Yeah I don’t believe in anything. As long as I can remember, the entire concept of a God/gods just seemed and stills seems so…outlandish and preposterous.
I don’t mean that to sound unnecessarily cynical; but it’s just an unacceptable, utterly rejected concept in my head. Like, I can’t even remotely approach the concept of a deity or a holy creative power as a legitimate idea.
Dunno why. It just seems so…silly, you know? Almost childish. Like a magical parental concept to coddle you through life. I understand for a lot of people it’s not, but…eh.
You know, unsurprisingly, given the behaviors and attitudes I frequently enact, this question comes up.
To be honest, I don’t have an…integrated, extremely defined system of ethics and morals. I have an extremely flexible set of principles that define my everyday behaviors and fluidly react to every situation based on the situation rather than a set of internalized rules.
Which makes me sound like some anarchistic sociopath, but that’s not really the case.
Really I just…I just do things. I have a sense of right and wrong, but it seems worthless to put that into excessive application in every day life in the 2010 era. Everyone breaks the rules. Everyone stretches where their lines are. Every aspect of human nature is corroded and compartmentalized and simply fucked up these days. We’re all autistic psychotics lashing out against gods that were never real, or some shit like that.
Fuck this deep thinking — let’s all get loaded and wave our hands in the air like we’re nihilists. LIKE WE DON’T GIVE A FUCK!
On the one hand, it’s an excellent medium for expression within the postmodernistic praxis involving a deeper connection between the writer and the reader itself, involving a relationship growing on the awareness of the fiction and the details therein, creating a vibrant and complex environment that’s intellectual enriching as well as tells a tale —
— but on the other hand all too often it’s a bunch of pretentious, bog-downed horse shit stuck in a cycle of needless terminology and vague nonsense.
i've always wondered this. what happens when you're dating someone and you have to meet her parents? do you repress your true self or do their heads end up exploding?
You know — there are only three occasions in which I can remember meeting a girl’s parents while we were dating.
The first time I was slick, charming, possibly a bit too aw-shucks-I’m-just-a-confident-guy but otherwise alright. It went over reasonably well, and I was like WELL SHIT DAMN THAT’S A LOT EASIER THAN I THOUGHT. Of course, it didn’t last long, but I was just a wee strap of a lad with nary a toe-dip in the dating pool, so to speak.
The second time around I got ruthlessly interrogated by the mother. She had like, a fucking inquisition ready. She wanted to now my job, my plans, my future, my degree, what I was doing with my life, what kind of future I had with her daughter, what I thought about this and that, what involvement I had with such and such. It was merciless. I barely made it out alive. I’m not equipped to deal with such preoccupation with the “future”. I never even know what day it is unless a bad-ass movie is coming out soon.
The third and last time was even worse than that. The dad decided he hated me on sight, being all jew-boy-wearin’-a-darn-suit, and the mother decided I was some sort of sleazy jerk before I even opened my mouth (psychic powers) and I spent the entire evening getting glared at like I took a shit on the entree or something. Still dunno what the fuck was up with that.
Generally I don’t meet a dame’s parents, though — they either know it’d take too goddamn long to explain what I’m like in any rational sense to their parents, or, they just assume that I’d randomly shout CUNT FLAVORED CUNTS FROM THE CUNT NEBULA! during dinner. Or something. But it’s been a long, long-ass time since anyone had anything to do with wanting me to meet their parents, so.
At this point I really have no idea what I’d be like when I met someone’s parents. Maybe someone should write a musical about it. How DMV Met My Folks. Instant smash hit.
THERE I AM on my way back from the job interview on my bike, riding along through the glorious Tenderloin on my way to my favorite tea shop with nary a care in the world and weird fifties music stuck in my head (as it so often is) when some giant homeless guy jumps out into the middle of the street and runs smack dab into my bike.
which knocks me off, and knocks him over, but then he gets back up quick and grabs me and starts going through my pockets.
however, what he doesn’t know is that the things in my pockets are precious to me. he should get some pockets of his own. these are my pockets, and the things contained within have that preciousness extended to them.
so, I do the gentlemanly thing, (and having noticed my bike lock fell off when the bike hit the ground) I grab said bike lock with my hand and swing it around and hit him in the head with it as hard as I can.
a strong negotiating tactic in my opinion, but, it also relies on a quick separation clause as to avoid any unfortunate further incidents. I disentangle myself from the flailing giant hobo, stand my bike up and make my exit, among a few rather ungentlemanly remarks and a lot of laughter from various ruffians standing aside the crackhouses and cheap chinese joints. and continue on my way towards the tea shop, also checking to make sure my phone, wallet, mp3 player, keys, MOTHAFUCKIN’ POWER TIE are all still there.
speaking of being ignored, currently happening. why don't we just date daniel at least i already know you're an asshole.
(but seriously that’s why I’m a GREAT boyfriend. you already know I’m emotionally repressed, obnoxious, and prone to absurd impulsiveness. it’s like, saving time. none of that ‘oh this guy is so nice OH NO HE’S A JERK WHAT HAPPENED MY WORLD IS CRUSHED' shit.
Here’s the three kinds of chicks I run into most often. I wish I were joking. I wish it weren’t all so categorical. But, by jove and by jiminy, it all too often is.
All too often.
1. The Hip-Hip-Hooray Denial
Total hipster chick. Covered in really pointless tattoos. Spends shitloads of time in the various parks with cheap beers. Has a bike. Has a dog. Has a shitty wardrobe with lots of silly things. Often has an apartment coated in either artsy or repulsively retro things. Only likes certain dive bars if they know certain people will be there. Often has a long history of dating complete cliches and no recognition thereof. Invites to plenty of utterly silly themed events or something in the Mission. Always in the Mission. Generally friends with a fuckton of shitty musicians and surly lesbians.
2. Art It To Me
Hot-ish art student with let’s say like three tattoos (all extremely aesthetic, something related to a theme they consistently work on with their art) who reads some but never actually utilizes it, has a lot of knowledge without being able to apply it to things like life or conversation. Often has a long history of short shitty relationships of being ignored and therefore has that vague, needs attention but then doesn’t know what to do with attention problem. Can, however, probably drink you under the table.
3. Not Without My Career You Won’t
Utterly involved, just got out of their grad program career gals. Professionals. Healthcare, law, teaching, hospitality, architecture, what have you — basically as long as you have a penis and can make them laugh at the right points and shut up at the even right-er points, they’re fine with whatever and whoever you are. Also often mysteriously on-call, often discuss their day in protracted details that make no sense to anyone outside of the field, and occasionally will forget your name. However, are appreciate of any and all attention for something that isn’t work related, but also likely to break it off at a moment’s notice during a work-related crisis.
Boy, what fun. AND MY FRIENDS BACK EAST WONDER WHY I’M STILL SINGLE
Let’s be honest; there’s no way to live in a major city anymore and not have a touch of what could be called hipsterism.
At this point, hipsters are so all-inclusive, omni-pervasive that it doesn’t matter what you’re wearing, what you’re listening to, what you’re smoking, what movie you’re gonna go see — at some point one of your friends is still gonna go ‘pfeh, hipster’. Wear a vest — fucking hipster. Wear a t-shirt — fucking hipster. Have a cheap cigarette — jesus christ you goddamn hipster would you get an off-colored hoodie already and go sit around in the mission with your bike and best friend’s dog.
I mean, come on. At some point we have to stop this. We have to actually say, hey, fuck you buddy - I’m not some first-album, ridiculous-shades, vintage-torn-cuffs and PBR-can motherfucker, I’m just wearing a vest. I’m just smoking a spirit. Would you eat shit and die with your absurd preconceptions which, rather than actually insulting hipsters, merely make them more prolific.
Here’s the bottom line. The more silly bullshit you accuse of being “hipster-ish”, the more things that end up on the “hipster” list, and the more hipsters there are.
FUCK, PEOPLE, DO WE WANT TO END UP LIKE PORTLAND?! DO WE?!
Anyway, I’m gonna go listen to this first album while wearing Kanye shades. Come up in the spot lookin’ — please note — extra fly.
Been thinking about doing writing again — had a serious short story stint awhile back wherein I was churning those things out daily (some good, some bad, some just me killing people with weird names, some BRILLIANT) but that kind of got short-circuited by a lot of work and a lot of personal life nonsense, not the least of which being the ongoing cataclysms that are my attempts at dating on the west coast.
But how does one get back into writing?
Well, I guess this means I have to have a shit-ton more absurd out-of-control experiences. IF ONLY I HAD THOSE IN MY LIFE. IF ONLY RANDOM THINGS BEYOND BELIEVABILITY HAPPENED TO ME INCESSANTLY. OH WHAT A WORLD THAT WOULD BE.
Eh, fuck it. Probably just need to shift down a few gears for a couple weeks, let my blood pressure settle, and see where the winds take me.
Wait! Idea! Quick, I need two bottles of whiskey, a lab coat, and a big Altered States multi-eye goat mask!
Why do we need to qualify why Bruce Willis playing Bruce Willis being Bruce Willis is a good thing? Redundant, sir.
There are those out there who are unfortunately thick enough that they tire of Bruce Willis playing Bruce Willis being Bruce Willis. Curious, but true. Obviously they never had a good ol’ marathon of Die Hard, 12 Monkeys, and The Fifth Element.
We should duct tape them to theater seats and make them sit through a week’s worth of “RED”. THAT’LL LEARN ‘EM!
“This is not a book. This is libel, slander, defamation of character. This is not a book, in the ordinary sense of the word. No, this is a prolonged insult, a gob of spit in the face of Art, a kick in the pants to God, Man, Destiny, Time, Love, Beauty.”— Henry Miller, Tropic Of Cancer