Monday always creeps up onto me, like a bubble filled with expectation and dread. I always wondered if I was writing full-time, if the same dread would fill me. I enjoy my job as a game designer, I’m currently working on a mobile app that’s fairly amusing and features Satan as a floating head, but it’s not what I want to be doing. Not really. Not forever, and certainly not when I sit up till 4 in the morning, playing Saints Row and trying to push tears back like my body will listen to me.
I feel like the expectation to have a job, any job, is one of the greatest failings of our modern society. Without doing something that fills a need in you, that NEED, (which isn’t necessarily art, it could also be sandwich making if that’s your thing) festers, until it consumes you. It begins to attack parts of your brain, killing them, filling you with dead, dark matter.
The brains of the people who do not LOVE, who do not address the NEED, are like dense, collapsed caves. I’ve seen these people, with faces like rubber tires, no tears left.
What if we put people on rotations, in which one year they did a necessary job and then one that they loved, which is also equally necessary? Or they worked for six months, then vacationed for six months? Or a year? Or two year rotations? The dates aren’t important, they could be tweaked.
What if like they’re voting for in Switzerland right now, everyone had a base salary no matter if they were employed or not, leading to better job satisfaction and greater ability to pick something to work on that you’re passionate about?
Until human society addresses the idea of work, desire, passion, and necessary work, I think we will continue to be horribly unhappy as a species.
"Oh god, I’m sober," is a terrible thing to say right before sex.
I used to get turned on by the thought of being murdered by someone who loved me.
Last New Years, we told each other we’d always be together on that day. We’d always see the next year together. And I almost believed it, even when I embedded pieces of glass into my skin and burned my arm with cigarettes. The scar will last longer.
The last night we were together, before I went to the airport headed for Texas, I sat near the windowsill inside the bar as she stood outside. I drank old fashioneds, one, two, three. I told one friend after the one, “You can be in love and still have to leave. Love is not enough.”
We kissed with our lips pressed against the mesh window. You said, “Legends never die.”
“You seem to me like a shy girl,” they said to me.
Yeah, I’m a shy girl. When I spread my legs for the devil I press my fingers over my eyes.
If you woke up tomorrow, and your internet looked like this, what would you do?
Imagine all your favorite websites taking forever to load, while you get annoying notifications from your ISP suggesting you switch to one of their approved “Fast Lane” sites.
Think about what we would lose: all the weird, alternative, interesting, and enlightening stuff that makes the Internet so much cooler than mainstream Cable TV. What if the only news sites you could reliably connect to were the ones that had deals with companies like Comcast and Verizon?
On September 10th, just a few days before the FCC’s comment deadline, public interest organizations are issuing an open, international call for websites and internet users to unite for an “Internet Slowdown” to show the world what the web would be like if Team Cable gets their way and trashes net neutrality. Net neutrality is hard to explain, so our hope is that this action will help SHOW the world what’s really at stake if we lose the open Internet.
If you’ve got a website, blog or tumblr, get the code to join the #InternetSlowdown here: https://battleforthenet.com/sept10th
Everyone else, here’s a quick list of things you can do to help spread the word about the slowdown: http://tumblr.fightforthefuture.org/post/96020972118/be-a-part-of-the-great-internet-slowdown
wHY DOES THIS HAVE SO FEW NOTES
The usual nightmares are gone, replaced with dreams heated in their glossolalia, the words repeating themselves until they no longer have meaning.
Spiderwebs, spiderwebs, spiderwebs.
I wake up in a half-start frenzy, sleeping on the floor in the office as I’ve been doing lately. I cling onto words, like they can save me, my brain trying to place them. Why do I need to worry about spiderwebs?
Really, I’d been watching Archer before I went to sleep, in which Archer tells Wodehouse to eat a giant bowl of spiderwebs. But oftentimes that will happen to me, my brain clinging to a single word until it revebrates through my whole body with its urgency.
Lately I’ve been writing my fiction-memoir “Fuck What You Heard,” which regularly features excerpts about a giant telepathic therapist spider, who inhabits the writer’s dreams. The dreams, as they often do, begin to insinuate themselves into other parts of the story. I think writing a good story is a lot like that, reality takes a backseat, the writer pulls up. I drink beer and cry when I write something emotional, because I’m a riverbed of interconnected thoughts, the memories become writing, the writing becomes dreams, there isn’t really a part where I can cut myself off from the act. Here is where I stop. Here is where everything else - art, dreams, memories, metal skeleton - begins.
Once I was riding in the back of a crowded car through East Austin, taking swigs of Fireball whiskey with my feet propped on the back. I looked up at everyone I was riding with, and came to the realization:
“I’ve had sex with every single person here.”
I shrugged and took another drink of whiskey.
Once as I walked through the city I came across a flower growing on the side of the building, in a small alcove created by a brick being pulled out of place. I pulled the flower out, crushed it, let it drift to the pavement.
When the realization of what I did hit me, that I’d destroyed something precious, struggling to survive, in a moment of angry whimsy, and it could never be recovered, I knelt on the pavement sobbing over the broken flower.
“I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to,” I repeated over and over. “I’m so sorry.”
Does it seem like the events in 82 and 83 could possibly be about the same person?
Does the girl who feels nothing towards sex seem incapable of crying over the flower, or are both interrelated?
Do you find me beautiful?