tell me what to do, Q

Runon hypotheses ripple corners of my media, bits of other's dementia, here comes everybody. Pretentious references an emergent property of social applications I'm platformed into since allowing my phone's location. Society is a tightening cortex, more a crystal protomolecule, malign. Mass psychology's devising a suite of new virii for reasons unknown, you know? Good enough for me to worship blindly.

Maybe I won't send this to that person but instead bask in being a low-promoter, the modest mouse. I might as well have a thick band of red cloth fastened across my mouth with a leather knot at the back, tight as the ruling elite - it's their centennial year without a class traitor, they're having a Mary Antoinette-themed ball at the national mall to celebrate, they're even above irony, it's passe, doesn't matter, how you say? A certain je ne sais quois.

Meanwhile, Q anoners keep above the expanding rustpile of ennui like a Cadillac Escalade bouncing above crunching metal roofs. They're waiting... waiting for a wily moron, a guy that'll believe anything but somehow keeps winning a silly game, congratulations chosen one, another strike, you bowled a three hundred again, amazing, how do you do it? Can someone get Penn and Teller on that?

Inherited wealth from a white collar criminal of Fred's status will go a long way, will beat whatever remained of an american spirit, and ironically, beat that spirit with its own platitudes, to the pathetic but long-backgroundized sight of a battered woman singing about her man in Atlantic City, such a sweet voice, some guys get off on that, real connoisseurs. The son's done a sloppy job with the Legacy, but still got the job done in a bumbling kinda way, knows enough to grease the worst oligarchs, the house of Saud kinda scum, the ones with the off-blue blood, so damaged from hypoxia bubbles, every family who excretes indiscreetly in literal throne rooms. Junior bragged about palling around with the mafia, just one of the pallies, no one gets away with asking him to get his shinebox ever again. One of the better WWF characters. Wrestling is real, turns out. Much like the distinguished Legacy of the most recent serious elder-statesman of the Grand Old Party of presidents got the Nickolodean treatment [remember the aughts?] by the born-again fail-son Yale-man with the Gentleman's C - but he got the job done, made a far higher pile of dead arabs than either the elder republican managed or the current one has yet.

That Fred-class money, turns out, lets the son turn your world, now his world cause we all have to live in his world, into his private episode of that Twilight Zone with the omnipotent child who can make reality. Low cunning gets the job done, who's the real idiot? It's that drive to rich idiocy - the power it yields and perpetuates is akin to a fusion reactor built by Boeing, its only currency is that it's backed by racks of offensive nukes, cause a Boeing weapons system wouldn't work in a combat situation where battlefield credulity had to be established, its only purpose is to cost lots and lots and lots and lots of money, everyone's money. That's why you can't take a first strike off the table, they'll remind you on CNN or any other major network, the only difference is the military contractor, can't remember which is the Raytheon News and which one's Lockheed Martin Times.

Maybe they'll win but maybe it's gone too far, no option left but to rage, damn the blood. Now I sound like them, the rage made me do it, I had no choice. Rage as a word is impotent as words usually are, a thing to type, laying it out on the table, the floppy cock of rage.

Doing is theory, I never did anything that spilled blood, that's good, right? But if the whites keep crying genocide, it's tempting to give them a taste of the real thing. Or more reasonably, restrict their ability to spark one with a hundred slug drum under the gun. Oh, is that inconvenient for their dumb hobby? Does that chafe their beloved delusional libertarian fantasy, owners' so small-dicked their tricked-out long-gun redeems their man cards? Ammosexuals are so stupid, Zarathustra's laughing. Hey, we can always still play Black Ops on xbox, the guns are cool and look real, they haven't banned videogames, they might try, lobbyists protecting hobbyists' right to buy culturally significant killing machines, deflect and say games are to blame, but they haven't yet so how about this compromise? Game guns! The pentagon is just a bigger, dumber, version of it. Useless expensive over-complicated weapons are cool and fun. I know, this is kinda boiler plate, warmed over, cold take.

I know they want a race war. I wouldn't really help that dumb dream. I'm not gonna lie though, after all these targeted shootings I would get some enjoyment seeing a body count begin to build on the other side, finally, cause prestige TV serials are not cutting it, they're fairy tales. There are sides, I'm not gonna say I'm in the middle and pretend the centrists are not themselves a side that is appeasing if not collaborating with nazi scum. Like when those people chanted the annoying british troll out of the new york bar. You don't have to be some kind of crazy left extremist to fight for decency, I mean dirtbag decency, the kind of decency that any dirtbag can practice, the humble but arrogant decency of your own royalty in solidarity with others who are sick of the stench of human trash, the royal we as opposed to a mediocre middle. In some ways I'm a man of the people, despite lacking cred in trash taste and a little too vain in eschewing superficial vanity, I don't like elites, I can mistrust 'em with the best of them, I don't wanna be no serf, but I guess everyone's into that these days, idiots...

And just like that, we're back to human trash, although I'm talking about a specific human, not a large group, but it gets dangerous again, thinking I can identify the worst one percent. Let's say I'm taking a break from self-loathing, oh that's always running in the background like one of ms window's superfluous processes, but setting real-time priority to the task of loathing the really loathsome I hear about, the ripples in my media - deciding to believe, at age 37, that I can extrapolate from my tailored screens, to reality, thinking I'm not in the algorithm. It's mushy in the algorithm. It gets muddy here folks, when you're trying to be so serious, and sounding shockingly extreme to yourself, knowing a quick search for hypocrisy would turn up a thousand hits in a microsecond. But I'm on the anti-fascist side. You could call me antifa, even, although I don't deserve the title, I've never so much as been at a protest, they're so gauche, but voidbless those loud cringeworthy goofs that do it.

I would get some enjoyment from points on the board, scores beyond the pedestrian spectacle of a brownshirt punched by a blackbloc, I mean confirmed kills I can appropriate like runs from a fanatically-beloved sportsball team.

But it's sick, sick, sick.... to wish for that. I can see the sickness, not give the sickness a gun to play with. "We've got to play", the men's circle said, there's even a chakra angle to it, buddhists can kill rohingyas now, it's cool, it's backwards compatible, it's a 510 thread, vape cannabinoid oil while you're killing the enemy, the parasites, I can see how rage can live in me and my life has still been pretty comfortable most of the time, materially.

Thank whatever sorry excuse for a God exists in this universe... for love, I'm in love, that can keep a man from rage, I met an angel, we like each other, and crucially, love each other, no need for lawyers tricks. For that love, let's get specific, for her love, her scent, our oxytocin. I should say your love I guess, and make this a letter rather than a blog post, cause, gross, who wants to read that besides me and her? But this is my new style, unapologetic wanking, yeah, so novel right? And I guess I did kinda apologize just now, indirectly. Where would language be without lawyers tricks?

I'm not interested in races anyway, really. What I feel like waging war against is an undead network of chauvinists, bleached of morality. I'm not talking Caucasians, although anyone who calls themselves Aryan is probably one of them. I'm sure there's a few catch-22s here. I know some personal benefits do trickle down to me from this network. It's personal but it's not. My business is their chintzy business, a bunch of philistines preaching "culture", selling books, raking it in, whining about taxes, please build your space ark Bezos, take the rancid offspring of Falwell and Billy Graham with you, take Jake Tapper with you, get the fuck out of the way, heaven is a place on earth.

Respect for TYT and people like them, I'm not above that, not too cool for it, I dream about it for CHRISSAKES, dreams where I'm a guest on my favorite podcast with my fraaaaaands! 🙄





My dreams are the best when I'm a god on the fretboard, running the board, a six string ninja, getting away with murder. Not the best when I'm choking on my fluky fling as this version of myself that the Chapo collective dirtbag noun somehow knows, lethally embarrassing, maybe someday I'll be on that tier, like how every musician really wants to be a comedian with intellectual acumen. But really, if I'm not too cool for it, why will I reference a youtube channel I like but not link to it? Cause.... argh, it's so gauche, such a guilty pleasure, how good it feels to feel right, right on, righteous babeeee! I'm not too cool to get all stupidly fussy about looking gauche, keeping up with the non-gauche joneses who exist only in my mind, they're neighbors to Chuck Schumer's Baileys - they have to know that I know that channel is pretty hacky a lot of the time.

But it's my participatory daily show on crack, a better drug than the substances I was taking at least... They're doing what they can, trying to take their country back. Justice Democrats, haha, like Q except real! Re-purpose the burned-out chassis of the party and make the boomer conspiracy junkies eat shit. You can pry the gun I don't have from my cold dead hands. Just stop voting you fucks, if you won't have the decency to die. I can say this cause I got an American girlfriend. For my part, I gotta make a deal when it gets diplomatic in the complicated future and agree to perform espionage at extreme risk for the safety of our child.

Scratch the child part of course, let's thin the generations in gestation after the toxic gens have been overpowered, empower the inheritors of collapse and ruins, then phase ourselves out with modest natural lifespans, find the CEOS who escaped to islands and bunkers, hunt them down and kill them, humanely, don't even give them the operation paperclip treatment, we've got our own eggheads who can begin fixing the mess. Oh, it's all our mess, let's not get delusional with deflected blame, but the self-described elites are vastly more proportionately responsible, you don't get to weasel out of the bill collection, not this time, it's catching up with you fucks, you can't drink it away, can't fuck it away, can't meditate it away, can't AA it away, can't AI it away, we'll catch up with you before your artificial intelligence does, it's my mission to prevent your singularity. I have no control worth talking about though, things could just as easily as not end up with a de-torsoed Lincoln statue, like an alternate ending to a Planet of the Apes movie that still doesn't make any sense, except with a homemade algorithm.

Manifestos are a cheap vehicle, often fueled by amphetamine, a lemon, won't start, will only start a puddle of blood on the floor of another mass-killing. There's mass insanity and guns, it's getting worse, the insanity boosts the gun sales, break your back trying to save capitalism if you want, I've got better things to do, I'd expend about as much energy on that as I would rehabilitating the public relations of Jeffery Epstein, and that's even if I was getting Alan Dershowitz-sized fees wired to me, with about as much enthusiasm

No wonder fentanyl is sweeping through the guiltier and guiltier ranks of relatively privileged miserable pricks like a cleansing rain, like what all hateful psychos say about their enemies, like a randomly chosen Alex Jones rant except typed on a blog post, not with Vitamin Force Brain Power powder-money-enabled sets and mics and production values. Valuable, like a form of entertainment on a commute, not that much less similar to a morning with Howard Stern.

Fuck your tattoo, oh yes, fuck your tattoo, take it to the singularity, that's where I'm taking my rage, let's pray it never takes. Meanwhile, alternate-universe James Hetfield wins Taco Bell employee of the month award for March 2006.

For Erin and me

I could die now
But I don't wanna die now.

I could die now
But I really don't wanna.

I wanna live in this moment.
And enjoy the memories of the last several moments. And live in this moment. And enjoy the next moment.

Like this moment. And the next moment. Like this moment. And like the next moment. Like this one. Just like that. It's amore! Crimson and clover, over and over.

I'm your vampire. No one else's vampire. I'm the paranoid self-imposed exile projecting inner rejection on some perceived outside force (delusions of persecution based on real but random persecution from earlier decades), estranged from the consortium of individual vampires that scorn any collective, (us spiritually-weak collectivist self non-governers, from their Aristolean perspective), the winningest vampires, like the best kitten at being ugly on the internet.

 I'm not one of them, the rugged individualists collective. I'm independent from them, indepence day is today, celebrate! Don't masturbate, now is not the time for narcissism, it's not empty, look not through the mirror but through the camera lense at her, or through the eyes, opening the mouth, independence day, year zero, irony is back, baby! Time for a twenty minute guitar solo, squeedly VS meedly, go meedly, meedly wins!

Are you ready for some ha jin?!

She's good to me, good for me. I'm good for her, reflect, project, an art, a song, ironic and not, a knot of sincerity, she's good with me, I'm in love with her and I feel fine.

I'm no one else's idea of a vampire, not conventionally vampiric enough. Not Count Chokula esque. Not counting things to muppets.

Get up and get down to Platonic solid energy and the earth, adoration is mandatory, she is adorable.

Way to Breathe

I'm working out new ways to perform and record. They take the form of melodic fragments, half-assed renditions of half-remembered songs, old ideas of mine resurrected, and wherever the associative flow and feelings lead. I'm also using the recordings as a way to audition vocal effects. I'll be posting some, just because I'm in a long gestation period between produced tracks. Instead of having nothing to show musically, I can at least offer some raw precursor material.

Way to Breathe

References: fairytale of new york [the pogues], let's lynch the landlord [dead kennedys], paint it black [the rolling stones], rap [mr. show (the rich fat kids vs the tibetan monks episode)], chapter 24 [pink floyd], quicksand [david bowie], the end [the beatles], the song that doesn't end, away in a manger, revelations [iron maiden], to tame a land [iron maiden]

a nice bit of randomness

Back in those days, we would print stuff off the internet with our Netscape browser, jokes, quotes, text, always text, images took too long to load. I spent my attempt at higher education in a particular library cubicle that bleak winter, so tired, a slump of sores.

"Spoon!" Coming upon that Discordian "quote"' was the funniest thing ever, made me laugh for minutes. That joke religion from the seventies. It was like a revelation on nitrous oxide, "overall there was a smell of fried onions", the Robert Anton Wilson parody of "everything in this universe is the smell of burnt almonds", the William James axiom, randomness that is really all encompassing, implications in minutia.

It doesn't take a miracle to make a miracle

The old songs slipped away the moment we embraced. I didn't need them anymore. Suddenly I understood the cliches, which is itself a cliche, I get it now! I laughed every few minutes thinking how apropos they were, how they applied. All the new songs I would have to write. All I'd had to do was hang in there til I found her, like the kitten in the poster. Her lips are the best thing ever, the floodgates, torrent-drowned tornadoes, lox underwater, lux aeterna, requiem for a life of getting by.

undertow

i'm so ugly, it's okay cause so are you, broke my mirrors
gonna shave my head in mourning of myself as sexual being, fuck it
forget everything and run, it's a fun run
not a grueling run, not even strenuous,
just a run of blood and luck you didn't know was luck
when you bleed out, pale and sexless
but fertile in serenity
a serene sterility, negative legacy
that feels so positive for opening space
for someone else, the chain letter ends with you
when you're so bound to your ego
no gift of life for anyone else, it's okay
don't have to conjure a life
don't have to feel alive in fucking
feel dead in ducking an old trad duty
duty-free and carpe noctem
it's not a marathon
it's a waterslide into the warm ocean drag

Introducing... voce con clavier

automatic

References: my michelle [guns n roses], welcome to the jungle [guns n roses], mario circuit 1 theme, fortunate son [creedence clearwater revival], tell the doctor [wax mannequin], valentine's day [david bowie], bonesong [razberrychaos], intergalactic [beastie boys], polka party [weird al yankovic], 12th street rag [euday bowman], perfect day [lou reed], tv party [black flag], bad to the bone [george thorogood], something [the beatles], quest for fire [iron maiden], run to the hills [iron maiden]

porcine frottage indulgence

Cadmium voltage. Graphene foliage. Carbon dottage. Dated. Fated to be here. Great. Make it so. Wet croak, choke that rhythm, I got rhythm, who could ask for anything more faggoty, lay the real thing on me, rivet slabs of platinum into me, I tell myself, I'll do that, let's get it done - let's modify, it's a fantasy with no allegiance to reality, swapping genes, epigenetic, in my carbon dottage. Cottonpickin elevator operator piece of culture, that's the kinda boy I am, unworthy of even writing about that, the carbon boy with too many silicon implants, but silicon is my second skin, it contains most of myself, the relevance of my dna diminishes day by day, that's the plan, they're only making plans for nigel, I didn't know about it, but it's for my benefit, and I have to believe I'm following it of my own free will - using the words "own free will" gets me under scrutiny from dark tales of christianity, duck tales of irrelevant tangents in chocolate factories.

It's a British Steel future here, you know? It's fine, you're waiting for the funnel, I'm waiting for the funnel, we're all waiting for the funnel here on the street, it's a no-go zone for everyone else but we're waiting for the funnel, to suck us all into heaven, that deadlight, it's dreadfully delightful

let it be, let it dilate, let your soul dissipate like contaminant on dishes in detergent, frothing, frollicking, frottage being a cottage industry in this province, after you bloodlet, let the dishpit disintegrate, bet you didn't think you had it in you, did you dipshit, to use that word? the shameful story, what else can turn a dubiously honorable sepuku into a self-immolated activist who nobody cares about, he went to that extreme, doused himself with gasoline, and was a fleeting story on some boiler plate news aggregator, dishonorable discharge from life, the self-despiser can't even respect himself as a despiser anymore, couldn't even be a good addict, couldn't act the part, couldn't commit, contribute, kernal panic? Yes, don't hesitate, just do it. Do it accapella. Try and contrive that rhythm that we need, automatic, manual manipulation by an autonamous force above my head, above my pay grade, automatically, making me an automaton, but when i manage to metaprogram, for a microsecond, that frequency i can never climb to, i feel like i can set the nodes of automation for my track to forge a personality, a soul out of that, that's the best i can do these days, that's what i say, that's how i see it, that's how he sees it, that's how johnny sees it, ceded no ground, seeded apples all over it, was a groovy orchard for aeons, a skull orchard for ages beyond that, site of a garden of corpses to fade, crumble, a layaway, by the wayside, down the drain-o - some didn't want to drain, didn't like the hole, how dark it is, could not conceive of a pinprick yang in there, down there, could only see it as the funnel of oblivion, no tunnel, no other side. One way means one thing when there's time, and another thing when there isn't.

there's things i supposedly did, in dreams, i still connect to, the ones that haunt me the most, like i must orbit some hideous secret - but i don't know about all that, that's my special report, today's special, don't know why it's not on the menu, it went the way of that rotini i loved and business as usual, it's ripples in a river

and corporeal's going away

signal

Just hide, that's all you gotta do - just let it be - even when nothing's nearby. Just contrive a rhythm if there isn't one - just do it - just like they say, can't beat the real thing. Just bounce it off the wall, have it resonate, reverberate, certain half-life contrivance fade out. Just dream, that's all you gotta do, iterate through the dreaming brain, whatever form of consciousness you wanna call that, no reason whatever to think that...

A special report: Troper, Zoe Troper squirmed out of those clothes you made her - energy, made this life a painting, twists in vector perpendicular to the cube, a hole inhaling time, like that guy says, when words mattered more, a funnel forms [- She was made by a replicator, you could call her a replicent, I reported on this event. The replicents were replacing the mexicans, who replaced the mexicants, but finally even mexicans opted out of manufacturing maxi pads for pennies, the americando spirit assembled them instead for a transition period, like next gen nuclear kept things glowing for a golden age of atomic electricity, but ordinary pieces of toast, another fantasy that coulda been, theoretically, a blueprint for a free energy machine, impossible, things are too tangled up now, calm down, Nuclear People -] when they almost had the power of a replicator, coordinated directed molecular assembly, atomic sub routine - holographic replication to the planck constant - the other side of light maybe. The only things to ever avoid replication, assimilation into the replicent collective, were the guys that were so freaked out about jews replacing them, this master race of idiots, doomed to getting shot to death in pointless Monster Assaults or becoming Henry Hill, severed from his mob franchise, it got real eighties for a while there.

Mash it up properly, don't take anything that seriously, can't, can't be, it mustn't. But the parable of that episode is that it can be, let it be, just do it, it'll happen to you. THE experience simply happens when I let it, have to blood let it, practically make myself dead to make it happen, but when I go through semi-lethal contortions, put myself through anesthetic pull towards flatline abuse, then I can stop doing, it simply happens...

...the legends are true, I can exist here without a body, it's like if I was stuck firmly comfortably in the rut ringed with ripples that spread in expanding circles, perturbing a crystal lake with myself as oasis island, it was always like this, already, I just didn't notice, now I see, a lake, a sea, an ocean, a plane for simple beautiful movements that make a difference, so we can recognize signal, feel, up and down, did I stutter? Did you hear me? I think you did, but how is any hearing or seeing possible when there is no time, or it's more like time is a living thing, it's the erosion of your thing, it shapes you into that squiggle I wouldn't tag it with a name, like the lamia, I'll extend it to that - if it doesn't have a name, like the last track on your album, it can be heard as audio waves, the size of the spectrum is plentiful, multiple home run, extensions, replace me, I need something better to occupy this space, some one better, replace, cause I don't matter, I'm trying to give it up, this is my signal.

I'm seeing the dim chaos of relationship emotions and politics playing out a thousand miles ahead of me... the dust storm approaching just in front of the first shock wave. The radiation arrived at light speed, has already blinded our eyes, flayed our skin - the mechanical acoustic waves are catching up a little ahead of the blast wave. They're loud.

The Special

Well, here I am again. In this strange place. Contemplating a strange action. Insane, one might say, insanophilic, the desire to go there, the place of insanity and self administered retina scars like black rainbows. If it's so special, why's it not on the menu? That cobalt blue verbiage.

Nobody knows you and nobody wants to. Contemplate that, completely, sink to the bottom of the mudhole, get every mol in you, and feel the deep reality of no one wanting to know you. That takes care of the bullshit but doesn't leave much.

It's returning, I'm reverting. Losing cool, drowning in paranoia and self-abnegation, fearing and affirming the worst about me, choking on the old useless paradigm that's just next door to murder, suicide, apocalypse, personal political, singularity of anxiety. There's an urgency building up slow and sly, a force behind the lines, critical mass'll hit some time, compress time, rough squeeze through raspy organ tubes.

Can't deny the need for void to be filled, take it seriously, I'm not careful what I wish for, fuck that. Fixing worked last time, for long enough, I'll take anything, the vacuum is so cold and sucking out everything. More reason to hope for a miracle, reasons to deconstruct it as a 'miracle', reasons for I shall be released any day now, cause of something she told to someone. It's not all sarcastic, the miracle doesn't require a miracle, when it happens it becomes the new paradigm, thanks God but I found a parking space, nevermind, don't need you.

Heat death coming for those trapped in linear time. But I'm not being stalked. When I'm not cool, I'm burning alive with nerves and adrenaline, I don't like adrenaline, I don't get off on it, I'm not being stalked by saber toothed tigers, I don't need that stuff pumping in tight headache pulses at a tempo I can never catch up with, to work with. Losing my cool, confidence, identity... uncomfortable in the skin even though I'm sober (for all intents and purposes) and taking better care of myself.

Not teachable. Not able to be a fan, of anything anymore. Wanting to be my own greatest fan, but failing at that. Sure, I can say that, why not?

Be like the boy. We like Roy. Whichever. Why do we care? Why write about apathy? Why expect anyone else to care about writing about apathy? Because it's not really apathy, far from it, apathy is a misleading sugar coat euphemism for caring so much it strangles me. Not so much you. But it's really true, it's not empty, or at least it doesn't have to be. Just seems eternal and infinite when I'm in it.

The thing I have no euphamism for returning, because I'm losing my cool. Feeling not worthy of anything. Gotta find the cool again, but can't through chemical crutches, and I don't even want to. Don't worry. I'm so upstanding I worry about you worrying. But the squeaky wheel gets the cock greased. I should ask for donations, fund my dickstarter. Hah. Ha. Yeah.

There's purple prose that isn't very visual, it's just like a bruise, a good old-fashioned bruise from when injuries were from having fun, as a kid, not from daily meatgrinders, online mindtinders. Any day now, I shall release. Inside. Within. Not without. So horrible to say this. Actually it would be fine to sing it, and I could give it an intonation and rhythm that would make it sayable, with style even, clothe in mesh-layers of sarcasms like kevlar, but writing, oh god, no prose is purple enough to obscure the bare words and their implications.

declaration of [time] crystal blue persuasion

45m of 10k hours

Sgt. Draper, the seed crystal, and the Dead Angel

The dying angel is losing grip, the dead hand set to trigger the end of everything, for aeons anyway.

The poison seed crystal flows through me right now, liquid crystal, generating words that won't matter almost as soon as they're crystallized. Nothing lasts, but nothing is lost, here, we're all clear, there's a pointlessly gunshot man in the cabin, another one who died for nothing, like all death is in the real world, art imitates life and death.

the spring low

it's here again, the super low, the sub high

not even a fucking word - so fuck it then, fuck everything

this useless fucking blog, these useless fucking words, these useless fucking people - there's no good way to say it, it's nothing but a verbal suicide - not even this, not even that, not even death and pain - god fucking damnit, fuck - just leave me alone then, i wasn't even the one reaching out - it's the last straw, and all that - just gonna be a sick ramble

it's not even my face, it's not even my body though that doesn't help, the fatal flaw is the most personal part of me, it's the thing i care the most about if i can't care about a person, the only power i ever feel, expression in pretty patterns of words and tones - it's sick, i just want to immanentize the sickness, let it take whatever final form it's plaguing towards, be that forever, finally and forever out of the nightmare of history, unstuck from ugly time

form the quarantine, a wall of eff words - fuck off, fuck on, but no fucking, no using, no mutual, no nothing - let X be Y, let it be ugly, the only thing left is an eternal season in post-human paradise that looks so hellish, but you can't see, you won't see, no one will see, no entelechy, no body, no source, gone off the grid, fishing for electrolytes and endorphins

i wish i could get payback by tricking people, disappointing, letting down enough to equal the endless chain links of let down i've had to feel as payment for trying to improve things for myself - the sick joke is there's no improvement, there's only pitiful devolution as evidenced by these fucking words that aren't doing me any favors, but fuck favors, i'm becoming one with the tumour of my rancid personality, giving way to sounding like a silly fucking edge lord, let it be whatever it is

time to be guarded with a fuck-off arsenal, cultivate an apathy that will one day be genuine, operate from earned paranoia, some said they like the cynicism but it isn't for you, or anyone, not to be used by anyone else

it's so fucking ugly when i write, driven by emotion like this, it's so much better when i'm detached, but i don't care anymore, not gonna contrive any distance, just gonna report from the ugly epicenter of depression

sync error

Warm Melancholy
93.5 degrees fahrenheit

Don't be an ass

I berate myself in that voice, the rough authoritarian self-despiser: Don't be an ass [by which I mean, a silly-ass jackass like somebody on the TV show of the same name] and play the game of trying to meet someone. It's a game that some playas will freak at you for calling a game. Game?! One of them berated me because it was enjoyable to express rage at a bad week by making me a punching bag, sure told me off right good, and if I care that you care then it's your victory, a suicide troll, a deep game. I'm supposed to take you seriously? In all this noise? You ain't signal bitch, fuck outa here with that sheeeyit. Fuck all y'all.

That game isn't the whole world, I'm mercifully distracted for a minute by watching my friend's kids find a metal chest with their magnesis ability in the river of the Hyrule forest. I'm watching them play Zelda, eyeing the little yamaha keyboard. I wanna play music, participate in some way, but I'm paranoid, with a flush palette bloating out against the corneas. I'm not entirely free of the fear of dizzy spells, not quite feeling back to active yet, still pacified, fried. Almonds. Pax Canadiana. It's hard to do fragments. But some people do well with that. Hats off to all y'all. Not fuck all y'all, tapada marnin tooya! Tula lula rula!

Nobody wants me lucky charms! I say no body instead of no one, cause "one" sounds like a free-floating intellect, disembodied, sterile, omnipotent in cerebral realms I can't navigate but impotent in flesh - and "body" emphasizes the corporeal warm-blooded source of energy I feel so empty of, free from. I don't want that kind of freedom, want a bond instead, deep desire for the prison of devotion that is a bond to a body with a mind, a package to love, some body to love, like Freddie sang of, the feeling from which great songs are born, with hackneyed lyrics but rhapsodic voice.

There's a theoretical object of theoretical love, impersonal, because I don't want to describe how personal it gets sometimes in this mind o' mine, constrained online, in the infinitesimally niche way I'm online. It's still mostly empty, the substance is like a proton in a mega-parsec sized cube of vacuum. It's a cube, not a sphere, cause I'm Aristotlean, not Platonic, I don't do spheres, cubes are convenient for this right-angled human-brain, I like to visualize it as a room of space, with the surface that is the "floor", a direction, orienting, which might be arbitrary from the perspective of a proton, or the being looking in at it from the outside. I'm not platonic, I'm not fiending for some abstract ideal, I want something real.

Coming back to "don't be an ass!", the voice is sheriff droogan, dragon, drogan, whatever it is, once chief of the Santa Monica PD, now kind of a big deal in Randall Flagg's America. He's scolding the "Rat Man" for impulsively pumping his shotgun and pointing it at the prisoners in the prison truck as it drives through the psycho mob toward the dismemberment machines in the New Vegas town square. "Don't be an ass!" Dragen growls with a withering contempt so potent it could describe my exasperation at myself for trying, once again, to find love, and the latest petty setback that scatters the small heap of self worth I've miraculously salvaged once again, ephemeral salvage washed away, as before, rinse and repeat. Self pity. Cop to that, cause the man who despises himself still respects himself as he who despises. Such romantic metaphors, to me they are, which is all that matters, to me, such purple prose for what purpose? Purple-vein dick jokes, really. No dagger in my heart, just a catheter in my cock, blocked.

Don't be an ass, Drogan says, and don't you dare kill the prisoners for being smart asses for God, before Flagg has MC'd their public torture and execution. You'd be like that guy who was supposed to shoot the judge, but for fuck's sake preserve the head so it can be recognized when it's air dropped over the God Squad in Boulder. And he couldn't even do that. So at least get this show right, don't fuck it up for Drogan. Torture and executing kinda blend together when some body is being drawn and quartered. Farmer John's gonna think about his mother as he's going out in the most horrific way one can imagine.

When I'm not an ass I get shit done, dunno now if it's worth doing. When values are up for grabs, it gets to be a pretty freaky eigenstate. The Eigenstate is the freeway that connects to hidden variables all over the multiverse, possibilities and timelines, fractal fractures, infinitely progressing possibilities in logarithmically increasing smallness of gradation. Things are different than ten years ago, I feel sheepish now talking like that and using such words, when I used to take myself more seriously. Gotta put the sarcastic tag on it now like an FDA label. May contain nuts known to the state of California to cause paranoia, and delusion. But, entertaining delusion, monetizable possibly if you only lean a little bit on the multiverse, the slimmest bit is a good bet, monetize delusion to stay in purchasing power for musical doohickeys. A Whoopi Goldberg contraption.

it's not fan fiction exactly

The alien cock-rocked into the space bar. He walked with a strut. The strut carried confidence, but a confidence that was not like a performance, no false bravado. Although, in fact, it was a performance, but a professional one. There was no actual bravado, just a competent actor walking in a way he was directed to [with a little spin of his own in that protruding chest] and delivering lines as intended.

The alien caulked the wagon and floated to the side of the bar that the more humanoid alien sat in, as an actor would sit, not looking like she was an actor trying to sit, but just a more humanoid alien sitting at a table, looking at her space pad that kind of looked like an iphone. She would sit like that.

"Hey," he said, cock-rocking the line, giggity, swiggity sweet, noice, four twenty, sixty nine, that's what she said. Actually, she said "hey" back, as you do when someone says hey to you. Not sure what to add, she asked: "Can I... help you?"

"I'm Jon," he announced, holding his hands out ever so slightly, viola! His voice suggested a winkey-face emoticon, the actor's own choice. The director was fine with the choice if he'd been aware at all. Jon's actual face was not winking, but there was a grin there as impervious to disappointment as could be. Or a better simile would be much the same as if his grin was as impervious to disappointment as a titanium-hulled spacecraft was to solar radiation. After announcing that he was Jon, he even shook his head a little, as if he could barely believe the good fortune he enjoyed in being Jon. He then pointed his lichen-speckled finger to the girl at the table and said: "You're Elise," with the same controlled giddiness.

"I know," Elise said with sarcastic cheer, annoyed at this alien's act, as if the significance of him being Jon and her being Elise was self-evident. What was the joke here? Then it hit her. The bulbous alien head had thrown her off, but of course, duh, this was the thing Bortis was trying to fix her up with. Not thing, person, she scolded herself. Right? Is "person" the right term? I think that's appropriate right? A pang of shame at failing to conceive of the mystery person being Jon. But she wasn't racist, just getting used to the ship. Clearly the level of cosmopolitanism here was too much for her to handle gracefully at all times in her first year. And as if this scene was some corny metaphor for racism anyway, that was so early twenty-first century. There were more important things to be symbolizing these days. But wow, Jon's head, it looked larger than ever and so perfectly spherical it seemed to defy the laws of physics, even given the ship's inertial dampers operated at three percent during this shift.

Jon recognized her recognition, still impervious to disappointment at her disappointment, this was to be expected, he'd barely gotten started. "Can I sit down?" "Sure."

Elise thought she'd done an admirable correction from sarcastic smile to panicked smile which was the most neutral look she could manage at the moment. It's not a terribly subtle facial transition, but still, not something any community theater hack could pull off. Jon swiveled downward to perform the smoothest chair-mount seen in that space bar for its whole three-year operation and locked eyes with Elise.

"He thinks we'd be a good match. I wonder what kinds of things we have in common." Jon's voice was steady as she goes. Bortis had told him Elise was desperate for a date in that blunt way of his, almost animalistic, but his species was like that. Jon enjoyed his own disapproval of such a crude statement from Bortis, and glowed over his intent to never let on that he knew anything like this. As far as he knew, she was as hard to get as any of those old officers who could afford the youth-preservation tech, when in reality this would be easy, but haha, she had no idea how hot she really was! Poor babe, lacking confidence, no concept of her power, was her whole homeworld like this? Cause if so... But he would give her power back to her, he was noble that way, noblese oblige Elise. And now she was brushing that shoulder length tuft of black hair behind her pointy ears, so cute, with that voice saying "ohmigosh", so nervous, don't worry babe, I'm harmless. Mostly.

"Well, um. We, uh, obviously both know Bortis." Elise was reasonably happy with the line, there was enough of an edge in it, but she saw no sign it had penetrated Jon, which meant at some point she was going to have to drop the passive and go straight aggressive. But shit, if this was a metaphor for racism, she would have to step carefully. Jon strained her panicked smile even more by bellowing laughter. "Bortis, yeah. Well, there's one thing in common," he said, "So, wanna get a drink sometime?"

Jon was surprised at how well he'd performed, no real anxiety even. Maybe too quickly to the drink part, but why waste time? And she was probably grateful for that too, no games necessary.

At this point, Elise's panicked smile was a grimace and her superciliary arches darkened her face and she knew those extra bones would either excite the Jon thing, or disgust him, she wasn't sure. "Look", she said through gritted teeth.

Jon figured Elise had to complete some gauntlet of the mind before facing her fear of connection, poor thing. "Jon, I'll be honest with you."

Now she was meeting his eyes, and it was suddenly all the harder, because she saw somehow that although his confidence hadn't been permeated yet, it could be. That massive mushroom head was soft inside, like a mushroom. But maybe it wouldn't be, maybe she could be honest, and he'd be cool, and this fuckup of a fixup could be forgotten before her third drink. "I'm not so... great, at the whole dating thing." Okay, honest-ish, but really mostly deflection, so, just, rip the band-aid off: "And I don't think we're as good a match as Bortis thinks we are." The last words sank into bassy vocal-fry. But it'll be cool, right? That toad-headed thing [oh god, what a horrible thought], he wouldn't take it personally cause he's not exactly a person, I mean he has a personality, he's got all the rights and respect you have to grant another intelligent being, but they couldn't possibly process rejection the same way, or maybe he wouldn't even see it as rejection? I mean, the guy's got six nostrils, he's gotta get that it's just not gonna work with me when I'm way more humanoid, human being the gold standard on this union ship for whatever that's worth. As good of a match, that could mean a lot of things, so just leave it vague.

"Well, I guess you never know until you try," Jon said, surprising himself with the steadiness. But he was falling off a cliff. Amazing how well he could hide that, what a useless skill. It was a sick joke that he would try an invitation to her to try. She stammered, "yeah, eyuh-yeah, but-"

"It's my big ol' stupid dumb head, isn't it?" He said, shattering at last, and it was out, robbing him even of his own consolation in being aloof. "No!" she said, absurdly. This was going to be even more painful, he'd end up having to pretend to accept some bullshit excuse, he'd never get the brutal truth that he didn't really want but sensed was needed so badly. The spots on his head burned and glowed. "It has nothing to do with that, it's- " And she stammered some more. At least let's hurry past the bullshit to the mission failed screen.

"You don't have to be nice," Jon said, glaring at the table. "My species has a hard time meeting people outside our home planet. We're just not... super appealing I guess. But sometimes... a person can be special on the inside." The actor playing Jon took a beat to shift his gaze artfully from dejected to poignant, and met the eyes of Elise, now really looking at him. The actor thought he knew how to play the scene, but it was a tricky balance - that "special on the inside" line was almost surely a typical Seth McFarland satirical sitcom-gets-serious reference, but he was interpreting just a dash of sincerity, that kind of thing where irony becomes actual for a microsecond and allows itself to become even deeper irony immediately after, all the better in this Star Trek The Next Generation meets Family Guy mashup. "And if you don't look under the surface, you could miss something great." The actor even felt something there, like he'd phased into Jon for just a second. But Jon wouldn't actually be this cornball would he?

The actor playing Jon enjoyed the actor playing Elise's expression change from awkward to reflective, particularly because he saw it was clearly amateurish acting compared to his, even though he was the bit-player. But all the same he felt her feel something.

"Miss something great. And possibly be single for the rest of my life," Elise said because she was reflecting, and not protecting the secret of her very real problems with men, beyond the standard shallowness that she figured everyone had, whether they'd admit it or not.

"Or at least for Bortis's pee ceremony," said the actor playing Jon, merging into the character because it was something he could imagine himself saying, like at the table read, he could have been the one responsible for that little punch-up, but they never used his suggestions. It was legit wit. Besides which, she seemed to be taking him seriously, like of course she knew how corny it sounded but hey, sometimes simple things are profound if you let them reverberate.

But Elise, she told herself, you know where this will end up. It'll end up that yes, he's actually not just a code-monkey but a brilliant, sensitive, sophisticated being of taste with a good sense of humour, and many other wonderful things that tick all the personality boxes and some boxes you never knew you had [giggity]. But in the end, there'd be that giant head, and she just knew she'd never get used to it. And she just wouldn't have the strength to power through a real partnership with the reality of this weird alien, this weird, nice alien with the green and yellow head which glowed when his thoughts were racing, which really fucking creeped her out, even though it was cool, and beautiful in its own way, and beloved by the science types so why can't he fuck one of them? Oh wait, she was a science type, right. But still.

But she could try. She could at least go with Jon to the pee ceremony, in fact, she'd come off as far more tolerant than she really was if she was seen with Jon, she'd be noticed by the officers, she'd score brownie points with the military brass, a merit badge for diversity, and all she'd really pay for that with is a reasonably good time, soon degrading into awkwardness and disgust and eventually reinforcing her own provincialism and superficiality in romance but fuck it, they could make very special episodes about angelic women hooking up with deformed kids who are cello prodigies, and never show the actual sex scenes, cause, woah, no thank you, we'll just pretend to have imagined it - and that whole nasty last ninety percent of it could run its course in a few months, tops.

"No, I don't mean what's inside, like my soul or anything," Jon said. "I do have an awesome soul, don't get me wrong, but I mean, I've got something special underneath, and no, I'm not talking about my wang [giggity], I mean, literally underneath, see these weird green spots on my face? They come right off, they're just makeup."