential while images of young people dying march relentlessly across half of my screen.  

 

Images of one tragedy are distracting me from discussing the validity of how certain people happen to be discussing the ethical implications of engaging in a video-game which contains images of another.

  

.....

  

I have now been made to feel sad and ineffectual. My urge is to find a chocolate cake and eat it. 

   

I am resisting this urge.

I Don't Feel Well

I'm hung-over and sleep deprived. 

   

Additionally, I have no sense of what I had ought to be doing at the moment. This is probably because there isn't anything I had ought to be doing. 

  

There are things I could do:  

— find a job 

— take a shower

— paint something pretty/enigmatic

— push-ups

— read some books

— run around the neighborhood

... and things I want to do:

— master an assortment of highly specialized skills so that after tracking down everyone who's ever rejected me, I might publicly show them up in some meaningful way by utilizing one of the previously mastered, person-specific skills, each to be determined by the reasoning which lead to the aforementioned rejection (so that, were I deemed too sensitive, too lacking in virility, or not clever enough, I would, by sheer force of will, transform myself into the sort of person who can recite Proust in Russian, lift an absurd number of pianos above my head, and is impervious to bullets).

— get over my fixation on justifying my existence to women who displayed an explicit lack of interest in me and cultivate a fixation on justifying my existence to Zooey and or Emily Deschanel

— go swimming... on a Caribbean island, where everyone speaks French (for some reason) and thinks I'm fun to be around

— build a robot assistant, what to assist me in my endeavors

  

... and, I suppose, there are things I'm more or less capable of doing:

— stretching.

   

More to come, but for now, I'm deciding not to waste the day further detailing how I intend to waste my day. 

It's Friday, Bitches

I have nothing to do.
  
So, that's annoying.
 
Okay, brainstorming session:
  
.........
 
Finger puppets.   
  
Fuck.

I Have Time Again

So... awesome.
   
    
  
 
........
  
I guess I don't have anything to say about that right now, but I will.
 
Oh, yeah... I will.
 
.........
 
Plan for tomorrow: I might go swimming. And I'll probably cook something.  

Listening to Old People at Target Today, I Realized Something

I'm terrified of being old only slightly less than I fear being dead. 

   

I don't want to wander around a department store, repeating the same six details of how I had to make a toilet-paper sanitary seat in a different store's bathroom a month ago as if this were knowledge worth disseminating to an impossibly tolerant forty-something year-old sales associate who isn't quite sure what I want to buy, but can't risk letting me get lost and forget where I am in a tearful moment of complete animal panic. 

  

There aren't many things I think I'd rather be dead than, but that coupled with forty or so years of celibacy and nothing to discuss but reality television, is a fate too grim to envision.  

   

........

  

I'm pretty near done with graduate school. Just a twenty-page essay and then all that's left is the hand-shaking and hat-tossing.

   

What's next? Indeed. 

I'm Watching People Steal Dirt

They're an old couple — hunched-over, wearing denim shorts, and shoveling big scoops of dirt into plastic buckets.

   

Across the street, there's an empty lot which isn't so much empty as it is filled with bulldozers, a hefty pile of dirt, and an iron spider-like device which separates the large pile of dirt into two smaller piles, one of dirt and the other of dirt-and-rocks/wood/unidentified-remains. 

   

I suspect stealing several buckets-full of dirt is a crime, but I can't justify protecting the interest of a company that's been waking me up (not really... but only by technicality) at the expense of a pair of thrifty retirees who, presumably, are going to sell that dirt for crack. 

  

One might say I have a duty to report crime to the authorities, not in the interest of protecting the victim, but out of respect for the institution of law, and that my personal feelings about the victim (eg: they're loud, and they suck) should be irrelevant, in that, as a universal practice, only arresting people we don't care for would prove counter to the interests of the just society we are attempting to create. 

   

On some level though, I suppose the basis for our legal system is (in un-nuanced terms) that we arrest and imprison the people we don't care for, if we can prove to our satisfaction that they've done something we don't care for, for reasons of which we do not approve. 

   

It appears, as I was typing that last sentence, the hoodlums made one of those daring escapes that law-breakers are known for making (daring in the sense that they got in their car and drove away at speeds approaching the mandated limit for this road). Any chance that I might have convinced myself, for sake of queen and country (metaphorically speaking), to ignore my personal prejudice and uphold an oath I've never actually been made to swear (I imagine it's something like the Green Lantern's oath) has sped off into the early afternoon sun-(not-at-all)-set.

   

.........

   

Here's a pertinent question: It's ninety degrees outside, but when it's not ninety degrees outside, there tends to be lightning. If I'm planning to run around for a while (like some sort of fool) which should I try harder to avoid, heat-stroke or lightning? 

  

If you intend to reply, please factor in statistical likelihoods and survivability of injuries. 

Thing I Read on the Internet

Extroverts are offended by introverts, because they interpret an introvert's behavior as communicating a quiet disdain. 

   

Also, there was some stuff about introvert's brains being active by default, while extroverts require feedback and socializing to get their neuronal motor running. Part of me hopes this is true.

    

The strange thing though, which I've been considering, was the idea that introverts differ from shy people, in that shy people want to socialize, but experience anxiety, while introverts prefer to be alone. This seems too glib to be true, but I suspect there has to be a basis for it. 

   

As it relates to my thinking, I've found that I like to be alone while I do certain things (which isn't weird... it's not) like when I'm driving or jogging or waking up (seriously, don't fucking talk to me while I'm waking up, just fuck off for an hour or so). However, there are other things I'd prefer doing with other people around, such as reading books or sexing it up or seeking reassurance as to my existential significance. 

   

I've decided to look on the bright side of this one and accept that it's great how I can compartmentalize being alone so as not to discount either my loneliness or appreciation for being all on my own. This may be a good step for me. 

I'm Trying Not to Write That Much With this Post

"Surely," you might reply, "it would be better to not post at all, rather than attempt to post something truncated and poorly thought-out." But, as I understand it, this is not what the internet is for.

   

.........

       

There are some specific young people whom I occasionally see (occasionally meaning "every few years"), who depress the shit out of me. 

  

Ultimately, arrogant, racist, cruel, ignorant, poorly-groomed human beings exist who are not, so far as I can tell, punished for their inequity, as they had ought to be, were the world a less existentially-absurd sort of place. 

  

As I wrote in an earlier post, it bothers me that good things happen to shitty people. I should probably be able to content myself with the same sort of logic which lets me accept that bad things happen to decent human beings (ie: bad things happen to everyone), but for some reason, when I'm experiencing (rather than theorizing about) awful people being awful and seeming to enjoy it, it makes me want to vomit... a lot. 

   

.........  

  

Also, I realized the other day, while discussing the normative age discrepancy in human mate-choice (male 7 to 12 years older than the female), that I'm at a point in my life in which I can legally date a woman who's seven years younger than me. I have no interest in doing this (because I remember feeling that the sort of people who do that are creeps), but it's weird to think that I both can (theoretically), and would not be outside the normative average were I to, do so.

  

..........

  

More to come.

I'm Worried

I hate that good things happen to bad people.
  
I might be a better person, if this weren't the case.

Here's Something I Hate

It's difficult to express anger. 

  

Partially, I think I'm a particularly inept case, because I need people to like me like ordinary people need... well probably people to like them — this could be universal. I tend to notice when other people display a complete lack of concern for whether or not what they're saying is the sort of thing a dick would say, but my guess is that people don't realize when they're being a dick, so that given a large enough sample size, I suspect there could be people to whom I've only ever been a dick (or who have only ever seen me being a dick). 

   

But that's not the point. 

   

My point is, it's difficult to express anger... which isn't true, because it's easy, really; you just have to furrow your brow and say things like "I'm so pissed off, I could just murder a frail-looking, New-England poet." 

  

More-over, you could even approach the cause of your anger (I'm assuming it's a person) and communicate, with specifics, what it is they've done that's made you angry. An example of this might be "Hey, dick, you drank all my beers. I was looking forward to those beers. As it's late, and you're now drunk, you can't go get me more beers, so there's no way for this situation to be rectified, which is why I am left with no recourse but to be nakedly infuriated with you." 

   

The trouble, of course, is that when you desperately need people to admire you (or at the very least, be able to stand being around you), you can't make a habit of communicating your disdain for them, at least not in any way that's more than briefly satisfying. 

  

Here's what I mean:

- your friend washes your shirt (for some reason) and accidentally ruins it.

- you, having given your friend nothing resembling permission to wash your shirt, are angry; you understand that your friend was trying to do you a favor, but you can't ignore the fact that you had a shirt, you no longer have a shirt, and this was your friend's doing.

- in fear that your friend might destroy more of your shirts in the future (perhaps attempting to make-up for destroying the last one), you decide to tell your friend that it upset you that he destroyed your shirt.

- for some reason (possibly because your friend feels guilty), your friend dismisses your expression of anger, either redoubling his assertion that you're the asshole for not appreciating his attempt to launder your shirt, or just accepting that he's fucked up, but taking the opportunity to absolve himself from guilt, on the grounds that he didn't mean to fuck up. 

- you, being a rational human being, now want your friend to feel bad. He's taken something from you, you feel bad, and you think he should be made to feel bad. However, you also accept that your friend didn't mean to destroy your shirt, which is to say, had your friend expressed remorse, you like to think you'd have been quick to dismiss this, gloating broadly about how much better it is to forgive and all that. 

- so, you now find yourself in the in-enviable position of wanting your friend to feel bad, so that you can be given the chance to be a human being and assure him that you don't want him to feel bad about some stupid ruined shirt. As your friend doesn't feel bad, and as there seems no likelihood that he'll decide to feel bad of his own accord, you realize you can either attempt to make him feel bad (with the irrational hope that you might then flip it around and assure him that feeling bad is ridiculous), or accept that ultimately your work is done (which is to say, your friend doesn't feel bad, so it's very much like you've already convinced him to buck up).

   

All this is, of course, complicated by the fact that even if you were to berate your loved ones, they'd most likely either dismiss your concerns (because it's just a stupid shirt) or use you being a huge douche to justify not feeling horrible (well, if this is the way you're going to act, I'm glad I ruined your fucking shirt). 

   

In the moment, this is all very stifling.

  

The key, I imagine (based on years of anecdotal evidence) is to give yourself enough distance (physical and temporal) that you can convincingly say the you that was wronged has ceased to exist (as is the natural process) and the new you feels nothing but a smug sense of "no longer being so much of a prick." 

   

It is worth noting, though, that this tactic (the withdrawal or "English" method), while dependably effective, does have one drawback, which is that future incidents, wherein shirts are ruined, take on the aspect of seeming to be partially your own god-damned fault. You'll think, if only I'd expressed how much I dislike having my shirts ruined in some way that would resonate with that well-intentioned friend, scarring him with my vitriol so that he would be unable to do any laundry without the constant anxiety that every label must be read as if it were gospel, I'd still have my limited edition Star Trek captain's uniform shirt... and honestly, now what am I going to do with the pants? It's not like you can impress women by wearing a mass-produced replica of Captain Picard's trousers. This is such fucking bullshit.  

   

This is, of course, nonsense (the part where you convince yourself you could have avoided this by expressing your anger), because as we've already established, people are unlikely to react to any sort of criticism (or even polite request) with out-right dismissal or blind aggression. 

   

I have no choice but to accept that no matter how we attempt to define the parameters of our personal control, in a society, there are bound to be casualties of human interaction. It is the price we pay for being evolutionarily more likely to survive as a group of interdependent beings than as rugged individualists.

I've Been Thinking About Blogging

Trouble is, I don't have anything to say at the moment that doesn't seem like a colossal waste of time.

 

But, we must soldier on, I suppose. 

   

Here are the sort of ideas I might have written about, perhaps posting them will prove instigative:

- People should stop using the word "indescribable." If you lack the vocabulary or self-awareness to express an idea or relay an experience, either develop one of those skills or let someone who knows how words work do the talking. 

Also, don't assume I'll accept your crazy bullshit just because you pretend it's difficult to understand. This bothers me.

  

- I think weddings are stupid. I object to them on moral grounds. It's an elaborate display of commitment (which is nice), but the corresponding assertion is an official public rejection of nearly seven-billion people (most of whom, I'll add, were never interested to begin with). 

  

It probably shouldn't bother anyone to be tacitly rejected by two complete strangers, but must they be so smug about it? Let's put on fancy clothes, send out invitations, and make witty allusions to all the fucking we're soon to be doing, once our extended families have grown tired of the cash-bar/DJ/social obligation.   

   

Assholes.  

   

- I'm trying to become the person who reflexively asks "what's next?" rather than ruminates on accomplishments. So, we'll see how that goes.