long year

This is me and my writing, hello hello. It’s almost the end of the year and I’ll publish something before I get too crazy tonight. But tonight has been making me think: I’ve been browsing internet forums for almost a few hours at a time now and I’ve been thinking:::::what’s the point? Why go out? Am I ever going to have sex again? Why is that all I think about these days? There’s no real stimulus creating that for me what the hell i'm going to think about other things now

a wedding and a funeral

My mom remarried in 2004. I was on her side. She deserved to be happy.
The wedding was interesting though. Of course, my father didn’t show up. That would be really weird. I felt like a martyr, though. Like I was the image of someone losing from this partnership. I was put in a weird position and was forced to cope somehow. The first thing I remember is hardly remembering.
My mom was going through chemotherapy at the time and I took some of her Ativan to calm my nerves. I remember some people singing at the wedding. It was in the clubhouse in that gated community of mobile homes in which they lived, with some Spanish name. I remember lying to my grandmother about the beer I was drinking, saying it was juice. She doesn’t know what Heineken is. She’s too old and foreign to know. I love her.
I think I danced with my cousin. And I remember passing out in the back of my Aunt Rona’s Ford Escape with the dog. I did not puke. I do not remember how I got home. That’s one of my trademark shitfaced wasted reflections. I do not remember how I get home.
Like the first time I got drunk when I was 14. Jessica, Kim, and Miguel had me drink a Powerade bottle’s worth of what I thought was mostly Powerade. It was mostly Bacardi. I was wearing an oversized hoodie with shark tooth designs on it. It was ugly and black. In my mom’s car I remember puking down the sleeve. I do not know how she did not know. I think she pretended not to. How could she not notice? Somewhere she picked me up and drove me home. I stumbled into my bed and puked in it, without taking off the hoodie. I learning nothing from this experience, except from not to trust people; they may deceive you at any given time.

Remember when you wrote How to Subdue a Society, more than 15 pages in like 3-4 days? Less than that. I took Adderall, but I churned out the best thing I have ever written. With the Khrushchev paper, which was marginally better, I took a steadfast and focused approached. It took me a few drafts, but they improved consistently each time. I am very impressed with it, when I look back upon it. Let's do that now. I feel more confident about my writing ability and look forward to see what will coalesce in regards to 19th century Britain and social welfare.

Photography / Bullet Trains

Many people have either taken or been part of a photograph. A technology from the Victorian era that has yet to die out soon, and is constantly being improved, photography is a way to create memories, to capture beautiful scenes, and create images out of light. We first had rudimentary photography in the Civil War/Victorian era, and it was also in the 1850s when the first steam engine locomotives were making their debut in Victorian Britain and with the unparalleled speed of global capitalism, around the world.

To be captured in a photograph is to be imbued in time. The mediums of photographs have changed from paper printouts which cost money to electronic images shared on the internet. Trains have only increased in speed, efficiency, and how much waste they produce.

John Ruskin's Modern Painters

John Ruskin's Modern Painters
"…for [the painter's] selection of the brawls of peasants or sports of children can, of course, proceed only from the fact that he has more sympathy with such brawls of pastimes than with nobler subjects."

In his integrative essay Modern Painters, John Ruskin explains several points regarding high art, and on what makes certain art truly great. In brief, great art amounts to the use of a well-regarded subject (real or fictitious), beauty in consistence with truth, and utilizes the power of invention or imagination. He regards the so-called Pre-Raphaelites of the Victorian world, those who attempted to return to Renaissance-style art like the old Pre-Raphaelites, as those who have attained the "perfect unison of expression." Therefore, one can assume a bias toward the style of painting found on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel.
I think he is embracing the past too much. Yes, those works depicting Christian harmony are triumphant and have provoked piety as well as zeal for centuries, but he has encapsulated the concept of great art within a tiny prism. For the industrializing era, realism can amount to a completely new range of expression. For example, while Ruskin was writing this manifesto, Ilya Repin of Russia was becoming an esteemed portrait and realist-styled artist - and he turned Ruskin's quote regarding "lower orders of painting" and "noble subjects" on its head. Repin painted Tsar Nicholas II, Ivan the Terrible, and Leo Tolstoy - all who could be considered noble subjects - but they were captured in different ways. Tolsoy, simplistically; Nicholas, gallantly, and Ivan, brutally. Repin also painted peasants, famous Volga barge haulers, and a fantasy piece, Sadko in the Underwater Kingdom. This is why Ruskin's statement on how an artist must choose a proper subject is petty and pointless. It is not who or what the artist captures, but the way in which they are captured that determines whether it may be high art or not. The rest of Ruskin's points are rather one-sided or obvious. An artist on his or her path does not need Ruskin's help in understanding what makes a Rembrandt or a Durer fantastic. Thank goodness for Emilio Marinetti and his Futurist Manifesto¸ tossing aside this pedantic nonsense.

I felt a strange attraction, immediately to her beauty, but later toward her philosophy, her humor, and her inclinations. My second cousin, my uncle’s cousin, that is, she was. My aunt, at whose house we were both staying, cued me into her person before she arrived. She told me she was Randy’s (my uncle) cousin, that she was roughly his age, and that she worked for a living as a hairdresser and Saskatoon, Saskatchewan. Later on, my second cousin would correct my pronunciation of this province. My aunt, a professional homemaker was very warm and catering, and was an excellent host for my second cousin and myself. It was Christmastime, as was the motivation behind my visit, and my aunt bought a number of presents for everybody and instructed the cousins to choose presents to gift for each other. “This is a time I want you all to relax, you’re off school, off work, I want you to be able to just, veg, ya know?” “Yes Aunt Tara,” I agreed. “Now close your eyes and turn around, I’m getting stuff.” She scrambled inside the closet of the guest room and pulled out a large cardboard box. There was a fancy round case with different sorts of eyelash and eyebrow primping devices, a set of wine glass markers and a “Girl’s Night Out” bingo game that I envisioned my second cousin would find tacky, and a few other items that don’t come to mind, but I chose the primping kit as I liked the box and thought I would enjoy wrapping it for Elaine, my second cousin.
The next day Elaine showed up at the door with her bags. I saw her blonde hair and tender, loving facial features and I became again greeted with that sort of “in love”, or “in lust”, as I knew it, feeling at the bottom of your heart. That shrill pang that made you blush internally, that spread from the bottom of your sternum to the top of your skull, to your heels, back again to your heart, sending messages to your endocrine system, to your liver, and, if you are a man, to your penis and your balls, too. And the more “logical” side of my mind fired shotgun thoughts of doubt and fear to the same core of my being, when I realized I would be living, yes, living my life, if only for a few days, a stairway away from the guest room where she would unpack, sleep, dress and undress, think, daydream, stretch and breathe, and we would be so close! Doors and walls matter little for separation when you can hear someone snore and stub their toes just a hallway’s distance away. I feared, with her life decades longer than the one I am living, that she wouldn’t take me seriously, that she would be able to see through me, that she would see I was little more than a sad, lost little boy with issues.
We exchanged greetings and pleasantries, but with difficulty, with the rest of the family crowding her at the doorway, pestering her with asinine questions, although in just observing her interactions with them, I had a genuine feel of her maturity, her kind spirit, her earthly yet spiritual wisdom.
Here, we drank and chatted.
Later, she talks about feeling her father’s spirit, smelling him, around the hour of her mother’s death

It wasn’t until we wrapped presents together when our relationship really began to unfold. I found out she is unmarried, single and looking, has no sisters, brothers, or parents.
I wanted her to hold me and love me, though I never wanted her to know what I wanted. And that, in retrospect, was a problem in its own.

I am sorry, I must continued shortly after.

Goat Cheese and Chocolate Every day

I’m only going to write what I remember.

The first time I had a gun pointed at me was January 11th, 2004. It’s just one of those things that sticks with you. Jonathan and I were trying to get high. His blond hair was unusually long and straight, and as plainclothes undercover detectives slammed him against the concrete wall of a seemingly abandoned house, it flailed helplessly. Let’s smoke pot at the abandoned house, he said earlier. Alright, sounds cool. It sounded cool at the time. When the three men pointed pistols at me, and yelling boorishly to freeze, I was so scared. I thought they were gangsters who were going to beat us up, steal our money, and make us suck their dicks. Despite the shock, I was slightly relieved when one of them showed us his badge. “Fuck, that hurt! Why’d you have to slam me into the wall?” “You shouldn’t have gone for your pockets, we didn’t know if you were going to pull out a knife.” As I briefly and blankly considered my future and what drugs were in my pockets, and how to make them disappear, my wrists were instantly bonded by cold metal cuffs. First you feel the chill of the steel, and then the tightness is cinched in until it hurts. It always hurts. When you’re a prisoner. Every time I wear handcuffs, I think about this one episode of the X-Files I watched with my parents – one suspect could dislocate his thumbs and routinely escape from handcuffs. Maybe the handcuffs are so tight because the detectives have seen that episode. As a captive, they patted me down with their brisk, orderly fingers. It was less than a tenth of a gram of amphetamine. I was going to smoke it that night and play computer games. Regret, regret, if only I could have tossed it. A single Vicodin pill. “I have a prescription for that,” I lied. “They took out my wisdom teeth recently.” I was in a weird state. I cannot go on for paragraphs about how the sweat dripped down from my brow, or how I just wanted to crawl into a ball and will myself out of the universe, or whatever. That stuff isn’t true. I remember being completely subjected to the officers’ will, being stiff and numb. If I just stayed quiet, I could go home, I’m sure. If I answered their questions respectfully they’d know I was a good kid on the wrong path, and leave me alone. Blame the friends.

But no. I had the guns pointed at me because I was a criminal of the state. Two felony counts of possession do that to you. I remember on the ride to the police station, one of the men asked me, “So why you doin’ this stuff, the speed?”

I paused and admitted, “I…I like to paint. I like to take it and paint, it feels good and its fun. You should see this picture I did, it’s like a massive thumbprint with contrasting colors. A little bit of the stuff helps me focus and makes me more creative, I guess. I only do it sparingly though.”

I don’t think the answer was good enough for him, because he didn’t respond. I wonder what special investigator person, call him Agent Bradley, did after work that night. Did he complain about today’s youth, have a drink of Maker’s Mark, call his wife a sour name and then apologize? Did he walk in the door, notice a bill he’d been avoiding on the countertop, and swear, and wish his daughter didn’t hear him? Did he tell his wife about the kid who does speed because he thinks he’s a creative artist? Did he lay her a sweet smile at the end of his jeering anecdote? Agent Bradley, what did you have for dinner that night? Do you live alone and eat Marie Calender’s frozen entrees? Do you smoke Pall Malls, Marlboro Reds, or are you just too good to smoke? When you’re not driving the Ford Interceptor, what do you drive? I want to know about you because I want to know what makes you you. I want to know why you didn’t respond. I told you why I did that one particular drug at one particular moment last week, which, in my opinion is a very personal thing to ask, and I, feeling blinded, physically immobile, and mentally blunted, poured out a piece of my heart to you during that drive.

And I want it back.

It’s hard to be a rebel when you just want to go home and see your parents and hope they’ll still love you.

I'm a fan of the occupy olympia movement, I support it. But I think their general assembly meetings are pretty silly. They way they work is that they demand consensus on everything, and everyone who wants to raise a point is free too.

drinking game: Corporate, Capitalism, and Gluten

Is it me or does 50% of Olympia suffer from Celiac disease? It was the first time I've seen homeless people turning down free bread!

Have you guys read a day in the life of Ivan Denisovitch?
Citizen, your ration for the day is 400 grams of bread.
Agh....do you have Quinoa?

When I was a little boy my mom would arrange play dates with the other boys in kindergarden.We'd play video games or legos, but I noticed that our play dates would come to an end when the other boy would show me his penis. This happened more often than not.

But I became vigilant.One day me and this kid Anthony were playing a board game. I guess he got bored and told me to come to his room. He shut the door. And he started taking his clothes off while grinning at me. I remember this very well. So I stopped him and said Anthony, please don't show me your wiener, cos then our moms wont let us play any more Monopoly Junior.

When I was a kid my mom would arrange play dates with my friends in preschool or kindergarden.

Sometimes we'd play Mario Kart, sometimes we'd watch Disney movies, sometimes we'd play board games. But more often then not, the boys I had play dates with ended up showing me their penises.

The first case was with a boy named Russell. I don't remember what we were doing until we went inside my closet and he showed me his penis. He told me to take mine out too. But both of our mothers rushed in and they looked horrified, at the sight of Russell's babydick. And he went home and he never came over again.

And then there was Sean who showed me his babydick in the pool one day. I was horrified, and I told my mom that "he showed me his 'thing'" and we both left.

The third time, I was more vigilant. I didn't want my playdates to come to an abrupt end. One day me and this kid Anthony were playing Monopoly Junior. I guess he got bored and told me to come to his room. He shut the door, smart boy that he was. And he started taking his clothes off while grinning at me. I remember this. So I stopped him and said Anthony, please don't show me your wiener, cos then our moms wont let us play any more Monopoly Junior.
...
also if you wanna take your wiener out, go to Katie Wolf's house. cos she likes to touch it.

Everytime i orgasm from sex I have the bad habit of immediately thinking about my homework. I seriously muttered under my breath "god damnit i have to finish oliver twist" and my partner was mildly upset from this comment. how are you? Yeah baby, im good. two hundred pages...

But i realize where this reaction stems from. In one of these sexual advocacy meetings i heard that whatever you look at upon the moment of orgasm is permanently embedded into your brain. And as a very regular masturbator in high school, I'd put my geometry notes adjacent to my keyboard, so right as i was about to come i'd cover the screen with them, and chant REMEMBER REMEMBER REMEMBER

and hey, to this day i still know what perpendicular lines look like, so :)?

Not just a horny fuck or an amateur comedian but I'm also a published poet.
Well, ALMOST.
pay attention because this is short and i'm NOT gonna repeat it


Me a warm ass nigga
unda' all these blankets
I see a big ass booty
bitch I wanna spank it

My strongest influences are Dickinson, Pound, and Bukowski.
In fact, the ABCB rhyme structure here is very Dickinsonian.

Dear Matthew,
Thank you for your submission. We at Poetry London regret to inform you that after careful review of your entry, your poem "untitled" was not chosen for publication. The theme for this quarter's publication is Goons, Moons, and Quadroons, and the editing staff and I did not feel that your poem "untitled" was a proper fit.
All the best,
Colette Bryce

Utmost Christian Writer's Poetry Contest,
Dear Poet,
Thank you for your submission to the Utmost Christian Writer's Poetry Contest. Unfortunately, your poem "untitled" was not chosen for publication, and is not eligible for any prize for our annual poetry contest. Commentary is below: The words n****, a**, and b**** are not allowed by our foundation to be published in our gallery. Please note that this contest is only open to Christians. You do not need to be a member of Utmost Christian Writer's to submit poetry, but you must be a Christian believer to enter our contest. Please look over the rules .
Sincerely,
Barbara Mitchell
Christian Writers Foundation director


SW
Your poem, which was submitted without a title and will here by be referred to by the first line, "Me a warm ass nigga" was too short for publication. There is not enough information about the protagonist and how the statements correlate; it is unclear whether his feeling of warmth relates to his desire to spank a "big ass booty." And is the word "booty", here, in this connotation indicative of a woman's behind? How does this poem relate to women? And what of the word, "nigga"? Furthermore, does being under "all these blankets" warm just the protagonist's skin on a physical level, or metaphorically? We are just trying to understand what is really going on here and if this is applicable to this year's mood.
Cheers,
Slightly West

Since the beginning of styrofoam, men and women have been stealing leftovers from each other and lying about it. I've done this a lot and I'm gonna offer you guys some tips on getting free food in these desperate times. Now, if you wanna steal your roommates' leftovers, there's a few precautions to take. I'll input my own experience here. I lived with a veteran named Josh. I'm going to preface this and say, if you're interrogated, the magic phrase is "I don't know". And if that doesn't work, you say "No." One day he makes a shitload of chicken drumsticks and thighs. But I need to test him before I can steal from him. One day I open the tupperware and simply rotate a few of these drumsticks, and wait to see what happens. I'm sitting on the couch doing nothing and I hear "What the shit? Who touched my food?!" "I don't know," i said. "Was it you, Matt?" "No." Well then I knew. This motherfucker would put you into a sleeper hold over half a hotpocket. I live with better people now. I ate some of chase's pasta salad and he actually noticed and asked me. "Matt, did you eat my pasta salad?" "I don't know." "Well who did?" "No." Now if you're unfortunate enough to work in an office, you're lucky in that the fridges are actually communal. They don't tell you that. You've just got to reach out and grab the chicken salad. The rule here is the 3 day rule. If something's in there for 3 days, it's yours. Now, this one time there was an old trader joe's greek salad. So i took it into the bathroom, took a shit, and then ate it. The salad, that is. But the walnuts were kinda chewy and it was taking me some time. Someone knocked and was like "Is someone in there?" and I remembered the magic phrase, "I don't know." oh is that you matt? "no." And then you MUST MUST MUST dig some trash out of the bin, bury the leftover containers, and then put the trash back on top. even if its gross. otherwise they'll know it was

6,030.00 18 6,030.00 18 2,412.00 4 14472 7,156.00 20 7,156.00 20 1,206.00 2 15518 18 20 2 14,392

For me, chapters X and XI were the best out of Cranford so far, because they deal with Victorian neuroses, paranoia, and the occult. In this scene, reminiscent of combating a vampire, the sign of the cross is made to ward off an evil spirit or otherwise some un-Christian element from the East, I wasn't sure which. I also liked the footnote explaining the possibly of Signor Burnoni possessing a "will…of deadly force" which said that something like the "evil eye" has existed since the late 18th century, whereas one could direct the will through the eyes into some sort of metaphysically powerful gaze. I would like to know more about these sorts of beliefs with Victorian folk. My Russian professor was telling us the other day that generally people of lower social standing are more likely to believe in superstition - to not risk losing wealth or health - and it fits in perfectly with the ridiculous delusions that the ladies of Cranford underwent in Chapter X and all the irrational xenophobic fears that surmised.
Also I found it easier to get into the novel by realizing who it was published for - Gaskell's contemporaries. I suppose fear of losing wealth invested into risky international banks or businesses may have been a realistic imperial fear. Poor Miss Matty. But despite some of the support Miss Matty's friends have promised her in her poverty, I have no doubts that they will soon begin to think less of her for losing her status.









i cant help but stare at girls in the library
then they notice
and i stop for a bit

Anyone ever been to the food bank? Anyone ever see who else is in line at the food bank, and then suddenly feel guilty for going to the food bank? I was usually picked last or second-to-last in high school and middle school sports. Softball, last. Basketball, definitely last. Football, second to last (i could run when i had to or when i was scared) It was worse when we weren't divided by gender. I made the switch from briefs to boxers when other schmucks began paying attention. It was kind of weird at first, like shaving your pubes, there's suddenly more air molecules orbiting around your junk. It's kind of nice, though. They were silk but that meant more random boners in class. This was harder because it was earlier in my development, before I learned that you can tuck your erect penis behind your belt and toss your shirt over it. I don't know what I would do if I was in a situation where I'd have to tuck my shirt in. I'm glad my parents had all their money tied up on visa cards and couldn't send me to private school. There are other reasons I'm glad my parents were functionally poor, poor enough so that I didn't have to go to private school, but employable enough to not be white trash. The only thing my parents had in common was liking the Beatles. But, now, after saying that outloud, I feel like that's not much of an achievement for people born in the 1950s. Who doesn't like the Beatles? Trolls, mallgoths, and hecklers. I included hecklers to make it sound like I do this a lot. Mallgoth chicks are kind of hot. But we don't have much of a mallgoth scene here. I used to listen to Cradle of Filth and fantasize about a chick sucking my wrists slicing my dick and tattooing her tits while she's licking my asshole on meth while we listened to a grown man bellow like Satan with a mouth full of marbles about the whores of Babylon to guitars being broken. This never happened to me. I wrote poetry about it, though. GF missionary normal normal normal normal we're always told...it doesn't matter what people think of you everything depends on what people think of you! Pants in school, leopard print boxers Voting. I'm pro-drugs, there are times in life where I think everyone should get high and re-evaluate what the fuck their doing. Never before in US history, i would argue, has there been more congressional gridlock. I sort of grew up listneing to my dad falling asleep in front of Keith Olbermann and therefoer think most republicans have a few screws loose. But my dad is a liberal nut, too, so that makes me kind of jaded. But whenver I hear about nothing getting done in congress I think we should release marijuana fumes into the house of representatives. ron paul: eliminate the fed, eliminate income tax, eliminate the jews republicans: let's settle for a litte less

Hanging in the Caucasus

Hello! It's been a long time. I'm hanging out in Batumi right now, in a hot, smoky internet cafe. I've been enjoying the city, walking around with S, trying to find her a bikini as well as the Stalin museum, which has been shut down. It's a much more walkable town than Tbilisi, and reminds me of Yerevan. Ice cream is a popular treat, and as my friends and I were patronizing a soft-serve joint, one ordered chocolate, one ordered vanilla, and I wanted the swirl, so I said "byelii i shokolad" but the attendent didn't understand, and just gave me vanilla. Our comerade, B, who didn't know any Russian, simply pointed at the lever in the middle. "The power of pointing!" she said. It made me feel stupid. She always one-ups somebody...and the way she talks about herself tends to sound pompous. But I admire her, she's a good spirit.

Equipment list!

I'm nearly ready!

My list of gear thus far includes:
Bivvy sack,
down sleeping bag,
self-inflating sleeping pad (need to pick up),
two synthetic long sleeve base layers,
two synthetic long underwear,
a fleece pullover,
a raincoat,
trekking pants (need to pick up),
sock liners,
two pairs of wool socks, (need one more),
leather boots,
extra insoles (need still)
a pillowcase,
a larger dry stuff sack,
a smaller one for toiletries,
eye drops, contact lens solution, extra contacts,
ibuprofen, benedryl, melatonin, cold medicine,
insect repellent, sunscreen, sun hat,
mini toothbrush, toothpaste, water purification tablets, water bladder, and trekking poles.

what else do I need?

A fine Saturday

Yesterday was a day of learning and growth for me. It began with a handful of miles hiked in the large forest just outside of town. I'm training for my big trek this summer, in a different continent. But other days I'll get high on drugs and smoke cigarettes. Either way I'll make it.

I threw a little part for my class. I spent $40 on liquor and $50 on food, and made shish-ka-bobs. They turned out brilliantly, with a blend of teriyaki and barbecue sauce painted on, and my party was fun for a few hours. Although, at about 10:30, most of the people there were leaving, so it only lasted for about 3 and a half hours, tops. I'm not entirely sure why, but I'm still really glad I did it, and it opens up possibilities for future invitations.

Wow, what a show.

In the past two weeks I've been dealing with the
*Crisis of writing a research paper on something I'm not really interested in anymore
*Trying to excommunicate an ex-friend who has been harassing me and my crew, and potentially my girlfriend.
*Starting to get into art and painting again to sooth my soul
*Cooking and having people over (which I haven't been able to do at my old residence)
*Enjoying the day
*Trying to lower my T-mobile bill and realize that if I want to access email from my phone I'll need to use and KEEP my $79/mo plan...helplessly addicted to my blackberry...anyway

So it's been pretty swell. It capped off with a beautiful Sunday too. I got up at noon, went to walmart to get a new inhaler, spent the next 3-4 hours cooking chicken, rice, beans, onions, tomatoes, and peppers into a number of separate dishes that can be brought together scrumtiously with a flour tortilla. We invited a friend over and the three of us (my ladyfriend included) had a lovely time. I endured a minor trauma in the process, as it was mother's day and I was inviting people to come over within the next 30 minutes. S & B, and the rest of the kids in the new house, couldn't make it. Damn. I even tried inviting a few classmates I hang out with and they were all busy. People kept saying they had too much homework to come over for an hour for free amazing food. Kind of painful. I even went so far as inviting my ladyfriend's roommates (including a boyfriend who is rather annoying and ever-present in her apartment, yet nice) and A said she was "too busy" with homework. I'm gonna call out this bitch on it next time I see her. It's less than a 10 minute walk to my place. She always has me over and occasionally cooks B grade food for me, but wouldn't come to my lovely new house. Ah, well. 1st world problem. This isn't something I've complained about before. In fact, I feel kind of silly about it...it was a bit like a Curb your Enthusiasm episode.

Later on, J and I struggled to find our friend's house for an event (in her bathroom) that it turned out I would be performing for (!!!). I didn't realize I was booked and almost ducked out it. But I wrote some notes to myself to prepare and put on some nice clothes, which I'm still wearing. We drove. The house turned out to be on the east side of town, rather than the west, but everything is pretty close together in this city, so it came together.

The house was ragged and trashed. There was a homogenous blend of the new tenant's possession's with the former tenants' which I found to be unruly. Yet more and more people were arriving and I realized that J & I were probably the only one who found the house to trashed. It seemed as if the former tenants had strewn out their belongings against the walls, leaving emaciated walkways between rooms.

Old cabinets, microphone stands, aging banana-painted drawers, various mugs from Minnesota, a teapot from the East, beer cases full of trash and wrappers and peels, cannisters of paprika, epsom salts, black pepper, curry seasonings, green and red bouillon cubes, cat trees rooted to the carpeting, stains of cat urine alongside them, a mateless sneaker, a coverless vent nestled under floorboards, and an upturned boxspring.

Anyway, the most important thing that went down is that I performed! Before I went on I told a hippie guy to play the oven tray at the 30 second mark. That was a good idea. I started off emphasizing the ideas of love and lust as the "big questions" we have to face in our lives, but that they're not really as immense as we're socialized to consider them in our literature and media (I didn't say that though). I just talked about how I fell in love with my astrologer and then my second cousin in Canada and ended that I found these loves to be a farce as they were unrequited, elderly, and ultimately, incestial. I kept my spiel to a beat, as J told me afterwards. I got a few good laughs and it was a hit.

I'd like to do more of this in the future. Some things I could discuss, as far as humorous anecdotes as cultural stories are, the downfall of society within the office space (need to write about this one more) the importance of travel for one's development...i'm not sure. i hope i can find more funny things to talk about. i'm sure there are many stories within me that are worth telling.

my paper

Ugh, I just don't really care about this right now. Maybe I'll lose credit. I don't know. I just can't get interested in this. I don't care! Gauthum says, try to be happy while doing it. But I can't get happy. I feel good, but I want to find personal accounts. Jstor is the only source I have and it's just not cutting it for me. Professor says find articles, articles are what you need! But I can't find enough shit.

What I'd like to see

Well, the report is in. Marcus Nagelberg's brilliant new novel, "Name Withheld." In it, Nagelberg addresses the sense of disconnection and alienation he witnessed in city life, on the college campus, and in suburbia. He paints the pictures that compelled him in his youth to experiment with drugs, and how he struggled to accept his heterosexuality, and how this gradually affected his view of women, relationships, and sex. It is a wholly modern Bildungsroman, echoing the necessity for a quick turn to adulthood, which was influenced by the death of the author's mother when he was a high school boy. "Name Withheld" is one of the first novels to address the issue of emotional isolation in the digital age of worldwide connectivity during the surge of social media.

The mindfulness approach

I took a mindfulness-based depression and anxiety class once a week last quarter. In short, I learned that when I feel anxious, I should remind myself consciously that I feel...anxious, and ask myself where I feel it. The idea is to make what feels almost automatic and unconscious, conscious. I noticed that whenever I walk up the stairs to my office I get the sensation of a vice squeezing my chest, shortening my breath, and making me feels shaky. But now that I'm more aware of it, I just feel more miserable about it.

D&D!

I Am A: Chaotic Neutral Elf Bard/Sorcerer (2nd/2nd Level)


Ability Scores:

Strength-12

Dexterity-12

Constitution-14

Intelligence-14

Wisdom-13

Charisma-13


Alignment:
Chaotic Neutral A chaotic neutral character follows his whims. He is an individualist first and last. He values his own liberty but doesn't strive to protect others' freedom. He avoids authority, resents restrictions, and challenges traditions. A chaotic neutral character does not intentionally disrupt organizations as part of a campaign of anarchy. To do so, he would have to be motivated either by good (and a desire to liberate others) or evil (and a desire to make those different from himself suffer). A chaotic neutral character may be unpredictable, but his behavior is not totally random. He is not as likely to jump off a bridge as to cross it. Chaotic neutral is the best alignment you can be because it represents true freedom from both society's restrictions and a do-gooder's zeal. However, chaotic neutral can be a dangerous alignment because it seeks to eliminate all authority, harmony, and order in society.


Race:
Elves are known for their poetry, song, and magical arts, but when danger threatens they show great skill with weapons and strategy. Elves can live to be over 700 years old and, by human standards, are slow to make friends and enemies, and even slower to forget them. Elves are slim and stand 4.5 to 5.5 feet tall. They have no facial or body hair, prefer comfortable clothes, and possess unearthly grace. Many others races find them hauntingly beautiful.


Primary Class:
Bards often serve as negotiators, messengers, scouts, and spies. They love to accompany heroes (and villains) to witness heroic (or villainous) deeds firsthand, since a bard who can tell a story from personal experience earns renown among his fellows. A bard casts arcane spells without any advance preparation, much like a sorcerer. Bards also share some specialized skills with rogues, and their knowledge of item lore is nearly unmatched. A high Charisma score allows a bard to cast high-level spells.


Secondary Class:
Sorcerers are arcane spellcasters who manipulate magic energy with imagination and talent rather than studious discipline. They have no books, no mentors, no theories just raw power that they direct at will. Sorcerers know fewer spells than wizards do and acquire them more slowly, but they can cast individual spells more often and have no need to prepare their incantations ahead of time. Also unlike wizards, sorcerers cannot specialize in a school of magic. Since sorcerers gain their powers without undergoing the years of rigorous study that wizards go through, they have more time to learn fighting skills and are proficient with simple weapons. Charisma is very important for sorcerers; the higher their value in this ability, the higher the spell level they can cast.


Find out What Kind of Dungeons and Dragons Character Would You Be?, courtesy of Easydamus (e-mail)



also, I cleared up things with my girlfriend :P

Poem for the school newspaper

I'm going to look into how much money it'll cost to get this published

big fat cocks
big fat cocks
big fat cocks squirting

big fat cocks
big fat cocks
big fat cocks squirting hot loads

big fat cocks
big fat cocks
big fat cocks squirting hot loads of semen over the balcony

my recent failures

I've failed a lot in the past 60 days. Here are my most recent formal rejections:

My recent failures

I failed to be accepted as a reading tutor for the local middle school.
I failed to be accepted as a volunteer for the local crisis clinic.
I failed to be accepted as an office manager for the Washingont Student Association.
I failed to be accepted as an internet search rater for LeapForce Consulting.
I failed to be accepted as an internet search rater for LionBridge Consulting.

i'm still at the shitty job I don't care about, that has mysteriously gotten shittier.
the things I do for money...

i want to have an affair

I really want to have an affair! Last night I went to girlfriend's house with the prospect of watching Arrested Development and sleeping. I knew once I saw her after opening the door that I didn't want to have sex with her that night. She was wearing her glasses that make her look like a 12 year old version of my mother, some oversize t-shirt and baggy, purple nighties. The epitome of turn-off. I could hardly sleep last night. It even took effort to kiss her goodbye this morning. But I kept thinking about the Astrologer, all night. She is in her late 40s, early 50s, taller, more graceful, fit, wise, well-traveled. She's so lovely, I think I will try to call her again, but can it lead to a date? I dreamt I drew my face close to hers, and told her to kiss me, that I knew she wanted to. This is still on my bucket list, OK? We deserve people like each other!

another crossroad?

I feel stuck again. Considering joining a business program next year at my liberal arts college. Either that, or "Writing American Cultures"...which sounds a lot better. I should just roll with what interests me and can improve my writing. But the logical side of business and finance appeals to me, too. One thing the professor told me is that you'll practice writing out an idea or a plan, and reviewing it in multiple instances and through different frames of reference to test it out, and find out, is this realistic? I like that whole branch of logic, maybe it's good for me. English and American culture/history are important too, but fuck, I really want to know what it takes to start a business. This professor created an oil company and numerous other ventures in South America. I'm not sure how to create a business outside the internet and designing a sweet website, though. That seems to be the place to start in my generation.

My birthday's coming up. I just want to cop some painkillers...

money

So, somehow, I'm low on money. Car repair was part of it, but I make about $1K a month at this job, and my rent is $305...so how can I be low on money? Some of it goes to school and books, but not a majority of it. Something has to give. Anyway, tomorrow I'll hear back about this internet job. I heard about it on the internet. I passed the first theoretical test and will find out the results about the practical test. But I hear they're sticklers with the time clock. Here I can somewhat extent time safely. But since this part-time gig is completely online, they know exactly how much time you spend per task. And the job consists of completing a bunch of little tasks. I'll just have to see, but if it's not terrible, it may provide an extra $400 a month or so. I may either invest this into an individual (not retirement) account and buy common stock, or just put it into savings. Next quarter I want to get a Stafford loan and live off that, instead of this stupid job. And I need to file my taxes, and it should be a pretty good bonus because...I'm technically independent, though my grandfather's money went to pay for my school. Hope it works out. Hope I can properly manage it, too.

stupid girlfriend

She has been getting on my nerves, and it's not really her doing. It's just me being irritable and needing space. I find myself to affected by the clothes she wears. If she looks disheveled, poorly-made up, hair out of place, sporting jeans I find ugly, it's a turn-off, and I just don't even want to listen to her. Since we're in the same field of study, it becomes a public issue, and I don't want to be seen close to a girl I perceive as not attractive. It's terrible, I know. I wish I didn't care so much but I do. I think I need help. I get focused on her posture and how it carried the bit of extra weight in her belly, and try to get her to sit up straight, just so she looks more presentable.

I'm so controlling. I touch her belly when we are close. It looks better when she is lying down. Two nights ago, when she was last over, the last microdiscussion we shared before I fell asleep began with her asking "do you think i'm fat?" I said "no. do you think you're fat?" she said "sometimes." I wanted to say I just don't want her to GET FAT and that's why i try to moderate her from eating too much candy. I find it gross. I get grossed out by excess sugar consumption. I keep a Mediterranean diet, I like my fats, salts, and alcohol. I look good. My hair needs a trim but I still look good. I just want her to always looks good. And that's my problem with her. Also, she's really needy too, and I feel bad to shun her because she doesn't understand how I feel. I hope it's not time for a "talk", and I can just rot in my room until our next class, but that's not my style. I just have to do something different.

Also, I'm stuck with her til the end of the school year. Our class program extends to that length, and I know in my heart, that if we break up, it will be that much more awkward, annoying, and meddlesome between us, and that will affect my studies. But the good times always nice, while they last.

write away the pain

Right now I'm at work and trying to improve my handwriting. I've read that people in my generation are taught not to write from their shoulders and forearms, but from their wrists, which leads to a compressed, painful manuscript. I'm trying to loosen it up, free up my cursive. It helps to give yourself two lines instead of one. Apparently, the muscles in the upper arm and shoulder are better for more precise motion, surprisingly. I wouldn't have considered that. I'm practicing.

The other night I did some thinking. Too much thinking - it kept me up for most of the night. Had to take the last bit of xanax to help me fall into unconsciousness, although it didn't really help. I don't know why I took that DXM either. That was awful. Although I read the newest issue of Time magazine almost cover to cover. The headlining piece was two articles, one by Fareed Zakaria, an immigrant, about the decline of America, and the other, by a native, telling us we're doing fine. The second piece failed to sucessfully argue most of the points by Zakaria, how our schools are succumbing to those of Asia and Europe, our debt is highest in the world, our our life expectancy is falling, obesity, etc. I wish it was online, it really evoked a deep sensation of passion for my country, but also a negativity. Our Congress is broken, the two-party political system is archaic, and we have people like this involved with public policy: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=e6t6d9YBuFM . Screw you, Orange County!

questions

I remember showing with K one time. I was shapooing my head and bunch of hair fell out onto the floor of the porcelain stall. "You're not losing your hair, are you?" she chided.
"Everyone loses their hair," I said. "Some people just don't grow it back." I felt philosophical. And then I asked myself, "Shit, am I losing my hair?"

making the rent, breaking the date?

Well somehow, I'm still hitting 37 hours this pay period despite skipping president's day, and hardly doing anything on Thursday, where our city was hit with roughly 5-6 inches of snow. Maybe because I'm counting today, where I inflated my workday by about half an hour. That's all done.

I'm gonna make rent! Now I just have to hang out here and look busy for another six hours, and I'll be free to work on that paper...or get some rest. I stayed up late last night but had a lot of fun. I decided to kick it old-school and smoke up campfire style. I laid under both of my blankets and ensured there was no way for light or air to pass through, and smoked the rest of the bowl I had loaded. Then I layed out, listening to the dreampop and constant whirr of my room's heater in the background. Does well to smudge out the background noises and voices downstairs. I want to edit some of the blog post I wrote last night. It felt like I had something going on there, but I'm going to bet most of it was hufflepuff. But I felt so energized last night!

Flirting does that to you. At that concert last night I thought a lot about my relationship, and how I could rationalize cheating on my girlfriend as this is my first real relationship, I'm allowed some...trial and error. That's cute. That's a real cute excuse. But I'd still be the shit head in the situation.

But it would be empowering. Dostoevsky wrote in the Possessed about how suicide was man's ultimate expression of autonomy against God, well I suppose consciously cheating is the same thing for a relationship. Or I could just tell her the truth after the fact and see what would become of it. Honestly, I think she wouldn't be strong enough to dump me for it. Maybe she would just shun me for a few days, be broken hearted, then I'd saunter in, make some "cute" jokes, and win her back.

I was also thinking, how would I feel if she cheated on me? And I think it would just make me want to have her more, as it would bring recognition to its (the relationship's) ultimate fleetingness. Neither of us are going to stay together forever, so what difference does it make? But I also recognize what's wrong with this situation. Don't fuck with a sensitive girl's feelings. Don't do it, don't hurt her, she doesn't deserve that.


Hmm.. OK. So I can cheat on her, and as long as she doesn't find out, it's OK. No! That's even worse. I'd lose the virtue of candour and I couldn't actually say I "acted in my fullest autonomy to defy the boundaries of the relationship." But that's silly, stupidly more philosophical than I analyze anything I do, and is rationally superfluous to think about it like that. But that's all I'm doing, overthinking what I probably won't do. I might just be hitting that wall again, when I was first hesitant to be part of this entity. Committment vs non-committment. Well, I'll let you guys know what happens. Not that I really have a choice anyway.

holy stats!

Look, things are getting better I almost have readers!

Not that I give a shit or anything.

But, look!




i wonder why that one posts got so many views (15). I'm sure 3 of them were from me on different computers and the other 12 from that Russian search engine. Maybe it's a sign that my first publishable novel will first be translated into Russian. By me. I dunno. Good night.

asdf 2/28

we're not happy til we're running away
clouds in your eyes
with nothing but the foggiest day

such a pretty song.
saw them play today.
it was fun.

dormant thoughts about the components of a film review. listened to the album and considered it by breaking up by different musical elements: the vocals, the synth, the lead guitar, rhythm, vocals, bass, drumming, energy, tone, genre or subgenre, the season evoked, the year of its release, the time of its release, the political atmosphere of the world at the time of its release... that sort of thing. disregard the last part.

can't sleep. i told myself it doesn't even matter how many hours of sleep i get tomorrow, i'll feel like shit anyway without coffee. and then once i have the coffee i'll realize I still feel like shit. my favorite professor here (whom i currently have) said there was this uncanny effect where a person will take on the persona of their job, internalize their responsibilities there subconsciously, and will assume the identity of that job's role. I hope this only applies while they're on the job, and not all the time. But it would certainly explain the gap between the rich and poor in this country. But then it undergoes the chicken and the egg question: do the wealthy exude a certain personality, or are they wealthy because they act "wealthy"? And then you have to consider where the wealth comes from - is it old money or new money? This makes me realize I have veered off the path I was going with my initial idea (of this paragraph) - do I feel shitty because my job is shitty? Or is my job shitty because I'm shitty? Or is this just a 1st-world problem (I work in an office) as I'm shitty for not realizing how grateful I should be to work this job? As so many people, including my father, are out of work right now and my rate of pay couldn't be beat with my student status and my city's local economy...shouldn't I work each moment with pride and apprecitation, dutifully? Nah, fuck it, school is more important and I should do the most dicking around as possible in these early years of employment because it's almost impossible for me to get fired while I can still get a kickass reference from someone who's not my dick of a boss, but my understanding manager. I wished I got to formally learn more fundamentals of running a small business...but I think I've picked a lot of it up directly and with doing some project management work. A lot of it is really shitty, though.

last night

A pulled me aside and said she had a dream about me. I teased her to get her to tell me about it. She said "I had a dream where I had sex with you." I laughed, honestly, and said "OK, I only have one question though...was it good?" "Yes!" she said and smiled which turned to laughter and I laughed too. I don't know where that went, but I think I said something about being taken, for now. We flirted all night. Wow, too bad she spent the night with my dumb sarcastic friend. And too bad I have a girlfriend. I dreamed about her last night, actually. We were on some bleachers, the sky was clear. I said, can you keep a secret? She said yeah, and I pulled her to me and kissed her. Maybe I should tell her this.

Custody over Remains

I'm going to send my step-father (is he even my step-father anymore?) about my mom's remains. He married her in 2006. She died at the end of the year. He remarried last year. She was married to my father for 20-something years, but that didn't last, she'll always be my mother. I think it is a modest proposal, a simple request, not too naggy of a question. I haven't even seen the remains, though. They're in an urn, usually, but what's inside? Is it full of powder? I hope I don't get high one night and start trying to feel around in it. My step-dad is spiritual, my father is not. The very concept of keeping someone's remains is quite spiritual. I'm only really spiritual when it involves desperate calls to my astrologer (and I only believe in it when I talk to her). I'm spiritual when it comes to illogical things. Like about what will help me last longer in bed, or what will get my girlfriend off, or what will help me remember things for a geography quiz. I don't know if having my mother's remains in my bedroom will make me feel more like she's "with me." Maybe that's weird. I know, in the months after her death, my step-dad told me he talked to her portrait on the wall. I've only talked to her in my head. It's about the same, though.

my last 7 years

I've been trying to outline them, although my memory has been failing me. Here's what I've got so far. Wish I had some weed. Will add more as I remember more. Feel like this says a lot about me, and how I've progressed.

Feb 21st 2011 - today
Jan 2011 - Officially girlfriended

Aug 2010 - Started my part-time job for mental health website
June 2010 - Moved off-campus to first real apartment on my own dime
June 2010 - Finish first year at real college, wrote notable 16pg thesis

Nov 2009 - First drunken college hook-up. Remembered to wrap it. Thought I was in love with her and got shut down. Glad to learn that lesson early on.
Sept 2009 - Moved to this new city in this new state to this new college, on campus
Sept 2009 - Resigned from social media agency job, completed noteworthy final report while being served captains and coke by my superiors
June 2009 - Accepted to out of state college. Expensive, but necessary.
Spring 2009 - Finish semester at local community college on a high note. Studied philosophy and business law, can't remember what else

Late 2008 - Dropped out of first community college. frustrated with lack of friends, support, and 30 mile commute
June 2008 - Grandmother dies. Notice that I'm able to cry at funeral (I could not at my mother's) as I'm no longer on antidepressants.
Early 2008 - Finish half-assed semester at first community college. Loved abnormal psychology, but got a C. Want to be a therapist but don't want to go to grad school.

Late 2007 - Start paid internship at social media agency in downtown LA. Learn a lot.
Summer 2007 - Spend two weeks in Paris, France. Lived in hostels, visited museums, pub crawls, late nights on my lonesome and with quickly-found friends. loved every minute of it. Paid for it with some college money my grandmother invested for me. Don't know where most of it went. Lived frugally otherwise.
Summer 2007 - Graduated from local high school. 2.8 weighted GPA
Spring 2007 - Continued Psychotherapy with famous MFT therapist. Can't remember if this was before or after Paris, or if Paris trip was in the middle.
Early 2007 - Get my driver's license. Delayed by arrest in 2006.
Early 2007 - Dad loses his job as mail room manager for WGA pension fund. He was there for 28 years. Gets a minor pension, but we lose our health insurance.

Dec 21st, 2006 - My mother loses battle with breast cancer at age 52. Read poem for large crowd at memorial service. Dress in all black. Cruel enjoyment in pathos. Enjoy the wake at step-dad's house in Ventura county. Mom was cremated.
June 2006 - My mom's wedding with my step-father. I mix muscle relaxants with alcohol and pass out in my aunt's Explorer.
Mid 2006 - Seeing psychiatrist in private practice for depression and anxiety (concurrent with seeing psychotherapist). Through this doctor, I experiment with Paxil, Welbutrin, Lexapro, and Effexor.
Mid 2006 - Pulled over and arrested on major street in my suburban hellhole on my way to Taco Bell. Driving without a license (just permit) blowing 0.04 BAC. (2 glasses of wine). Takes me longer to get my license. Fortunately, at my court hearing, the case was thrown out. Otherwise I would have had a DUI on my record at age 16. Blame my impulsiveness on the new Lexapro regimen.
Fall 2006 - Start senior year at local high school. Must take community college courses for credit to graduate.
April 2006 - Mom's divorce from Dad finalized.
Spring 2006 - Win award for best feature article in my school's newspaper - interviewed and wrote about teacher's Celtic band sideproject.

Fall 2005 - Junior year at local high school. Meet mentor who I'm still in contact with. Discover interest in writing and literature and possible potential. Still haven't taken full advantage of it. Can't believe that was 6 years ago...

Late 2004 - Graduate from drug court program. Acquitted of all felonies. Stepdad attends. Hard to believe he was in my life at this point.
Late 2004 - School cop told my mother I was suspected of stealing a red bull from local grocery store. We agree to transfer me to local high school in the next year.
Fall 2004 - Witness riot and "rumble" between blacks and mexicans at first high school from science building during chem class. Managed to get a C in that class, I think.
Mid 2004 - Start developing rituals of doing drugs alone. Painkillers, weed, amphetamines, and DXM. These rituals subside a bit during my time in drug court, as I'm being drug tested and can't smoke weed. But they increase during my junior year in high school.
Mid 2004 - Spend a lot of time on internet forum and playing internet games with internet friends. Look at pictures of naked women. Make dick jokes with anonymous fools. Play a lot of WarCraft III. Feel closer to friends on the internet than any of my classmates.
Mid 2004 - Realize my parents aren't getting along so well. Realize they are in debt.
Fall 2004 - Second year in high school. Anxious, but have friends. Not the best circle, but beats being a loner. Get bullied by a hardass group. This year sucks a lot more than the first year. Good friends leave or get kicked out. Try to spend time by myself a lot, but can't free myself from horrible people.
January 11th, 2004 - Arrested near first high school by undercover detectives while trying to smoke pot in an abandoned house with some dude. 2 felonies, with a tiny bit a meth and a single Vicodin pill. 10 months of my life devoted to California state Drug Court rehab system. DA said I would have done time in juvie if I wasn't white. Pretty fucked.

Fall 2003 - First year in high school. Meet some people who will influence me, for better or for worse, for the rest of my life. First close, cool friends...all who happen to do drugs, hooray! Get drunk for the first time. Get stoned for the first time.
June 2003 - Graduate from middle school. Ugly. Hate myself. Traumatized. First symptoms of social anxiety appear in 8th grade. Memories of hanging out at the mall with middle school girls and boys. Mostly awkward and uncomfortable. Kiss a girl or two. Innocent at best.


that's it for now. gotta go to bed.

9:46pm
she says
I feel like i'm writing complete bullshit!"
yesss

pfff thats nothing
If you're writing complete bullshit
then you're doing something right

i know but we only have 3 essays a quarter

What is the topic

jackie says thank you, that makes her feel better about herself

/what sources are you supposed to work from

shes writing about
she doesn't know lol
shes writing abour revolutionary movements during the 1840s and 1860s

sounds easy enough
the thesis can be always be wrong
Just say like "They had a huge impact on blank"

im telling her this
she says she doesn't have a thesis

and then three pages of citing stuff with some bogus analysis
and then conclusion: "They didn't have an impact on blank after all"

shesl aughing good job
im tryijgn to tell her what to write but its not doing very well

How many movements were there
Main ones, a bunch, interrelated ones?

there were 2 sort of rival ones, but it's not claer cut
and then 2 decades later came new weirder progresive ones
but you're right the first two rival ones didn't DO anything
they just had ideas

Okay so either talk about how one set the stage for the other
or how the second was in opposition to the first
or how the second tried where the first failed
And just have a page on one, a page on the other, and a page about attitudes in russia at the time
In CONCLUSION THEY WERE VERY DIFFERENT
bada bing

hahhaa
i'm breaking it down
she says a lot of smart stuf but not writing that smart stuff down

it's all about outlining
write in this order
1. vague summary of what your thesis will be about
2. list out each body paragraph
3. write body paragraphs in easiest/fastest order
4. bullshit the conclusion
5. summariaze everything you're "going to do" (aka already did) in the intro paragraph

yep
that's really good

It always helps to start the paper with "Since the beginning of time,"
Since the beginning of modern Russian history, political factions have sought to expand their levels of influence in urban centers

that's pretty close to it
she's impressed with how you think about this shit
i'm writing about political reforms from alexander II
and how thye were only subpar

I've been doing this kind of stuff for eight years

some were good, the big important one was shitty though
she says its just hard for her to "focus all at once"
aka women are dumb

looool
play nice

maybe a break is in order
she's in the fetal position
well, typing

pointlessness

"I can't believe I just remembered it was Valentine's day!" shouted a marketing lady to the few that had been sitting at their desks, or getting ready to, at about 8:00 AM.
"Yep, it is..." I said to my computer screen.
"I had to get valentines and chocolates for Max's class party..."
I'm glad I don't have kids.
"...and drive him to school early this morning!"
I'm so glad I don't have kids.
Ugh I don't want to be here but I guess it's better than the salt mines.

"Anyone want coffee, I'm making coffee," shouted our bossman to the busy office.
"There's no creamer..." V chipped in from her support desk.
"Yeah, there's no creamer!" said the marketing lady.

dear miss girlfriend's mom

Dear Ms. *****,

Today J and I went to S. and had a lovely time! We had a delicious lunch, and a fanciful time shopping at H&M. We both found each other some snazzy clothes and look great together. Well, I think so, but I think she would agree. Maybe you will too when you see us! Thank you so much for helping to fund our trip, it was a very nice gesture! You're a great mom!

Love,
Marcus

my earliest creative memory

I remember being influenced by Walt Whitman in the 10th grade...my last really good creative moment was writing a poem like his...free verse, ending with something about trees in a hue of magnificent green. Maybe it was OK, but it was spontaneous! I did it in 30 minutes! I'm gonna ask my mentor if he still has it. OK, I just texted him. He probably won't get back to me for a little while.
Today so much needless driving, spark plugs, filters, chassies, metal grinding, pipes, chains, torques, wrenches, oil, oil and grease all over your hands and it's hard to scrape it off. Feeling the gasoline combust, feeling the vehicle move forward. Spending money on parts.

bloody bugs

Ugh, I'm so dumb for not CCing bossman in this email to Oktoy. There should not be any errors in the shipping process on the front end at this point. It is ridiculous, and absurd that he is too busy to not respond within a reasonable 24 hours. And those messages I have sent about image uploading on Tuesday, I haven't heard a thing! Does he think this project is not important anymore? Does he think its petty, and less lucrative than the stuff he does for our company? Well, it is less important, but still, it's his duty to fix his bugs! Shit, I just realized my girlfriend's period blood is hanging on my cuticles. Sweet.

my day mystified

On my 10-minute break for cigarettes and a tea for my coworker, I maneuver up and down the streets of XXXXXX like a sullen Raskolnikov. The wind is piercing and harsh, like I imagine my boss will sound if he discovers I arrive back at minute eleven. The second cup of coffee provokes me not to work faster and more efficiently, but motivates a careless, capricious nature in me, and I read blogs and dick around. My boss is ten feet away, but faces the other direction. I take some risk in writing this post, but his attention is usually captured by the matters of better-paid, more important employees. Not that I want to be those people, of course. I am content working here only part time, while I get to fulfill my role as a student, friend and...lover during the other part of time. But I should really investigate one of those duties I am assigned. Ugh. The more I dread it and put it off, the harder it is to start. Well, at least it's a first-world problem.

Dostoevsky is

Dostoevsky is just a mid-19th century Sylvia Plath.
There. I said it.
No, but I think they've both drawn from similar influences. And fortunately D. wasn't a poet, or I'd have to read some poorly translated Russian poetry. That's a good motivation to learn Russian, actually. Being able to read Pushkin in his original tongue. As the Russians are so Pushkin-crazy, and since I haven't gotten that much out of his short story The Captain's Daughter, and actually prefer Lermontov in translated Russian poetry, I either need to read more of the man's work or learn more Russian.
But Notes from Underground is such a monumental work. I can't get started now, I'm running out of time. But it was certainly more enjoyable to read than the abysmal 10 pages I read of The Corrections. I'm not even going to write the author's name lest I'll turn up another Google search result for his name. So wordy, so pretentious. An experimental work that tried too hard.

animal lovers

I like cats. I like dogs. But I am embittered by Blogger's Blogs of Note. I don't care about your charcoal drawings of horses. I don't care about your diabetes. I don't care about your guide dog association. And I especially don't care about articles written from the vantage point of your cat!

This one is kind of neat: http://cobwebbedroom.blogspot.com/. It has interesting images and critique that one of my Asperger's syndrome friends would enjoy wasting time on.

This one is pretty: http://jacquelinegnott.blogspot.com/ but I don't want to buy your art. Nobody on Blogger does. Hang them at your local coffee shop. Also, stop posting images of things. The written word is where it all happens. I'm not saying my blog is chock full of content and exciting pictures of horses, but I am confident that my stories and erudite rants and complaints about life are far more important than horse pictures. I inserted the modifier "erudite" to show you how intelligent I am. I'm going to continue on this embittered limb I've bent and say that unless you write, you're stupid.

A brilliant yet snobbish Turkish programmer I work with told me that eventually, the internet will be completely text-based. The world of images will simply cease. While I don't see that happening as we people are fascinated by luminous colors, I certainly want it to.

My sweet aunt and my silly privileged American life

Today my aunt called me at about 5pm today. She says, how are you doing, are there any new developments in your life, how is work, how is school, etc. Most things anyone's aunt would ask them. An aunt who is distant and whom one can only visit once every year, or every other year. I tell her about what I'm studying, how much I enjoy it, how I like my professors and faculty, how I like my college, how I like my job, what I'm doing there and what I like about it, how my father is doing, lying if he is not doing well, but using an unsure tone if I am so she may understand without me speaking negative about him, what great things he is doing, how happy he is doing these things.

Maybe you are noticing a pattern. I do not think my situation is unique. There is so much I wish I could tell my aunt. She calls me every other Sunday if possible, ever since I lost my mother. I could tell my mom a little more, maybe a lot more. Yes, I could tell her almost everything! Somehow, sometime I will.

I should have told my aunt about what I did last night, why didn't I? I don't appreciate people being vague, why am I doing it myself? I think I was just startled and upset by her call, and when I am startled and upset, I play it safe by dealing with generalities. Much like the small talk at work.

I want to do more drugs. I wish I could find some opiates, some hydrocodone, oh that would be splendid, laying here, eating some ice cream, gazing at Dostoevsky's writing and...well, provided I could still follow the novel, it would be nice. In the past I had taken too much and I would just vegetate in front of my computer listening to ambient music and wasting my high time in front of mindless internet forums with stupid people arguing about how stupid the other person was.

Oh dear. What am I going to do with my life? My slightly older cousin will soon finish his business degree. My uncle, the Canadian capitalist, strongly believes his son will find a job in their Candadian economy in 5 minutes, starting between forty and sixty thousand Canadian dollars a year. After speaking to my mentor about this, the frailties in my uncle's comparison between my and my slightly older Canadian cousin became clear: If I pursued a degree in business, I would want to kill myself! -in a miserable fury, a kind of fury that lurks in the back of your mind, and writhes more as you age and fail to appease the objectives you set out to complete years ago. That sort of fury that triggers quarter and mid-life crises! I may be less attractive than my Canadian cousin, and while I could never muster the votes for my branded self to be Student Body President (of XXX private Christian college {UGH! GAG!}), I am a far more interesting person, with my struggles, my battles, my anguish, my old poverty, my rage, my highs, my ecstasies, elements he will never know! I am special! Listen to me! Hire me! Also, he'll have to work in offices! I have learned, in my work and experience, that offices are the bane of consciousness! The classroom, the studio, the library, the lecture hall, the streets, the outdoors, the kitchen and the bedroom are where things of importance spawn! And my girlfriend's on birth control, so let's just say things of importance happen there, not spawn. I'm too queer to be a breeder, but not queer enough to play with the boys. I know, I know. God made me this way. If only there was something I could do to remove this curse...but let's not go there today.

I know, I'm not modest here, I don't have to be. I am being silly, too. And I am hungry, so I will leave this library (where something of importance is spawning) for the kitchen (where something of importance will spawn).

As for what I'm going to do with my life, I'm going to drive home, make some tortellini, maybe drink some wine, get to page 60 in this novel, play a video game, and who knows what else, but I'm going to enjoy it. I've been working my ass off, except for last night, I need to take it easy, on my own. God bless America.

Maybe my cousin will make 40-60K CEOing the company that Trader Joe's imports their tortellini from.

Nah...

I don't think any of their products come from Canada.

distracted, so I'm here

Trying to read Dostoevsky but I keep getting distracted so I'll write my notes from above ground in my bourgeois universe here. Fell asleep to the looping DVD menu music from Speed. Woke up hungover in a sleeping bag in my friend's now furnished apartment. Drove my car half a mile so I wouldn't have to walk across campus to the library. Emailed the principal of the local middle school again, asking that if he hadn't chosen his math/reading tutors yet - he should choose me because I'm experienced at tutoring my peers, have a passion for learning and education and want to (try) sharing it with my community for $12 an hour if I'm lucky, and that I enjoy the presence of children. Only one of those claims is true. Sold 3 shares of some winning ETF in my Roth IRA. I want to call the brokerage and see if I can transfer some of that money to my individual account (which is empty) so I can put some riskier stocks in there. That stock is ONVI, if you're curious. The last time I tried doing that was with WAMU and my coworkers laughed at me when they went bankrupt. Only lost $50. Maybe I'll playing the market on Scottrade the same way Dostoevsky played cards during his 10 year prison sentence. If you wish to quantify it, perhaps I'll do better since I'm half his age when he wrote Notes, it's only a quarter as cold in my city than in Siberia, and although since I've only suffered a sixteenth of what he's endured, my writing will only end up a twohundred-fiftysixth in quality. I wish my school offered some sort of pre-Soviet GULAG literary enhancement program.

"...the most intense pleasures occur in despair, especially when you're very acutely aware of the hopelessness of your own predicament."

I wish my girlfriend wasn't so passive, maybe then she could break my heart and I'll become transposed with the gift of quality writing! But there is some weird situation where I actually WANT her to fuck someone else. It's confusing and stressful, and I'll get into it another time. Has there ever been some sort of story where a character tries to encourage his/her sig. other to have an affair?

i am here

the bit of ephedrine i took this morning certainly roused me, woke me, took me to school on top, but now it's making me a bit tweaky. i'll have to pipe down in language class if I don't want to look like a fool. after class I'll need to get to that paper, but there isn't much I need to really write, I must simply pull quotes and examples from Mr. Turgenev's and Mr. Gogol's work. Russian literature is nice. I suppose this may jeopardize my identity, but at this point, I don't really care. I am so happy to have a record of all these miserable, fleeting thoughts that make me proud to be human, thankful to be alive. I want to live to be 100 so I can witness all the changes in our society. Someone asked me what AutoTune would be considered three hundred years from now and I had more trouble grasping the idea of three hundred years from now than the rest of his question and couldn't offer a decent answer. three hundred years ago we had slavery in the americas, serfdom abroad, a time before nationalism, with just romanticism flourishing in europe, attempting to rear its head in russia, typhus, TB, syphilis, prostitution and opium wars, but still a nascent beauty that lingers today in the countryside, untouched by industry.

restored faith

It was so lovely speaking with R yesterday. I loved hearing about what he was writing. He was writing a thousand words a day with no problem, his completed NaNoWriMo acted as the source code for his novel in progress. It involves Greek mythos in imagined, modern characters. One thing that came up, he told me, when he was younger, he was far more critical of his work, and now he can just "let go". And before it was more autobiographical, and now he is happy to write about real characters from a third person perspective. Perhaps it's easy to write about what hasn't actually happened after writing a bit more about what has actually happened. I need to write more about my accounts with Elaine and Carolyn. Oh boy. He restored my faith, just listening to me let out about what I'm passionate about - misadventures!

The girl is ill!

The girl is mad, I say. She wallows in a depression that pulls her into a sense of slack which makes her angry at herself for being tardy to rise, being late to class. It is a vicious cycle that makes her appear ill, as she doesn't dress for appearances when she feels this way, and I am hesitant to criticize her as I don't want her to fall into the illness any deeper. I do not like to see her like this. She is slow and seems dim-witted. She doesn't respond to all inquiries made toward her, and keeps her head low. To me, she seems truly pathetic. Who could love such a sad creature?

But I have been that way in the past and can't help to acknowledge it, albeit only to myself, within my own memory. Though the girl tends to ruminate in her depression, she focuses on why she feels the way she does, and this does little good, while I tend to distract myself until I am able to realize I don't have it all that bad.

I tried to comfort and sympathize with her, but I felt pushed away by the demon lurking in her skull. It is distressing, and although I made her laugh for a moment, it did little for her, and just made me irritated. But as we were in class, I did little that might upset my strong, healthy reputation. Though, if we were alone, there wouldn't be much else I could do. I wanted to get away from her. She went home early and got away from everyone.

Once class was over, I spoke with the few of our friends and they asked me, "What have you done to the poor girl?" While I was bothered by this, I didn't react and told the truth, "I don't know, what did YOU do to her?" She complained and cried about her wet sneakers, as she didn't have time to find her boots in the morning, as she was rushed. Poor thing. First-world problem. That's not the core of the issue. That is petty. That doesn't drive people into the upset she is facing.

Only time will tell.

back in school now, my letter to popular career blogger

Dear XXX,

My name is Marcus Nagelberg. I'm going to stop there and tell you that I didn't realize how long this email would become, but I've written much of what needed to be written about me, but I can assure you, that every word of it is important because it comes from the heart! I am writing this covertly because it's an important use of my time, and I respect how accessible your email address is on your blog. That matters to me, as it shows you are willing to listen!

I'm a student at XXXXXXXX, a non-traditional, liberal arts college, as well as an employee for a startup called XXXXXX.org, although I've been spending a number of paid hours reading your old blog posts. I enjoyed what you said about Tim Feriss - all I got out of his 4-hour work week book was that, if I have my own business at some point, I can pay people in India to tie my shoes for me, but, as I have learned working my current job, they can't tell you if you're not respecting your employees.

So, I live in sort of a rich dad, poor dad scenario, although I lack much guidance from the rich dad. My father, my "poor dad" who is currently in grad school for an MFA in theatre arts, (he wants to direct, produce, and/or teach professional theatre) loves me, cares for me, and since my wealthy grandfather passed last year, is able to help me pay for school out of state, thank God.

But the best advice he can give me, as I go to school in XXXXXX - and he lives in suburban XXXX, where I was born and raised - is how to be an employee. It sounds like slave morality - "Do a good job, impress your boss, and maybe he'll keep you around and give you more responsibilities." I don't want to live my life like that. Though I'm doing it now, because I'm just getting started and want to absorb as much knowledge as I can and I must support myself while in college. But I'm very fortunate to learn at the ripe age of 21, that as interested as I am in social media, internet technology, and small business, I don't want to work in an office for the rest of my life.

It has been my understanding, that what many people have studied in their formal education is largely different from their career and/or vocational work. So, I have made decisions with my education to study what is best learned in an academic environment (current emphasis on Russian and Eurasian history, literature, language, and culture) and learn more lucrative things from jobs and internships. I am beginning to think I have made some poor choices. Well, probably not, seeing as I'm only 21. I don't want to get any older. Mentally, I feel 35. I want to be young and virile forever. But that's another story.

I just spent this Christmas with my Aunt and Uncle and their two sons and my second cousin. My uncle is very wealthy and is able to support his hobby of collecting and storing Corvettes. He has a passion for these cars like I have a passion for literature and music, but he knows he can't make much money from Corvettes, so he makes money via other means to support his hobby. He dropped out of college and developed a piece of software for mining engineers and sold it and made millions, and will probably start a new business this year to create a 2.0 version of the software and market it through the website. But the point is, he figured it out, he had a plan and went for it.

My argument is that he couldn't have done it all himself. He had his colleagues, his old coworkers from his old firm, his network to pool investors from. That he didn't come up with his plan until it crept up on him. And that's what I'm getting to. His son, my cousin, is graduating with a business degree from some Christian private college and my uncle is confident that he'll get a job paying $50-70K right away, as the economy is great in Calgary (where they are), and that they are looking for people like him. But does he really have a plan? He's student body president, people like him, possibly a natural leader, etc. I don't think he has a plan. He's just pretty and privileged and has a wealthy father to give him all the advice and connections he'll ever need. I don't have those things. I have to find them all myself.

I spent nearly two years as a paid, part-time intern and researcher at a social media marketing startup that blossomed in Los Angeles and expanded to NY and London. Of course, as an employee, my hourly rate never reflected the company's success. I couldn't get a promotion, as I was part-time. But I learned a hell of a lot and got some great referrals. I should do more to keep in touch.

Now I work at another small business. It started off great this summer, and I've been out of the house at 7 or 8am, either for school or work. I bust my ass more than any of my friends do. And the pay is good for this small city, better than I'd probably get anywhere else, part-time, as a literature/history student. But I'm really starting to hate the office environment. My job responsibilities have changed, like, every 6 weeks, there's weird structures and chains of command that elicit the worst in some people's personalities. And for some reason, my title is "Project Manager". That'll look good on a resume. I just don't know where I'd apply. I love working with computers, just not in a room with other people who I feel want to eat my brains when I die. And I find it truly sickening to see people more loyal to their superiors than the people they manage. My father worked in a place like this for longer than I've been alive to support his former wife, me, and to pay our mortgage. I should note that it's nowhere near getting paid off and costs more than the house is worth.

And I don't want to be a lifer, either. The other lady who used to manage me (until she took over my projects) has no life outside of this company. She recently went back to get her college degree and has been here a month longer than I have. I bet I could do her job and make good money, but I don't want to be consumed. She gets calls and emails from our director at home, on weekends. She'll come in at 7, leave at 3, but go home to do more work. She puts in a lot of hours, but she really needs to get laid. I agree with you, it does a lot more for a person getting laid once a week than once a month. I think I'm gonna go steady with this girl just because of what you said. (She comes back from Texas today, hooray!)

But it's also a really great site! It is ... XXXXXX. But please don't say anything about it or my boss will find out and kill me. But it's going places. We're the {description and ranking}! It's amazing. I wholeheartedly recommend it. The job isn't that bad, I just want to dick around a lot. I ask myself how much has changed since I was hired, and in some senses, a lot, and in some senses, not fucking much. My projects have certainly changed, and I've been "disciplined" too. It doesn't really matter now, but I'm just here to pay my bills. I've taken in some alternative measures, in "reassessing my core beliefs" and some yogi maxims and mumbo jumbo, but I just feel like shit here and I can't help it! The only thing I'm trying to do different is outside the office is, read your blog, start Tweeting and following interesting (career/academically) people on Twitter and I'm emailing the heads of Rotary clubs in my area because they might offer me some networking opportunities. I want to start my own thing. I just don't know what. But the issue is, where do I go from here? Compile a list of my interests and see what I can pursue to make money?

I want to travel, I want to live abroad. I'm learning that I love history. And I love literature. I think it's really important. I love Bukowski, Bronte, Plath, Camus, Wilde, Gogol and many other dead people's works. I'm learning Russian, I want to go to Russia and learn Russian. Why? Because it's a badass language. But I used to think that I'm ahead of my liberal arts colleagues at my liberal arts college with my vocational background, but I'm starting to doubt it as I really don't have much of a plan. I really trust my Uncle, my rich dad on this one. But I think I need to go out and see the world more in order to build one. I feel, on one hand I need to go out into the world, post-collegiate, bump around a bit, and then I'll be able to get a better perspective of what plan I can focus on. On the other hand, my uncle believes I need to have a plan now, while I'm in school, and follow up immediately afterward with some sort of career.

Please advise.

Your fan,
Marcus Nagelberg

even if you

walk into a crazy work crisis, you don't have to immediately respond to it