04 November 2014

The prettiest girl I ever kissed grabbed me by my collar outside a bar in East Nashville and threw me up against the driver side window of her car. She held me there so I couldn’t move. She was four inches shorter than me. She was very strong. Her name was Lulu.

Lulu said, “Do you want to kiss me?”

I said, “OK.”

She started kissing me. I kissed her back—mostly because I didn’t know what else to do. Pretty soon we were full-on making out on her car. It was the dead of winter. I was freezing.

Lulu sensed that I was uncomfortable. She said, “You don’t have to be nervous.”

I said, “I’m not nervous at all. I just hate it when people make out in public. And now we are those people.”

She told me I couldn’t come over because she worked in the morning. I said, “OK.” She gave me her phone number and drove off. I never saw her again!

I think about Lulu sometimes. Lulu, where are you?

04 November 2014

I’d like to see an image of two chimpanzees fucking on top of the Declaration of Independence

Or an old phonograph playing Beethoven in the middle of a jungle

Or, hell, a mushroom cloud from an atomic weapon blooming over a large metropolitan area while everyone stares down at their smartphones

04 November 2014

It is incredible to me that someone would open their mouth or put their fingers to keys and believe that whatever words came out matter one damn bit

04 November 2014

Here’s the thing: I write sometimes. I don’t like most of it. I think that my thoughts are the same thoughts millions of other much smarter people have had throughout human history. When I go to write these thoughts down, I get self-conscious that I’m contributing to the great big swirling vortex of bullshit that already exists. I think of all these fucking people screaming and shrieking and creating noise that bears no significance on anyone’s life, and I feel like I don’t want to make any more of that. It’s loud enough.

But I also think about all the writing that has meant something to me, or comforted me, or amazed me, or whatever else, and I think, “Well, this person said the same thing a lot of other people have said, but it went through their unique filter, and this is what came out. And I’m glad they did this, because I feel better knowing that someone other than me exists (or once existed) who feels (or felt) the same way about these things that I think about a lot. And it won’t change a God damn thing, but hell, it certainly did something to or for me, and that’s great! I was so lonely before. Now I feel less lonely.”

And so on.

•   •   •

I am a fool. I don’t have any money at all. I have a lot of friends. I have a nice cat. I am healthy and I have all my teeth.

I like a few girls. I barely know them. They barely know me. Sometimes, when I’m drunk or spooked up, or whatever, I’ll think about them, and realize that I really don’t know them at all. And I’ll wonder what it is I like about them in the first place, given that I know so few details about their lives, and I have no idea how they act or think. Even their faces seem blurry to me in my head. Do I even know what they actually look like?

On weekends, at work, a woman will sometimes make eye contact with me. And I’ll wonder what’s going on over there in her brain.

I think of how disappointing it would be for her if she, for whatever foolish reason, wanted to know what I had going on inside my brain.

A stranger once said to me: “Let me into your brain! I want to walk the endless corridors in there!” And I nearly gagged, because that is absolutely the dumbest crap anyone has ever said to me.

Instead I said this: “Oh, trust me, they’re finite. In fact there’s just one corridor. And at the end of that corridor is something that even I don’t want to look at anymore, because it’s so useless and embarrassing.”

If I were in a bad mood and you asked me to describe human beings using two adjectives, I would say “useless” and “embarrassing.”

I am going to continue rambling: I have had sex with some people. A lot of those people don’t talk to me anymore. They didn’t know me to begin with. I can’t imagine why they would ever want to talk to me again. The before, the during, the after—well, it was probably a weird time. There is no after the after. No one wants the after the after. None of them want to see what that looks like.

Me neither!

What am I even saying? What I’m saying is this: we have nothing to talk about anymore, these people who are gone now, and we never did in the first place. We were fooling ourselves into thinking there was something else because we were stupid and controlled by our bodies.

Fucking bodies, man.

Every morning I wake up to fifteen or so messages from my friends. They are scattered all over the US. My friends send me messages when they’re sad because they know I won’t think they’re wrong for feeling that way, and because they know I won’t try to give them silly advice on how to “snap out of it.” They are positive I will say to them, “I know, I know. Listen: I know. And you’re not alone.” Like the books I have read, maybe this is a comforting thing to hear, even if it’s from an idiot like me. I can’t cure them, or make them feel any better, but I can understand them, and acknowledge them, and listen to them. Their words go somewhere and end up at me. I read them all.

It hurts! To read those words. Because I don’t want any of these beautiful people to have to feel rotten. But what can you do?

I need to write more, and play my guitar more, and exercise more. I need to sleep at night. I need to stop having sex with people who probably hate me. I need to stop being a god damn idiot.

Tim once said that ideas are nothing without work. God damn it, I’ve got to work. Because that’s all there is: the work. What else is there?

I need to get a motorcycle and drive it a million miles an hour down to Los Angeles and see a girl I know there. Because she’s nice to me and she’s pretty.

God. Yeah. I gotta do that.

04 November 2014

How does a writer publish their writing somewhere that isn’t a dumb cartoony secret website that nobody cares about?

Well: I imagine they think to themselves, “This thing I have made isn’t very good. I mean, it’s probably OK, but I still hate it. I’m going to send it anyway. Maybe someone will get something out of it. Hell, I don’t know.”

That’s what I would think. But the truth is that, for a lot of the writing that gets put out, crippling self-doubt doesn’t even enter into the quote unquote writer’s brain. Man, that’s kind of sad. That makes me really sad.

However! I should probably send something somewhere. Why the heck not? The worst that could happen is someone scans a story I have written and realizes they don’t care about it. How is that different from anything else about me or any of the other seven billion lost souls out there?



04 November 2014

Put this on my tombstone: “FINALLY”




And on and on!

03 November 2014

OK, here are some things I am either doing or going to do very soon (in no order):

  1. Get my cat’s shots
  2. Finish my stupid novel
  3. Move to North Oakland (this is happening Friday!)
  4. Sell my car
  5. Buy a motorcycle
  6. Finish designing a website where I will post three science-fiction stories a week (whoa this is almost done)
  7. Get a vasectomy (hah! seriously!)
  8. Get on food stamps (I think this will be done sometime this week)
  9. Go to the dentist (I want this more than anything else)
  10. Kiss someone cool????


03 November 2014

I have a lot of friends!

Sometimes people use me to befriend my friends (Zak calls them “Collectors”) and then they get rid of me!

That’s kind of weird!

That’s maybe sociopathic behavior!

It’s also sad for everyone!

Oh well! ☆ミ

02 November 2014

Uh: this stuff doesn’t fool me anymore

And it sure hasn’t fooled me in a long time!