These are posts and entries from when I first started this website a year ago. I want to start fresh but did not want to actually delete any of these as they are pieces of myself and my time. They are necessary to my growth and freedom, so where you are now is an archive of where this journey began.
I want to embody this energy at all times.
My Blood is Bleach
Sometimes my body feels kind of like a pillow case for a soul that doesn’t understand what it’s like to stand still; it’s as if my feet have never known the grace of the ground, that I am so out of touch with myself and my own life that I can’t control anything that goes on within it’s circle.
I’m not so sure if that’s really true, though. I would say in this very moment that I am experiencing intense anxiety about being alive. Thoughts are like insects in my head marching without purpose or intent, they are just beings of their own will; parasites acting on their God’s command.
So maybe I’m not God after all…
Oh well! Having a humungous ego really isn’t synonymous with possessing legit confidence, in fact I would argue that the former stands to pair with a poor self-image and a low self-esteem. People that need to tell everyone how happy they are probably really aren’t that happy.
I don’t want to be a goddamn short order cook forever, but it pays the bills right now. There’s got to be some way I can use my day job to springboard onto whatever path I really want in life—who says I have to even give up my love for food to do that?
I bet I could make enough money writing shit and open all sorts of opportunities for myself! I’m just too self-loathing, that’s all. That’s why I can’t accomplish shit, I am in my own way. That is why I make omelets for a living.
If I wasn’t surrounded by good people while I was at work I really think I would lose my head sometimes. I started when I was 19, and I didn’t talk to anyone. My mission to me was clear enough; do whatever the fuck you’re told, make your money and go the fuck home. I suppose it hasn’t really changed.
It’s rewarding being apart of a business that’s thriving, truth is it’s really one of the only times in my life where I’ve felt important, one of the only times I sucked so hard at something and just didn’t give up on it to the point where I became great at it. That took me a couple years. There is a part of me that misses just making salads and not having to speak to anyone, because I honestly didn’t give a single shit to see any of their faces. I still work with people who I don’t hate, but god I just would not blink if I never saw them again.
Now I feel all of this pressure when I go in, although I guess in recent weeks I’ve relaxed in my head about it. I don’t need to be Superman all the time. My father always told me I was addicted to saving the day, White Knight Syndrome. I’m sure that stems from me never feeling good enough in my life.
So maybe I stay where I’m at because I have a low self-esteem? I wonder if there’s some way I can use that to my advantage, like if I could use all of that negative energy and transform it into something that can drive me forward.
I’m 23 now and I already look at myself a hell of a lot better than I did when I was 19 or 16 or even 7, and I truly believe that didn’t happen on its own. I made a conscious effort to be what I believe is a better human being.
Ya know, I keep wailing on myself for what I haven’t accomplished, but to be honest I’ve actually accomplished a lot. Maybe this is just the beginning for me.
Video Games
I grew up with them, they were how I spent a lot of my time as a kid. I remember the pixels of Super Mario Brothers gratifying the tiny ass TV set in the dining room, there wasn’t a couch or a table set up in front of it so if I wanted to play, I had to pull up a chair from the actual dining room table. There was something about these fictitious, art-driven worlds that just pulled me in from the start.
I always had a low self-esteem, I never felt like I was good enough. I was shy, I wasn’t good at making friends, I took every little thing to heart. I was chubby and sensitive. I cried a lot, I hurt even more. It was kind of hilarious.
So I ran away into these virtual displays of reality. I would always turn whatever game on and then make up stories in my head about what was happening on the screen. I don’t think I ever paid attention to the actual game, I think I just adored being in my own head because it meant that no one could fall in love with hating me, at least that’s how I felt then.
I miss that sense of innocent joy, I miss when being creative was fun. I wonder if I can get that back.
Shitting my pants on the way to Aldi: A Love Story
It’s literally because I didn’t wipe good enough, I really wasn’t paying attention. I didn’t notice until I pulled in to the gas station and got up, noticing that my underwear was like, glued to my ass. I did not physically poop in the car, mind you, I just didn’t clean up good enough.
I’m not worried about it, though. After all, it gave me enough motivation to write something. I’m going to write everyday from here on out. I don’t care if it’s only for ten minutes, I don’t care if its merely just a document of my thoughts. Not everything I write needs to meet an expectation of quality, and I guess it’s always been my biggest weakness that I haven’t seen that. I’ve always held myself up to the knife of this incredibly golden standard, that everything I do needs to gain traction from a third party. Everything I do needs to impress people.
Well, today I am officially abolishing that mindset. The things I write are for me. It doesn’t have to be stupidly poetic, it doesn’t have to be anything. I just have to be me.
Here’s a story I wrote last week:
Pablo the Omega
by Alex Wildman
Pablo the Omega was the fiercest most powerful overlord who oversaw Sugarfrosts’ historic Pee-Pee District. In appearance he resembled something parallel to a sloth and a tall can of Arizona iced tea–he had what everyone claimed to be the most cylinder-shaped head they had ever seen. A butternut staff made of hardened and frozen sticks of margarine always occupied his enclosed left palm; legend has it that no matter what meteorological conditions blanketed the nutsack terrain of Sugarfrost, the staff never melted or faltered.
But one day it was fucking gone.
Pablo the Omega woke up on the morning of Pamuary 19th ( a month named after the historic non-stick cooking spray of his ancestors), to find that his beloved butternut staff was missing from his throne room in the Holiday Inn Kingdom.
This tragedy was met with mixed reactions from the public, since roughly half of Pee-Pee District resented Pablo. See, Pablo the Omega was the first ruler in the nation’s history to not possess royal blood, he was the first new chapter in a new bloodline of leadership. Before his reign, it was said that no being, except for those enlisted in the royal bloodline, could ever lay a finger on the butternut staff. Any civilian who tried was met with the most brutalizing methods of punishment; they were directly fed to the Yum Yum Queen’s Diarrhea Cheetah. A fate reserved for mankind’s most wanted.
Pablo the Omega alerted the royal police and explained to them what had happened. The arrows of suspicion began to point toward Queen Yum Yum herself, and while this was a fair assumption given the Queen’s track record, war was bound to dawn on the horizon on account of such accusations.
As an outsider, you are more than likely oblivious to the true powers of the butternut staff–see, once obtained, the user of the staff can bend the will and flow of every bowel movement in the world to their vision. However, this doesn’t occur at the drop of a hat, for a ritual with the staff’s corresponding accoutrement must be performed by a member of the royal family and a sacrifice.
It was Pablo the Omega’s belief, that Queen Yum Yum devised to use the staff to take a literal humongous shit on the nutsack terrain of Sugarfrost, blanketing it in enough feces to solidify its resources for centuries. She dreamed of the world’s first Brown Bottom Sky. She yearned for true power.
Chapter 1: The Android Octopus
The Great Margarine War to obtain the power of the Butternut Staff has been raging for almost an entire year, with Sugarfrost’s Cereal Milk Battalion struggling against the might of the Queen’s heavily-funded Royal Buttercup Brigade. So far the Queen’s army has already obtained 4 of the 7 legendary acroutement, her troops rushing the battlefield with overwhelming might and weaponry. Cereal Milk soldiers begin to fall back as the sky darkens to a brisk fade of midnight gray, as the Royal Army advances into Sugarfrost territory. They are here in this particular zone to obtain the fifth accoutrement after the Queen has gained valuable intel that it is located in between Pablo the Omega’s buttcheeks. Trust and honor has broken amongst the Cereal Milk Battalion, since it is expected that one or more soldiers are insiders for the Queen’s upper class intelligence agencies.
Though Cereal Soldiers are falling back, there are just too many of them for the Queen’s army to fully sweep the Pee-Pee District let alone the Holiday Inn Kingdom to search for Pablo. This is accredited to Pablo’s right hand, General Tony “The Tiger” Smith, who has led his army to more than one victory in the midst of this Great War.
General Smith’s persistence and resolve has been a thorn in Queen Yum Yum’s vagina for the entirety of this war, and through desperation, she is forced to make an incredibly harsh and heinous decision.
“Are you sure you want to go through with this, Your Majesty?” asks one of the thousand intelligence officers in Yum’s Yum’s throne room, also known as The Trap.
Another chimes in, “We as a consecutive unit swore to only unleash this power when in dire straights, do we really believe this is going to secure victory today? It just doesn’t seem wise.”
The Queen remained silent at first, almost dormant. She seemed to be contemplating the concerns of her employees, yes, that’s all they were–employees. She’s the fucking Queen of Sugarfrost, for Gumdrop’s sake. She can do as she pleases.
It was at that moment that Yum Yum remembered what Pablo did to her father, an act so criminally heartless that it labeled Pee-Pee District and all who empathized with it a traitor to Sugarfrost. It’s why the Omega himself had to create the Cereal Milk Battalion, why Pablo the Omega is the most wanted criminal in human history.
It was in that same moment that the Queen rendered the idea as a no-brainer, and with that, she wagged her royal fingers (she simply did not have thumbs) in approval.
“Do it,” ordered Your Majesty.
And without further conversation or strategy, the button was pressed. It was a big red button located at the side of the throne, protected in a dome of glass labeled “Do Not Break Unless In Dire Straights”.
As if tradition, the oldest member of Queen’s royal guard, a 79 year old lollipop of a man named Willy, broke the glass. A second layer of glass labeled “Are You Seriously Sure?” was then broken by his son, Billy. And finally the big red labelless button was exposed. The Queen, equipped with no hesitation, smashed the button and beckoned for a big ass bowl of her favorite victory treat - ice cold butterscotch pudding served in a steaming glass bowl. Don’t ask me why the bowl needed to be hot as fuck, I think she just liked the differences in temperature colliding. I imagine it to be like putting sour cream on your burrito bowl at Chipotle.
Back on the battlefield, the sky began to blossom like a garden, the stars converting from bright white to a deep, stricken purple. This had only ever occurred one separate time in human history, and General Tiger knew exactly what it meant.
The General’s eyes widened as his jaw practically punched the ground, and his eyes took on the identity of fear itself.
“What is it, sir?” asked some random ass trooper.
“Get me in touch with Lord Pablo.”
“Yes sir, is everything alright?”
“She’s coming…”
Roboctopus the Android Octopus, a creature whose name haunted generations. Just the mere mention of the creature was considered foolish spending of one’s breath, almost like a death wish. She is considered to be the most dangerous and destructive specimen known to Man, Woman, and Walnut Muffin. Her origins are still not entirely known.
She has been summoned only one time in human history, by the Butt Pickle Overlord over twenty centuries ago during the Battle of the Broken Kings, a conflict which resulted in the creation of the Butternut Staff. It was because of this summoning that BPO walked away from the battlefield in a blanketed haze of victory. All thanks to the Android Octopus herself.
And now here she was, well on her way to storm the front gates of the Holiday Inn Kingdom in a single flurry of ruthless attacks–for reasons yet unknown, the only viable opponent was the man being protected in the throne room, the man with the fifth accoutrement in his ass; humanity’s only hope, the only known wielder of the Omega.
We need you, Pablo.
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Chapter 2 coming whenever I feel like it.
My Opinion on the Art Space
It sucks. I think the art space sucks. I think what’s considered appropriate and not offensive is more admirable in terms of industry; I think you’re way more likely to win a contest if your entry favors a specific agenda, I don’t believe the quality of your work truly matters so long as it serves the right people.
These are all things that frustrate me about what I love the most. I’ve been in love with words since I learned how to use them, and even they are slaves to an industrial domain.
Words are art, and art hurts—that’s the truth. That’s what makes it such a powerful gift, creations are an extension of the mind that isn’t typically nurtured in the daylight. So I guess it triggers me when I see an ability so beautiful nullified and muted for purposes I believe are in the spirit of true evil.
Writing is how I yearn to obtain my freedom as a human with a soul, and the first thing I want to do when I feel like that’s under attack is to destroy whatever is trying to take what I believe is mine.
This is probably why I love Attack on Titan so much, this intense theme of freedom that never abandons the story, I really resonate with it. That and the show is just fucking sweet to me. I definitely want a breakdown of it to be my next post.
An Excerpt from my Father’s Book
PEOPLE WHO FEAR CHANGE
by Dale Wildman
The boy was dead before they ever got him to shore, I think, thought I’ll never be sure, now. It happened on a bright summer’s day some 30 years ago, at one of those public swimming pools so popular with cement contractors and chlorine companies. When my friend (let’s call him “Big Doug,” since he was a year older and much larger than my scrawny nine-year-old self) and I heard the lifeguard’s whistle signaling what we thought was a ‘pool check,’ we turned and, resentful at having our fun interrupted, waded sullenly toward the mock beach and the big blanket that Doug’s mom had spread out on the mock sand.
Sadly, it turned out to be no pool check. Doug and I pushed down with the rest of that summer day’s throng, toward the water’s edge, to watch the searchers in their quest to find what the crowd whispered was a missing boy.
Just when it seemed that they would find nothing, that there must be some explanation for the youngster’s disappearance, a shout went up: “Here he is!” As the boy was carried toward us, body limp, feet and head dangling, Doug and I could see that he was about our age, about ten or so, and that his face was positively blue, a horrible, purplish blue that is in my memory now, and no doubt forever.
I remember, too, how someone gave him mouth-to-mouth and how the ambulance guys ran in and how everyone waited, and watched, and waited, solemn and frightened and hopeful, but in the end the boy died, or stayed dead, like I said I don’t know which, but either way it was final and tragic. If it had been a TV movie he would have been saved somehow, but there wasn’t a movie crew in sight, and they pulled the sheet over his face, and that was that.
Many things have changed in the three decades since. Mankind made it to the moon. The microwave oven pops my popcorn in less time than it used to take me to open the bag of corn seeds and oil the pan. And my friend Big Doug is now Dr. Doug, my favorite medicine man and, as one with a growing practice to go with his growing family, one very busy guy.
I hadn’t seen much of Doug since we got out of school, and we had never talked about that day at the pool, not then or ever. One day not long back I got to thinking about it, though, and for some reason I started thinking that maybe that day at the beach, that day we stood and watched the drowned boy, waited and watched with all the rest, was when my friend Doug decided he would be a doctor. It made sense, in my mind, I was instantly certain it was true, and though I hadn’t seen him in years, suddenly I wanted to talk to him about this, wanted him to tell me the story about how the senseless tragedy we had witnessed as boys had inspired him to become a doctor, a helper, a healer. Maybe then it would make at least some sort of sense to me, after all.
So I phoned his mother and got Doug’s home number and called him up, just like that, and asked him about that day, you know, about being a doctor and all. And do you know what his response was? “No,” he said. “No, not really. I already knew I wanted to be a doctor when that happened. I always did.” He reminded me that his mother had been a highly regarded nurse, and said he supposed that had a lot to do with his wanting to be a doctor, but he didn’t really know. If it was a TV movie he would have told me a different story, I bet, the one I expected, wanted, to hear, but again, no movie crew and, again, that was that.
And the moral is—well, I guess the obvious moral is that life is not a TV movie. But there is more to it than that.
See, things have changed a lot since in the last three decades. For one thing, I am now bigger than Big Doug, or at least I think I weigh more, which is sort of frightening. But for all the things that have changed, the products and processes, the people and politics, in your life and mine, what stands out is that the truly important things stay the same. Honesty, integrity, compassion, truth, mercy, forgiveness, the other basic human virtues. These have always been the important things, the only real things, the things that matter, and always will. All the rest is just moon landings and microwaves.
In fact, that’s how you can tell the real things from those things which are not so real, not so important. Take my friend Big Doug, for instance, now Dr. Doug. He is certainly not the boy I knew, and his opinions and mine may differ now as they never would have then. But he is still Doug, still the same generous, compassionate kid I knew so many years ago. When push comes to shove, when all the new and improved products are gone and forgotten and today’s styles are yesterday’s news, what remains is what’s most important, unchangeable, real. At heart, in the ways that matter most, Dr. Doug is still my old friend Big Doug, and always will be.
And the boy we watched die is still dead.
Change is all around us, constant, yes, which also means that each change is temporary. Only real is forever.
Taken from Amazingly Helpful Insights From a Stunningly Handsome Writer, by Dale Wildman, 2001
Springtime for Hitler
3/31/22, 4:14 PM
This time of year is when I am most stricken with Daddy Depression’s sawdering iron. My mood swings like a disrupted pendulum, I become increasingly more difficult and loathsome as a human being, I will scream for desolation one breath and I’m pleading for attention and company by the next—it’s me at my worst.
I’ve never been sure as to why this is the case every gorgeous season, but it’s a thing. Every year it’s a thing.
Well, this time I’m pissed.
I refuse to let the pressure and weight of chemically charged emotions get in the way of my development in this world. I am not going to wake up and do nothing, I am not going to be bullied by my own heart into remaining stagnant and push people away because I’m angry and irritated for no reason. I want to do something this time. I want to use these negative surges of feeling as an opportunity to create something meaningful.
Now, that’s all nice and inspirational and gets my nipples hard and all, but this is exactly how my hyper-fixative issues operate. This whole breath in, breath out mechanic of being ready to rule the world when I wake up, and then slugging like a skeletal sloth by lunch. I am so sick of this shit. I don’t want to do this anymore.
So how do I overcome this inevitable wave of deafening silence?
Clean your room
Make your bed every morning
Declutter your home and when things are clean, KEEP THEM CLEA N
I am a product of my environment, so having a clean and clear home where I feel like I have control will help my mental state, it always does. This is my first mission, phase one of my master conquest to be the SEXIEST MAN ALIVE.
The second part involves taking control of my finances, and then setting a goal that I want to work toward in my life — what is it I want to even do? I know I want to create in some fashion. Writing, video games, animation, music, movies, TV, etc.
I am not going to rot in monotony any longer. I will roll with the punches, but I will not let those punches knock me out anymore.
I am so serious. No more bullshit, no more mania. This will be the most difficult journey I have faced in my life so far, I recognize the key, the element I’ve been lacking most when it comes to ANYTHING is CONSISTENCY. Action creates motivation, I’m not gonna wake up one day and it’s not all gonna just click. I have the ideas, I just need to get a move on.
Fuck you, Adolf.
The Bruising that Burned the Bridge: A Very Short Story That Never Actually Happened
CHAPTER ONE AND ONLY
The sky married so many different colors the day I finally died, it was almost like placing an anchor in my head trying to keep the weight of it all in check. I woke up as tired as I’d ever been, wearing the grog of that morning like the skin of a stricken serpent. A rude vacancy circled pits in my stomach, I could feel the embers working their way up from my gut to my tongue. I calmly reached for the waste basket that I kept bedside, though not for this specific occasion.
I immediately nicked myself for thinking of it as a waste basket. Why the fuck wouldn’t I have just said trash can?
The contents creeped up, the acid in my stomach twisting itself into pools of wind. It erupted in a sputter like misguided words. I even missed part of the trash basket, slightly painting a pocket of my bedroom floor.
Stupid fucking waste can.
Pamela Anderson Attacks a Paper Village
Pulled the fabric out of my lungs,
and choked on hot leather,
Minerals living in water like paintings of future nature.
A pocketful of malintent,
So the forest gets me close to god,
Soft embers kissing warm dirt.
The entire peanut gallery is just staring at me now,
I don’t even think I know what a peanut gallery actually is.
Okay… they’re still staring,
Do y’all mind?
Sometimes my head feels like someone took a dense brick of burning lead and just forced me to put my tongue against it for thirty seconds. It’s burning, its heavy, it doesn’t smell good. It’s somehow simultaneously numb and deeply excruciating. It’s like I’m in this “world between worlds” that is dedicated to radiating vacancy. But even the lack of feeling for me is a bad feeling, so can it even be a lack of feeling if it feels bad to have no feelings? Wow! How galaxy brained is that!?
Better write that down.
fuse oxygen
notice all the little fibers of broken thought
streaming in perfect violence from beneath my tongue
I only want to sing in the keys that matter to me
but I only cry in cracked volume
who told Pinocchio to sit in front of the furnace?
I’ve been watching him burn slow since my dad died
but that was forever ago
a history embedded in infinite fire
I am now an easy knife
a king blade, a handle of weapon
Every day I sing
And I do it only for me
I freaking wrote this shit a couple years ago in college. It really didn’t mean very much to me the morning I wrote it, but my professor ended up entering it into a poetry contest at school, so imagine my surprise when I found out that it won. I even had to go to this dinner thingy and get up on a microphone and accept this award I had never even heard of prior to that night. It was honestly the first time in a long time I felt like my writing was enough to elevate my position in life.
I have not done anything since.
Alive by Fire
9/21/21, 8:53 AM
TAKING MASSIVE SHIT AT WORK.
THE CONTENTS OF MY ASS ARE A HURRICANE PARALLEL TO THE CONTENTS OF MY SOUL.
ALL LIGHTS OFF, ALL BETS JUST THE SAME.
I WISH I COULD COMPLETELY DESTROY THIS TOILET, I WISH MY SHIT POSSESSED THE POWER TO BREAK CERAMIC WITH THE BLUR OF A MIDNIGHT WHISPER.
ENTER SANDMAN.
EXIT MY ASS.
To You, Forever My Father
9/19/21, 5:32 PM
I know it’s been a more than a couple of years since our eyes shared light under the same ray of sky. To this day I truly feel, in my heart of hearts - you deserved a better sunset. I will always feel vacant about the way you went out, Dad.
That being said, I need your help now. I’m lost. I’m becoming a product of some twisted existential drift, I don't feel like I can get a leg up. Your aunt killed herself because she couldn’t take that feeling anymore, and she didn’t feel like she could be rescued. The poor woman couldn’t even sleep. I feel like she died tired.
Did you die tired, too? Weren’t you always tired? Your eyes always carried this burden of a weightless pain, the softest shade of iron I have seen to this day. I think your soul was ready to be freed from that. It’s like your body couldn’t handle the purity of it all anymore.
I’m thinking of what you’d might say if you were still physically here with the rest of us, but nothing seems to line up with what you may actually say. You have surprised me more than once.
I haven’t been eating, really. It’s been making me sick, I feel like throwing up.
I know that nobody has wronged me, either. No one. I know this. If no one has wronged me, where does this steam come from? Where is the mud in the water here? I’m as loved as ever, right?
Yes.
I think you would tell me to move away from anything that will stand in my way to become myself.
Thank you, my friend.
I Read Post Office by Charles Bukowski
9/18/21, 3:55 PM
May I just begin this by saying I have internally had a struggle day today? I am experiencing all these breeds of intense emotion. I’m angry, I feel restless. I’m tired. I’m sad. This is a perfect time to practice my spiritual and mental and emotional exploration, because if I were to behave in accordance to what these feelings suggest, I think I could do some serious damage on my relationships with people, not to mention the one I have with myself.
So instead, I will use my thoughts to understand my feelings, even though I really feel like jumping into a lake full of battery powered toasters.
So anyway, this book is pretty fucking incredible. There were times I was sad. there were times I was laughing my ass off, there were times I felt like Bukowski himself arose from his grave and whipped me in the jaw with a fucking 16 inch cock I can’t even say for sure belongs to him. What?
The entire tale is told through the main character, Henry Chinaski. This novel does not necessarily have a structured story design, but rather an inventory of Chinaski’s thoughts and perspective on things as he miserably sludges through his rotten life. All the guy wants to do is fuck and make money and booze the fuck out, and he carries absolutely no shame in any of it. Like, he’s actually a complete piece of shit.
So Henry, struggling and tired, gets a job delivering mail for the post office just to fucking survive (the US postal service and Henry’s addictive personality and undying misery are about the only recurring themes here).
One of my favorite scenes:
The voices of the people were the same, no matter where you carried the mail you heard the same things over and over again.
“You’re late, aren’t you?”
“Where’s the regular carrier?”
“Hello, Uncle Sam!”
“Mailman! Mailman! This doesn’t go here!”
The streets were full of insane and dull people. Most of them lived in nice houses and didn’t seem to work, and you wondered how they did it. There was one guy who wouldn’t let you put the mail in his box. He’d stand in the driveway and watch you coming for 2 or 3 blocks and he’d stand there and hold his hand out.
I asked some of the other guys who had carried the route:
“What’s wrong with that guy who stand and holds his hand out?”
”What guy who stands there and holds his hand out?” they asked.
They all had the same voices too.
One day when I had the route, the man-who-holds-his-hand-out was a half a block up the street. He was talking to neighbor, looked back at me more than a block away and knew he had time to walk back and meet me. When he turned his back to me, I began running. I don’t believe I ever delivered mail that fast, all stride and motion, never stopping or pausing, I was going to kill him. I had the letter half in the slot of his box when he turned and saw me.
“OH NO NO NO!” he screamed, “DON’T PUT IT IN THE BOX!”
He ran down the street toward me. All I saw was the blur of his feet. He must have run a hundred yards in 9.2.
I put the letter in his hand. I watched him open it, walk across the porch, open the door and go into his house.
What it meant somebody else will have to tell me.
I don’t exactly know why, but that scene had me in tears just laughing my ass off. I was laughing my ass off just now writing it in here. The way he is able to make the reader understand how annoying the man-who-holds-his-hand-out actually is without directly saying it is so genius to me. And when Henry gets petty as fuck and starts running to the mail slot, that is exactly what I would have wanted to do! It was just so satisfying to read for me.
This novel is just as much comedy as it is tragedy, too. It’s really an incredible read. You really grow to completely hate Henry, because like I said, he’s a total piece of human shit, but you can’t bring yourself to despise him completely. You see some of yourself in him, no matter who you are. I personally felt like I related to him in quite a few ways, it almost made me feel sorry for the guy.
Almost.
Read this book.
farted.
9/17/21, 4:12 PM
I do not believe that human feelings are what cause the destruction of human relationships. I think that it’s the action the host of those emotions takes in response to those feelings. Emotional experiences cannot be controlled, they are much deeper than chemical conflict.
I’m getting into the practice of exercising clear and concise communication about how I’m feeling, I’ve grown so weak from dancing in these circular patterns to avoid my issues at heart. For me, it’s the beginning of a dialogue between me and my emotions. I want to learn more about them, I want to apply curiosity to the situation and use my head and my heart in tandem. I want that balance of opposites, and the only way I think I can get it is to wear how I feel on my sleeve. I can’t get to know them if I keep them buried in a box all the time, and then I can’t learn from them hardly at all.
The real challenge for me isn’t to wear my heart on my sleeve, because I think I can manage that at this point with some practice, but it’s to know when to tone that shit the fuck down—like, not force feeding my insecurities into a conversation. That would personally overwhelm the fuck out of me if somebody was doing it to me. Again, it’s the balance that I want. I aspire for transparency but I do not aim to overshare, because there’s a deep end to both sides of that spectrum. You can go too far off either end.
I really hope I don’t drown.
Ninja Samurai Pirate Warrior vs John Cena vs Fuck You
9/14/2021, 4:46 PM
A better title for this entry would probably be something like Art vs Artist or Local Goku Headed Idiot Ruins His Life. I actually don’t have anything else to add on that subject.
HOWEVER…
My brain is beginning to come to this overtly shocking realization that growth does not come from constantly talking about it, but rather the art of action. It’s nice to want to speak things into existence, and I do believe that is a solid component you’re able to apply to the process, but polluting local oxygen with your shallow-hearted hopes and dreams is just going to break the same wall of glass that it creates.
It aches my stomach when I attempt so hard to impress somebody, because I sacrifice a lot of authenticity and self-respect to make that happen. I get so nervous and uneasy when I’m talking with someone I want to like me—and I pretty much, in my heart of hearts, want everyone to like me. I’m so curious as to why that is, too. My assumption is that its because I’ve never really liked myself, but again—why is that?
When I’m talking to somebody, I’ll just fill the distance between our faces with rows and shadows of things that I think they want to hear, when I know if I just be myself without dedicating (sacrificing) that space in my brain to validation, then that person probably already fucks with me. And if they don’t, the result is the most honest it could possibly be.
That’s my goal, start being myself and just see what happens. No more rewriting texts, no more snake tactics, no more over-analyzing, I just want to be my most honest self to everybody on this planet. I must learn to let go of this ridiculous idea that self-value is measured with eyes that don’t even belong to me.
I am as afraid of my errors as I am conscious of them, and I will do better.
How to Not be a Complete Douche and Love Everyone Around You
9/14/2021, 4:43 PM
Just think for once.
Note to Self
8/15/21, 8:47 PM
People who radiate a negative energy produce a particularly foul taste. There’s always something to criticize, they are constantly looking for someone or something they can look down on to make themselves feel better about who they are (or who they have become). It’s as lazy as it is lousy, and it’s in my contempt for these types of people that I’ve come to face the wretched horrors of a good clean mirror:
I’m one of them!
If you have a dedicated disdain toward a quality in a person, you should slow your roll and really take a look between those lines you’ve impulsively blurred. We hate ourselves. Your partner has such high expectations of you because they really have a high standard for their own self. You hate people who always need to be in the spotlight, but you can’t get enough of the camera. You’re a cock, a dick. You are a cockdick.
So, instead of hating on the ones who actually reflect your most hated self-images, use them and their shitty features as a way to learn about yourself. Why do you feel the need to be center-stage? Why do you hold people to such high expectations? Why are you a cockdick? You might be carrying around some unprocessed trauma on your back that weighs pressure on your spinal cords until your soul winds up in a wheelchair. I encourage you (and me) to dig deeper into that story and really get to know the parts of you that you’ve left unaddressed. It isn’t that you lack capacity, no one does. What you’re lacking is perspective, and no one is born with it. It’s learned. It’s unlearned. It’s learned again. We are all damaged by design, it’s in the acceptance of that damage that we really begin to understand our true selves.
The process isn’t easy, and everyone moves at their own pace. It will probably be the most uncomfortable journey you’ll ever take in your life, and it lasts the entire time you’re here. So take a seat, cockdick. You have some refelecting to do. :)
Dick Swinging Good-for-Nothing Moron
8/3/21, 8:52 PM
So I’m getting home to my overpriced apartment, an upstairs unit that is directly next to a unit my landlord uses as an air bnb, so there are different people coming in and out every few days or so. 9 times out of 10, I’m pretty unbothered by the traffic—but occasionally I run into a few complete fucking idiots. Like this guy who just wouldn’t shut up about how he had been driving all day, how hungry he was, and how somebody had parked right where he thought he was supposed to. Mind you, I’m just attempting to get my goddamn mail, and this tool shed makes a quest of it. Super annoying to me.
Anyway, I park in my garage port, and I have to carry a bunch of shit. All of my recording equipment, my guitars, bags of sundries, etc. And this dude must have recently pulled in before I even got there, because he’s getting out at the same time I’m grabbing this plethora of items to take upstairs to my home. This man gets out of his car, armed with narrow lens sunglasses, khaki shorts, and a bag of takeout and says to me:
“I don’t think you’re supposed to park there,”
He points to an SUV parked in the lot behind the garage ports. Not the car I’m getting things out of. No, not my car. A completely random SUV.
I looked at him, bathed in irritation from the tone he’d put behind his words.
“Okay?”
“Yeah like, I don’t think you’re supposed to park there. It makes it real hard to get into this spot.”
At this point my brain is too exhausted to make the connection that he must, for some esoteric reason, think that the SUV he hurts over belongs to me.
“Yeah?”
“It just makes it hard! You know what I mean? It makes it hard!”
He storms past me in a self-established race to the door inside the building, I casually am following behind, physically unphased. At this point I still have not put together that he’s under the impression he’s just confronted his fetishized perpetrator.
So before I can get into the building, he lets the door close behind him on me as he says with a voice encased in the echoes of the empty hallways,
“There’s free parking on the street!”
The door slams in my face. He didn’t actually slam it, it’s just a shitty door. Believe it or not, I still haven’t given a second thought to what was actually happening. When I become annoyed by people, I’ve always just kept confrontation to a minimum. Like, if I’m annoyed by you, then I want you as far away from me and out of my sight as possible. I am not aiming to stick it to you, I just do not want to be bothered. But lately I’ve found myself bearing this idea as a burden more than a solution. Sometimes people just need to be told to fuck off. I don’t know why I just can’t be bothered. I guess I could trace it to my unhealthy sporting of superiority over other people, like “I’m too good and too big to deal with this stupid senseless shit,” type of mindset. Wherever it’s stemming from, I generally loath people. So logically I try to do what I can to either make them go away or distance myself. But it would feel so good to just tell someone to eat a bowl of cocks and get fucked, perhaps I should apply the fact that it might just do them some good. But then again, why do I care if it does them any good? Maybe its a defense mechanism, a trauma response. I’m really not entirely sure.
I didn’t tell this guy anything, I pulled the usual move and ignored him. But I can’t help but find myself regretting that.
Guess I’ll learn more as I improve.
Don’t Blush
7/8/21, 8:59 PM
[prologue?]
The sun drew its final breath for the day, retiring below the canyons that towered off into the distance. The sand shaded giants embraced their routine positions as nighttime guardians. Remnants of late evening dust gently claim their throne in one thin layer of grey atop the ground. The sky has burnt out now, echoing the asphalt skin of the vultures that preyed just hours before under its temples.
No one said we’d found God here.
The world we call home wears a strange piece. The wind here breathes as wicked as wolves, almost as if it were revealing terrible secrets in its whispers. The heat hurts like hell, the feet of its citizens are always torched by the miles of dead sand that blanket the terrain’s design. The miserable skin of Mother Earth.
Don’t blush.
Stomped the Fucking Phantom Brake Pedal
7/8/21, 9:23 AM
Shitting at work. It stinks.
*Update: It’s 8:17 PM of the same day - I’m shitting at home now. Work totally sucked.
Still stinks.
Pissing in a Random Barrel Somewhere
7/2/21, 11:26 PM
Toward the end of my junior year of high school, I got into a relationship with somebody just because they showed interest in me while I was in pain. I did not connect with this girl, but we built a relationship together that lasted like, two years. She embodied everything I had grown to resent up until that point - she actually couldn’t spell my name right the first year we started officially dating. Always put an S in it. Alexsander. I’m not making fun of her for that, either, by the way.
We shared no common interests outside of smoking cigarettes and eating pizza. I disagreed with just about everything she ever said, and on top of that she was completely toxic in her habits. She sported a complex of narcissism greater than my own, and couldn’t ever admit to being wrong about things.
So, anyways, I ended up falling in love with what we had built. All the toxicity, I mean. I knew she was so bad for me and was incapable of helping me advance anywhere in my life, so when she finally broke up with me, why was I so madly heartbroken?
Well, truthfully, I was relieved when she called it off. I felt like, free. I didn’t actually experience any emotional strain until she started fucking someone else, and I realized that she had left me for someone else.
So now we enter the dragon. My self-worth was completely wilted from that, and I let it eat at me and dictate all of my actions and decisions for months after. I did whatever I could to get her attention onto me. She mentioned wanting an iPhone, so I bought her one. She mentioned wanting a quarter sleeve tattooed, so I bought her one. She had mentioned wanting to get married throughout our entire relationship, so I FINANCED A RING TO GET HER BACK.
She had come to my apartment to get the rest of her things, and that’s when I popped the ring out. I will never forget the look of shock and horror that plagued her face, and I will not forget the only thing that came out of her mouth in that moment
“Dude… no.”
Whoops.
I was 18, and why did I do these things? It was not because I loved her, it was not because I thought breaking up was a mistake, it was to prove a point to myself. It was sick. It was to preserve whatever pieces of my ego were left on the floor. To prove that I deserved better than to be left for someone else. That’s how narrow my perspective was, that’s how sour my brain had become. That’s how selfish of a person I was becoming. I did all of this whacky, crazy shit for attention because if I didn’t get it, it would be a shot across the bow right into my God complex. I was obsessed with protecting my jewels.
So down this rabbit hole we go. Me spending thousands of dollars to chase validation, me fucking her best friend behind her back so I could feel I’d won (massive L), and me drowning myself in pity and Newports. For months I ran the course of total mental decimation, self-destructing and purposely doing toxic things just to drive the thorn further into my side.
Of course I regret doing all of that, but it’s almost kind of hard to when I reflect on how much I was able to learn from those acts of fucking terror. I don’t think I would have grown as much as I have if not for that period in my life where I let it all go.
Laugh now, cry later.
That actually doesn’t make any sense in context of what I just wrote. It’s just the name of a Drake song. It just sounds cool. Let me think of another closer. Ummmm. Uhhh. Okay:
Of course I regret doing all of that, but it’s almost kind of hard to when I reflect on how much I was able to learn from those acts of fucking terror. I don’t think I would have grown as much as I have if not for that period in my life where I let it all go.
I altered my design to change, and I’m grateful for that.
I really am.
… laughnowcrylater HAHAHAHA.
Hey, You
7/2/21, 10:32 PM
My bones feel like bags of sand at this point, my whole being is just… well, I’m tired. I can’t keep dealing these cards. My eyes feel heavier than my face, two anchors aiming to sink the whole damned ship. I keep putting myself through this emotional feedback loop, like my head is strong enough to detach itself from any feeling of objection my soul may possess.
It simply doesn’t work this way. Your mind can persevere and work with who you are to draw sensible conclusions, you need to be just as mentally intelligent as you are emotionally intelligent. You may not disregard one or the other. If you’re always using your head, you’re a heartless sociopath who only values specific wiring in the brain. If you act solely off your heart’s greatest intent, you’re a lovesick fool who is going to hurt others just as much as you are hurting yourself. There needs to be a line of communication between the two entities that make up your being. You should develop a system to marry the both of them, your life won’t work if you exclusively depend on one part of you to lift the rest of you.
For example, as of this moment, I am completely consumed by how I’m feeling. A hand has crawled out from under the couch and has wrapped nooses around my neck, it’s telling me to be impulsive. It’s spitting in my face and telling me to press on without taking a second to think. Everyone has felt this hand. You can’t shoulder the blame for this. You are not in control of how you feel, or what you think. But you are in complete control of how you handle this (only you can prevent wildfires lol).
Smokey the dumbass bear aside, how I’m feeling is exhausted and angry. I can choose now to treat people like shit, I can choose to unleash the attention-seeking demon locked away in my guts, you know what I’m talking about—saying or doing certain things to manipulate someone into paying attention to you. I’ve practiced the art for years. This is not the path.
The path is to ground yourself and discover your most authentic form. Your actions should align with your nature, your true flow state. You shouldn’t exercise the art of effort to create specific reactions out of people in your everyday life. You should be yourself and remove the idea of shame. Your insecurities should be sewn to your sleeve, let everyone see your colors. I can smell my asshole when I use the leg-press at the gym. It smells bad. I don’t exactly understand why, but it smells like poo. I know damned well that I wiped with proper technique, but it’s an insecurity I have. My ugly, smelly asshole.
The truth is, the painfully corny truth is, nobody possesses perfection. There are people who are smarter than you, people who look better than you, are funnier than you, and fuck better than you do. Difference and equality can co-exist. You are not lacking in worth because Johnny 2x4 has a massive 12-inch cock slapping his knee cap. Your pussy probably stinks like shit no matter how hard you clean it out on a daily basis, it’s just the cog in the machine at this point.
Your happiness, your fulfillment comes from enlightenment. It comes from what your values are. If your ultimate goal is to fuck the baddest bitch in the room, you’re going to feel like complete shit because you couldn’t hit. If your ultimate value is to be yourself and to keep learning, you’ve reached it. You are fulfilled. And now you’re so cool that bad ass bitch is probably going to want to fuck you, and it’s going to be completely organic!
I encourage the both of us to reevaluate what it important to us in this life. If you are not happy, why not? What would make you happy, and why? And is happiness even the height of life you’re attempting to reach, because… WHY? You’d be chasing a chemical emotion, you’re wanting to drain a limited resource of its value.
I’m not saying your ideals need to sync up with my own, but what I am saying is that you should take a second and get curious as to why what matters to you, matters to you.
You feel incomplete without romance, so you jump from partner to partner to make you feel whole. Why are you doing this? Why do you feel empty without the presence of a romantic interest? Apply some curiosity to that, explore what’s going on with you. You might just discover you had everything you needed.
And listen, I’m the last man on earth who should be shelling out life advice. I’m laying on the couch sipping a beer and smacking a disposable vape. This wasn’t just a note for you, it’s a note for me, too.
I can’t wait to see what we do.
I Hate You
7/2/21, 10:23 PM
So I actually wrote this with my dad a while back! I had a cheap $80 acoustic guitar I kept in his apartment in case I wanted to play while I was over there. One time I had grabbed it and just played this little two-chord progression on loop. He started nodding his head, his eyes occupied with ideas, squinting with a mystical whimsy. I shit you not he started spitting bars. I can’t remember exactly what he was saying, but it was something like this
I hate you,
Hate that smile,
Hate that ugly green dress,
Hate the way you left my life a mess
Oh, I hate you
It was actually catchy as shit. I started popping off, too. I just can’t remember any of the lyrics, but we jammed out. I don’t recall if it was a nice day or not, but it sure was a nice moment.
Never thought it would be far enough for me to miss it.
Live from the Mangekyo
7/2/21, 4:54 PM
My knuckles blush as I write this out, and to be honest I’m not entirely sure what it is I’m writing. I’m sort of just allowing my fingers to dance here. There aren’t any rituals. The traffic in my head is just accelerating at such an alarming rate, these thoughts are streaming in sync with, uh… I don’t fucking know. Cheetahs? Sonic? Lightning? My thoughts are streaming in sync with lightning. That sounds edgy enough.
I’m not alright right now. And that’s okay! I want to take advantage of this frame of mind regardless of its weight. I’ve found myself to be in a dark place in this moment, it almost feels to me like I don’t exist in this dimension I’ve become accustomed to living in all these years. Feels kind of like I’m somewhere different.
It reminds me of the goddamn sharingan from Naruto (😂). There’s this scene where Kakashi-Sensei is caught in Itachi’s visual jutsu, and it’s basically like this personal torture chamber if you get wrapped up in it. So Kakashi’s conscious is being completely manipulated by this fucking black magic and his entire body becomes paper thin—like he legit becomes a piece of fucking paper, and Itachi is just continuously lighting him on fire. In reality, not even a second has passed—but in this alternate world, he’s being burned for like, eleven years or something.
Could you fucking imagine? No, like. Really think. Think about being a piece of paper and some emo boy is just consistently setting you ablaze from the time you are 10 until you’re 21.
That’s one of the things that comes to mind when I’m considering how I feel right now. Time is just crawling on like a bug with its wings cut loose. It feels like the sky could be the ocean if it wanted to. Like, I could drown in the sky.
I do wonder what the sun would taste like, though.
I am an Alien Ninja Cowboy Who Came from the Underworld
Spiritually, that is. Look dude, there are an infinite number of universes and dimensions that extend way beyond the borders of what we’ve come to understand or ever will. Humans can’t even grasp the concept of equality without someone getting butt hurt, how can we ever hope to comprehend what the whole existence thing is? We can’t, and we won’t.
Anyways, my point - infinite numbers of reality, you are not about to tell me I don’t possess Red Dead Redemption energy in one of them. I know damn well somewhere I’m riding my horse along the wild frontiers of alternate America. There’s two revolvers tucked in my waist, and my satchel contains… well, it’s a secret. In fact, I don’t even know. But I’ve definitely got a satchel.
Totally have a cowboy hat, too. It sports a tilt toward the western sun, and I only look up from it when something is really worth my time. I’ve robbed and I’ve killed, but it is because I am lost. I’ve bled my loyalty to the men and women I’ve come to call family, and it’s that dedication and those values that have gotten me in the worst positions.
This is just the plot to Red Dead 2, by the way. I am trying to be the plot to Red Dead 2.
A Series of Personally Embarrassing Confessions - TRIGGER WARNING!!
6/29/21, 5:20 PM
I oftentimes forget to flush the toilet before work and I come home and my entire apartment smells like piss shit or both.
I have only recently learned how to properly wipe my ass without getting poop stains in my underwear.
I almost never brush my teeth.
Speaking of hygienic (or lack thereof) issues in the bathroom, I have an extremely hairy asshole and a lot of times will get dingleberries in my ass hair that I have to physically pick out.
Feet smell. Don’t know why. Just do.
Never properly clean after cooking. Mold in coffee maker because I never clean it out until the next morning. Dishes piled.
Completely undeserved God complex rotting somewhere in my brain. Think my head is an open house for prestigious real estate. It isn’t. It’s an orphanage.
Constantly act like I’m not insecure when in all reality I am highly insecure—but come on, this is like, everybody. But also give me your validation. Do not trust me. My whispers are not worth their weight.
I cannot properly shave my pubes. I can never get it right. There is always always always stray hair.
I think that’s the bulk of it. Will update with anything new if it comes about. Can’t grow without clarity, sorry.
The Archers’ Bows Have Broken
6/24/2021, 10:42 PM
If you know me in any capacity deeper than a loaf of stale bread, it’s apparent to you that I possess an issue with ego. This is not to say that I am a highly secure person, because when it comes to that game, my score thrives in the mid-range of things. So, like. C+ to B-, give or take.
One of the habitats the insecurities I do have feed is my ego, which I would compare its fragility to that of a new-born seahorse. When that sucker is bruised, my whole system goes bananas. I’ve taken practice in the art of deflecting that demonic force, I have trained my head to keep it at bay—something I consider to be a step in the right direction. I’m unsure if something like that can be totally wiped clean, but I am confident that it can be managed.
When I have those feelings of being inadequate, I change. Love and logic is trumped by cruelty and bitterness. It starts snowing in April, and I become an apathetic mineral. I become some sort of emotionless pharaoh.
That is a side of me that I am not comfortable with people seeing, and I partly think that’s because I know that is not an accurate representation of the person I’ve worked toward being now. I’ve made a conscious effort to reflect and to grow over the last few years. I didn’t want to be a miserable fuck anymore. I don’t want to hate things. I want to be a positive force in people’s lives. I want them to know I can listen, and that I can feel their negativity with them. I sort of want to act as a totem for people, something the bad vibes shy away from. If we are together, I want nothing but for you to feel like shit is okay.
I understand that to this day, my energy can be triple six. I have my days where I am loathsome and am starving for attention, and I want to be heard and cared for. These are merely emotions trying to get in the way of things. They are plastic figures designed to challenge my transcendence. I resent when I uncontrollably have feelings like this, but they are so necessary. I can’t get better at fighting them off if they never come around. So all in all, I’m grateful for the presence of those plagues. They remind me I still have a chance.
I’m definitely not inferring that I do not stray off the beaten path, because that would be a rotten lie. Sometimes I become completely submerged in the same river Narcissus used as a mirror when he fell in love with himself, and that’s okay. What isn’t okay is when the people around me get pulled in by the ankles, when I become a totally different person and exchange my empathy for emptiness. Love is not currency. What’s important is that I find my way back.
So to those beloved people that have been caught in my crosshairs during those episodes, I am bathed in gratitude’s golden eyes. I am not able to promise that I will never unleash that animal again, but I am promising that I’m using its teeth as a tool.
I love you, and I will build all of you a house.
Public Restrooms
6/23/21, 3:25 PM
I cannot stand this idea. The bathroom is an environment of vulnerability, and for me serves as a porcelain-plated sanctuary. When I’m pissing or I’m taking a shit, the rest of you evaporate from my mind. The world glitters into particles of toxic gas and is released into the atmosphere.
So when you’re in the stall and some Johnny Debra walks in the restroom, it breaches the pureness of my meditation. Who is this person? I am shitting, you fool. Of course I want to be alone. Please exit my field of euphoria at once, you do not belong here. My time in the bathroom is the only time I can be my real self. It is where I can reflect on design as a person, it is where I make incredible progress in self-discovery. Let me defecate.
It sucks on the other end too though. Why do I want to walk in and expose myself when you’re releasing the presence of God a few feet from where I’m standing? Bro, I can smell that shit. Your asshole is not made of sugar. I can smell every mistake you’ve made today. None of your insecurities are welcome anywhere near my nostrils buddy (but if you need someone, we can totally talk).
Now, luckily I’m not cursed (blessed) with a one-track mind on this issue. I can see the other end of things. I understand that for the whole lot of us, the restroom is an escape from your shitty job or your shitty marriage—your shitty life. I know you work somewhere you cannot bear to exist at. I know you aren’t happy. I can feel the golden sense of relief you have when you use the bathroom at work, that 5 minutes you can stop writing manuals for garage door openers and take your phone out and clear your head. The bliss of a truly beautiful escape. The fortunate wonders of honest solitude.
So I’m torn on this, actually. I really hate the idea of an endless pit of strangers sharing the same place to take shits and pisses. I’m wondering if we can move that technology to its next level. You know, elevate the masses. We need the Tesla self-cleaning toilets. I’m talking something that will not only spray your ass out, but will actually sanitize itself when someone is finished using it—and I’m sorry, no more of this “only two restrooms per place” system, because that is horseshit. We need multiple, single-serve, self-cleaning restrooms.
Where the fuck you at, Elon?
The Last Enemy that Shall Be Destroyed (Trigger Warning)
6/22/21, 1:39 AM
Look, I’m not suicidal. But recently I keep thinking about killing myself. I have thoughts, these intrusive, wild fuckin’ thoughts of just myself laid out on the floor. My soul finally leaving the home it’s made in my body, sailing on to its higher purpose.
A demon has worked its way into my body, I can sense an evil aura just a few feet away from me all the time now. I say things I don’t mean. I almost feel possessed by somebody, something that is completely filled with hate. I obsess over the idea of suffering, when this devil wins whatever battle it’s fighting get control of my body.
Am I angry that my dad died the way he did? Yeah. I’m pissed about that. When I had just turned 18, I got an apartment right across from his, because I missed him. At that point I really didn’t get to see him much. He was very sick. He’d been very sick my whole life, but I was not ready for the amount of care and attention he needed from me. I built so much resentment for him in my heart because of the codependency. He leaned on me too much, I couldn’t handle it. One night he got super pissed at me because he asked if I could buy him candy from the gas station up the street, which was a usual request. I was late. I didn’t bring it until a couple of hours after he had asked, I was busy doing other things. After I finally brought it, he barely said a word to me. In fact, he threw the bag in a fit of anger. That made me feel pretty shitty. I just walked out of his apartment after that, I too did not say a word. It wasn’t long after that until I never saw him again.
I did not hold a grudge against him for the way he acted that night, though. He’d been a man of blatant bitterness since the day I met him. I was used to this behavior from him, I was used to the selfish energy that came with his spirit. But I’d be lying if I said that that night, on top of everything else, made me want to distance myself. So I did. I didn’t talk to him or go see him for a week—it happened to be the last week of his life.
And a weird week it was, too. He started deteriorating more, mentally. He would text me things that just didn’t make any fucking sense. I remember him texting to ask me if we had gotten my tire put on yet. It was the first time I had heard about a tire in like 2 years. I had no idea what he was talking about. But, whatever hate, whatever fucking devil I have in my heart, didn’t think too much about it. I didn’t do anything. I didn’t say anything. I just let it be. I knew he was losing his mind, and I didn’t say a goddamn word to anyone about it. I didn’t care. Who does that shit? Who doesn’t feel emotions or empathy potently enough to ignore something like that?
So this weird ass texting continued. He even texted me once and told me he tried to come see me at work, but that he couldn’t find it. He knew where that shit was. I don’t know what he meant by he couldn’t find it. And him coming to see me at work was a move that completely stepped out of the outline of the kind of guy he was. He was so perceptive, he knew I wouldn’t want him to come see me at work when I literally saw him all the time prior to this one crazy week.
So it had been over a week since I last saw him, I had been avoiding him because I was annoyed with our relationship. It was starting to become a bond by toxicity. He was expecting so much from me all the time, or at least I felt like it was so much. I didn’t want to do it anymore. So that next Monday, I was hanging out with one of my friends, a friend I hadn’t gotten to hang out with much because adult life was beginning to bloom, so it was nice to see him. We’re chilling at my new house because I had moved out of the apartment across my dad a couple few months prior. I think we were playing video games. And around 9 that night, I just remember feeling something wasn’t right. I got this intuitive message from whatever core controls my being. I pulled my phone about, and I texted the man I’d been avoiding.
“Are you alright, dad?”
When he didn’t respond (he always responded), I got a heavy feeling. But guess what? I ignored that too. I told myself he’s sick, he’s old, it’s 9 at night. He’s probably taking a nap. He had pretty aggressive problems sleeping, so I figured he’d be awake in just a couple of hours. But I was wrong.
I woke up the next morning about 10. My phone had one notification, and it was a voicemail from a number I didn’t recognize:
Alex, this is Officer Sweaty-Ballsack from the Fairborn Police Department, I need you to give me a call.
I gave him a call. He said, “Hey, is this Alex?”
“This is.”
“Is Dale Wildman your dad?”
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry. He’s passed away.”
“Okay, okay. I don’t live far, I’m on my way.”
The cop said something in response to my apathy, like asked if I was okay or something, I just don’t remember what he said. But I do remember him questioning how I handled the call without questioning how I handled the call.
I didn’t get in my car and burn rubber, but I was kind of hauling some ass. Just driving a little quicker than I normally would. My head was completely empty. I really don’t think a single thought crossed my mind on the way there. I pulled up to my dad’s apartment, and Sweaty-Ballsack and another cop stood outside the door. I do not remember the interaction I had before he asked if I wanted to see him.
I opened the door, the same door I had opened a million times over before. I opened it when I had his meds, I opened it when I had his bag of candy, I opened it when he ordered pizza for our hours-long sessions watching King of the Hill, and I opened it when I needed to talk.
I opened the absolute fuck out of that door.
There he was, on the couch. Arms and legs sprawled out, darkened shades of blue flushing the other colors out of his hands and feet. He had been there a while. I don’t fucking know how long he had been there. Nobody does. His eyes were not closed, but they weren’t open either. And, he’d shit himself. The whole room smelled like feces. He was only wearing his underwear, and it was filled with day(s)-old shit.
I stood over him a while. I don’t think I touched him, though. I just sort of stood. I didn’t cry, I didn’t feel any pain. I actually didn’t feel anything. I legitimately did not process what was happening. I was 19.
I have no idea how he died. Like, I don’t know what killed him. Didn’t get an autopsy, just had him cremated and put in a blue urn. To this day, I don’t know what he was doing in those last moments before he expired. I don’t know what he was thinking, I don’t know how he was feeling. I don’t know if he was aware he was dying or if he just died in a second. Going off the way he was sprawled out, though, my guess is that he was in pain. He was probably watching TV and just couldn’t breath to the point where he died painfully. He died sad.
I called my brother and told him to come to dad’s, because he had died. And then I called my mother, and then my mother called my sister. Both of my siblings showed up around the same time, both crying. Like, really crying. I was the only one not crying. They fought, too, actually, because my brother was quickly using comic relief as a coping mechanism and my sister did not appreciate it at all. They cussed each other out right in front of me, right in front of our dad. Still crying. Do not blame either of them, though. Wasn’t upset with them about it at all. Like I said, I didn’t feel anything.
My brother called a funeral home in Enon, the town we were raised in, and they came and took him away. Loaded him up into the back of the car. We spent the next few days moving his stuff out, and I walked out of that door for the last time.
The first thing I did when I got home that day was take a shower. A hot ass fucking shower, too. I didn’t wash myself off rip, I just stood there under the water. The drowning sensation was oddly therapeutic to me. I started thinking I miss him, yeah. I miss him. But it was this next thought that did me in:
He misses me too.
I lost it. My tears might have generated more water than the shower at that point. I wept like a child. I don’t know how long. I just had a complete system overload. I was choking.
A couple months before his death, I had been slowly trying to work on my mental health. I went to a psychologist and was prescribed various types of medication for various types of problems I was having. But this… event, slowly became what set my obsession with growth in motion. I want to grow more than anything, I want to become the man I know I’m able to be for myself and the people I love the most. I don’t want to focus on his absence at all, but I want to use his life and what I’ve learned from him and beyond to improve my own character. I have taken pieces of him along with me, and I want to use those pieces to spiritually transcend into the realm I know I can reach. I’m relearning and I’m unlearning each day to possess the soul I know this body can house. And I’ll get there, too. Failures, setbacks, those things are only blocks in the tower. They’re trees in this forest I’ve created for myself. My heart isn’t just an environment. It’s a community.
Thank you for reading.
A Brief Message from The Library
6/21/21, 9:11 PM
Do not stop growing. You are fragments of things, and those pieces can form a beautiful shape. You are not your wounds. You are the response to the their questions.
Itachi Uchiha (Vomit)
6/20/21, 12:32 PM
Right now I am currently flowing in what is arguably the most confusing state of depression I think I have ever experienced in my life. I wouldn’t classify it any other way, either. I can’t place it under a category this time around, it’s kind of just this weird fucking thing that’s decided to hitch a ride with my shadow. A structure, a shape, a sound. It’s somehow all of those things without being any of those things.
It scrapes, too. It scrapes with my feet on the ground, it scrapes with my teeth when I talk. It’s this static grinding—it almost replaces the art of breathing.
So I get in these frames of mind, and the whole fucking ship sinks. It’s over, it’s all done. It’s a breakaway from any real life or real clarity. And for some reason, probably because I go into edgelord mode a lot when I get like this, I begin to see myself as Itachi’s character. My eyes are red, I am fucking alpha omega stone cold ninja warrior assassin, and it makes me feel a little better. I’ve always wanted to actually be a fictional character, and there is totally a part of my mind that allows me to become one. It’s really cringe, honestly. Like right now I am cringing, I am completely disgusted.
So I become Itachi goddamn Uchiha in my head, and I feel a little stronger. I feel a little cooler. I’ve always felt a little better laying in a bed of skin that never belonged to me. I just feel inspired by so much. But I’ve never been content with Alex, so I’ve taken refuge in these inspirations. Like I literally just said that when I’m sad I become an anime character. I’ve done shit like that since I was little. I enjoyed a Wednesday afternoon emotionally disguised as Kanye West just the other day.
Maybe one day I can come out of hiding. I’m always fuckin’ hiding.
Always.
A Poem About my Feelings
6/12/21, 8:59 PM
It is my belief that one cannot function on logic or emotion alone. To separate those two ideas is the definitive experience of an imbalance. The two should always stay together, in my opinion. I think this world would sail on a little better, I think we would all get on a little better if we weren’t so hellbent on choosing a side.
I think when you hover in the sphere of logic by its lonesome, you’ve lost connection with yourself. You only accept fact, you only believe what you see, science is the incredible answer and has the explanations we need to survive. This is all great. Science is great, but I really do not think it pays to adopt this mindset. It’s still a one track mind, regardless of your track’s quality. It’s still only one. Beware the one who only reads one book.
Yes, scientific research and intelligent thinking has propelled our race lightyears forward. We need it to survive, and we need it to grow. It is an extremely essential component of life here. But it’s exactly that—a component. Intelligence and logic are not substitutions for fulfillment, and owning both qualities does not make you a great or fulfilled person by default. They lack empathy, and they lack compassion—they lack the full circle of identity.
I think that once we are able to use our emotions and our intelligence as one cohesive unit of exercise, then our world can actually grow for the better. The balance of these two components could bear the most fruit for us all. It’s important to analyze a situation, just as much as its important to analyze how you feel about a situation.
But being too emotional can cause great damage as well. If you remove all of your intelligent and logical thinking, and act off your emotions alone, you’re like… super fucked. When you’re angry, it’s that feeling that propels you to want to scream or hit something or say nasty ass shit to people. But your logical brain should meet you halfway, and those two sides of your mind can have a conversation and process not only what is going on, but where to go from here. You are so much more than how you feel, and you are so much more than what you think.
I’m aware this was not a poem.
Castles in Nova Scotia (Vomit)
6/8/21, 8:27 PM
There is too much going on for me to handle sometimes. I’ve coasted through this day with about a dozen masks over my face—I felt anxious, I felt tired, I felt free. But every flash of emotion, every shift in mood came in varying colors. But every shade was slightly tinged, almost tainted, with this thin sheet of just anger. Raw anger. I couldn’t trace it’s origins, but as its owner I carried it on my sleeve.
I’m not unfamiliar with feeling that way, either. Gravity spikes and it feels like I have to fight to keep my head off the ground. My stomach is just full of snakes. My vision makes a shift in substance to a liquidated state. It’s this out of body experience for me. But, you know what they say: Ghosts come in patterns.
I’m lying about the ghosts. Nobody fucking says that. It might be true, but that would be completely by chance.
When I’m in a mood like that, when I begin disassociating to the point where I couldn’t express honest identity if it hit me like a bucket of dogshit, there exists a hint of guilt. It comes from when I interact with people. Do they know they aren’t getting my authentic self? Is that even who they want to be talking to? All I’m offering them is layers of fabricated structures because I just cannot find myself. Tell me, how does it feel speaking to a literal onion?
I’m going back to my castle in Canada.
Nickelback’s Animals is a Stroke of Unintentional Genius
6/7/21, 9:03 PM
I’m not kidding, either. Look: the band’s music from a lyrical perspective is nothing capable of breaching the top of the surface. But that’s my point! It’s what makes Chad Kroeger one of the most vivid storytellers in modern rock history. His lyrics are so on the nose, what you’re hearing is exactly what you’re getting, zero brain power required. There really is a beauty in simplicity.
There’s an obnoxiousness about it, too. The lyrical themes here are so dingy, building these gigantic empires of emotion over these incredibly minuscule and otherwise unimportant situations (i.e. - getting incredibly angry and petty when you catch another guy staring at your girlfriend). The music is a total response of life in a small town world.
Animals is my favorite example of this style of writing, priding itself in it’s vulgarity and trailer park drama. Our unnamed protagonist is a completely unstable fucking maniac raging on a warpath so he can go and fuck this badass chick without her parents finding out—a leather jacket has made itself present upon my frame just typing this out.
So, he just gets his license back from a suspension that is unexplained, and the first thing he does is gets in the car to go and pick this woman up to sneak her out of her parent’s house. He quite literally does this by opening the passenger door, and driving by jusssstttt quick enough for her to jump in.
Now, before this, he does question his sense of morality, but it’s for about all of twelve seconds before he decides to ditch the angel on his shoulder so he can go and get sucked off. What a fucking champ.
The greatest part of the song by far is the bridge, where all instrumentation is omitted, save for this basic ass bass line—the music compliments the lyrics so genuinely well here. Our unidentified hero parks over by the town’s abandoned train tracks, where he’s finally found a spot secluded enough to lay the wood. As the two are “getting busy” so he explains, they hear a noise in the woods nearby.
“What was that?” she whispers.
A moment passes by, like one equal to a grain of sand. Before they can write this noise off as the wind, the missing instrumentation is reintroduced as this explosive realization is revealed: it most certainly was not the wind, but her fucking father walking up the car.
Holy FUCK. I would be pissing in my goddamn britches. Not to mention this is also where our hero has lost the keys in the car somewhere while they were doing it. It’s only seconds after this that we are left to believe that our friend has finally met his demise, leaving nothing behind but the manic fire in his trails.
What I think makes this song so great is just the obnoxious simplicity that’s being sold to the listener. It’s a completely bullshit and generally uninteresting story that claims this bullshit and generally uninteresting musical backdrop as it’s home. It doesn’t see the world through both of it’s eyes. Hell, it hardly sees it through one. It’s a small picture of an even smaller problem, but its somehow delivered with passion thriving in it’s most pretentious form. It just works somehow. If not for the metaphor in the second verse about “headed south”, I’d give this song a 2/10. If you haven’t heard it before, you probably should not. It’s just insipid vulgarity, really. 10/10
Cover Me.
5/26/21, 6:13 PM
One thin layer of rust is the only armor offered to the rest of my skin. I don’t feel great, I don’t feel inspired, I just feel this pressing heat in my head. Like somehow it’s weighing me down as it gets hotter. It feels like all of my clarity is being used for currency.
I’m broke.
“Bandanas”
5/24/2021, 4:15 PM
Look into my eyes and feel the home of God…
It feels like I’m encased in this temple of sand. I’m not at peace with the earth, and I’m not at peace with myself. My struggle with identity is a hymn I will sing to the tune of a thousand. I do not own any understanding of who I am, and I suppose the reason acquiring that property is so important to me is because I don’t think I can be of use to the people I love or myself if I can’t find solid ground here. I want to be their beacon.
I can see these thoughts as slaves to the current, echoing into faint chorus as they travel through this self-made hall of dirt. There is so much filth between these walls, some days. I imagine this pristine orb of something similar to porcelain, shining bright all on its own, bouncing back and forth between the corners of my head. It’s getting gradually dirtier every time it hits a surface until you can’t even tell what it is anymore. This is when I sink, this is when I start writing things like this.
Sometimes when I talk, it hurts my ears. My voice feels dagger-like and I can feel my words piercing holes into my head. It hurts me like this because I don’t know where these words, this expression of myself, comes from. It feels like a mechanical hand grows from the side of my brain and closes its fist on whatever energy is close enough to accept another host before reeling it back to me. The constant act of changing colors, shifting my personality to take on whatever shape will blend in with the nature that surrounds it. I feel like nothing more than an idea.
Do you see the coffee in these eyes? I’m exhausted.
This hurts my head. It hurts my heart. I don’t want to just be a shadow.
Fuck it. I want to be a fox.
Official Douche Juice Recipe
5/24/21, 2:48 PM
Ingredients
1/2 cup or 64 grams of the Joe Rogan Experience
1 Semester of Entrepreneurship or Business Marketing classes
2 cups or 256 grams of what I would assume is probably Gatorade or that Body Armor drink (You may substitute with any name brand water such as Essentia or Core)
1 bag of frozen vegetables, microwaved and seasoned with bbq flavored dry rub
1 bottle of any cologne ever
2 fairly large duffle bags of unprocessed trauma
Directions
Mix all ingredients in no particular order in a heatproof bowl, as contents will probably be smoking hot once combined. Stir until homogenous.
Run.
The Elephant (Prologue)
5/24/21, 8:45 AM
For as long I can remember having a heart that functions with my brain, I’ve been encased in some haze of a complex birthed from existential egotism. I’ve always kind of just thought I was the shit, but definitely not in a way that oozes raw confidence or attractive charisma.
This was a different dose of poison.
My self-image for most of my life has been one of low stature, I’m actually pretty sure you can still see it from my posture and the way that I walk. I find it difficult to hide the marks left by the claws of that devil after it’s worked its way into indenting skin. I still feel that weight from time to time, and I’m not even suggesting I’m fully evolved or anything close, but I’m certainly far removed from the human I was before. The ashes of those artifacts remain, but that’s all they are—ashes. Memories that I actually use to help me transcend the planes I’ve previously existed in. That fire helps me build new homes.
Narcissism often locks fingers with poor self-esteem, this is an obvious fact. Someone may carry themselves thinking they can do no wrong, and that they’re the equivalent of Moses’ penis (something I’m only assuming was quite legendary). But in their heart of hearts, something is deeply troubling them. Their soul has taken damage so strong it actually attacks their sense of clarity. I guess by them I really mean me.
So, here’s where I think maybe the development of my problem began, and I am not blaming this on the following, because there have been plenty of events and moments and ideas that have nurtured the disease:
My father had such an honest way of making me feel like a pretty special kid. When I would write, his reactions would be so genuine, whether they were positive or negative. Something I will always appreciate about him is how when it came to my writing (or any creative medium I pursued for that matter), he always treated me like his equal, like his pier—even at 7 years old! He told me what he liked and why, and more importantly what he didn’t like and why. That inspired me so much.
Anyway, he would always tell me, “God damn it, you’re smarter than those other kids,” and would continue on to say, “I’m not just sayin’ that because I’m your dad either. That wouldn’t help either of us, would it?” He knew being a yes man would just give me false confidence, not to mention it would also make him a liar.
But what I took from this, this idea of not being like other kids, something in my mind, some negative force took that into it’s lair and twisted it’s entire narrative—it created my greatest fear in the social fabric of the human condition: meeting expectations.
See, now I had to be special. Now I had to separate myself from the other kids in school. This terrified me for reasons I don’t fully understand, and I actually hope to learn about that from writing on this website as I explore them. But with this new expectation to be better, I ran away. Somewhere along the way, I forfeited that identity and tried my hardest to fit in with everyone else. If someone thought something was funny, I thought it was funny, too. I would do or say whatever I could to get the attention (approval) of others’. This is where I really started to lose it, I think.
I began to just fabricate my entire being. I lied. I lied about where I came from, I lied about things I liked, I made up sob stories to gain sympathy (validation), and I lied about what I had for dinner the night before. I would just lie. I would construct entirely fake and dramatic stories to get specific reactions out of specific people—the definition of manipulation, total abuse.
I did this for years. But I remember that one day came, and I woke up.
I do not even know where to begin telling the rest of this journey.
An Excerpt from my Father’s Memoir
5/20/21, 8:05 PM
“Little”
written by Dale Wildman
Little wasn’t called Little because he was little.
True, all cats are little. Unless you’re some rich prick showing off your pet leopard or that magician who almost got ate by his tiger, your cat is little.
Well, relatively speaking, anyway. Sure, yeah, if your cat weighs 20 pounds, people are always saying ‘Wow, that’s a big cat.’ But what they mean is, he’s big for a cat. Even at 20 pounds, he’s still little, at least little enough where you could pick him up and throw him against the wall. If you were a scum-sucking pig, I mean.
No, Little was called Little because he never grew. Like Topsy was never born, Little, my cat, never grew. He came into my life when I was about 3 years old, and two years later, he was still the same size. Kitten-size. Little. My little gray cat Little.
If this was a Disney movie or some maudlin tear-jerker of a book, Little would have lived with me in our farmhouse and slept in my bed and done all sorts of cutesy-stuff. But it’s not. Not a Disney movie or a tear-jerker, I mean. On our farm the cats, a dozen or so, give or take, lived in the barn, with the occasional cows and pigs and sometimes a horse or two and our pulling pony, Dan Patch.
Little was different only because he had a name. None of the other cats had names, they were mostly sort of feral and just there to keep down the rat and mice population. That no-name thing may sound strange to you, but you don’t name a lot of animals on a farm, with the exception of horses or pets. After all, a lot of farm animals are eventually headed to the slaughterhouse or your dinner table, and most are destined for sale, sooner or later. Naming them would have just made their fate harder to take. But Little had a name, mostly because he never grew. Little. It’s really logical when you think about it.
And I loved Little, partly because he was a cat I could recognize and partly because everybody called him my cat because, after all, as the youngest by far in the family, I was little, too.
But I wouldn’t have dreamed of letting Little in the house. A few would wander up by the house from time to time, but that’s as close as they got. Cats lived in the barn. And I would go out and open the barn’s sliding front door and Little would hop down from the hayloft whenever he heard my voice.
Except the day when he didn’t.
I’ll make this short. Farms aren’t Disney movies or tear-jerker books, they’re dangerous places with powerful steel equipment like the machine that put my Uncle Ben in the hospital or that one that tore off my friend Jack Knight’s hand, and animals that attack and fight with other animals.
We had a grain bin in a walled-off corner of the hay mow, that is to say, the upstairs of the barn, so of course we had the rats and mice that go with all the grainholders in rural areas, and the day Little didn’t come down from the haymow I went up to find him and all that I found was his tail. The rats ate him, and that’s all they left.
I left the barn, tail in hand, and walked across the yard, a 5-year-old carrying a small gray tail. I took it into the house, went into the kitchen where my mother was making dinner, and handed her the tail. She took it, and just looked at me, sadly. She knew I’d been to the barn, she knew about grain bins and mice and rats, and she knew what the tail meant. She patted me on the shoulder. “Oh, honey boy,” she said, which was what she always called me when I was sad.
I didn’t say a word, I didn’t cry, didn’t react. Except an hour later, sitting at the dinner table, I suddenly started to bawl, just out of the blue, and the Old Man looks at my mother and says, “What the hell’s wrong with him?” and she went to the trashcan and fished out the tail where she had thrown it, and held it up for him to see. “Little,” she said.
He looked at it a few seconds, figured out what he was looking at, then looked at me trying to stop bawling. And to my surprise he just nodded, to let me know he got it, I think, and it was all right. He didn’t speak, just put his head down and went back to eating.
My Old Man was tough, a World War II combat Marine, steelworker and lifelong farmer, but he understood, see, sometimes when you least expected him to. He understood it was my cat, and didn’t yell at me for crying, as I half-expected, just ate his dinner, which for some reason made me cry even harder. But he and my mom and my brother and my sister, we just went on eating dinner. Even me, while I cried.
I hate rats.
- Taken from Farm Days: A Memoir and Then Some by Dale Wildman, 2015
5/20/21, 10:16 AM
This is a cover I did of Lua by Bright Eyes. It sounds like it was recorded with a toaster. I completely ripped off Mac Miller’s version of it, too. Like, it’s actually kind of shameless. But it means a lot to me because it’s a product of freedom, the result of living a moment of my life without a birdcage. It was something I recorded in the absence of gravity—no fear of opinions or judgement holding me back this time. My whole life, I’ve been worried about how I’m perceived through other’s eyes—I was even worried about what they thought of my eyes (my bright eyes, hahaha). But I was so involved in the process of putting this together that nothing else mattered—it took me three hours! I kept fucking up the guitar and I didn’t like the way my voice sounded very much. It was the most genuine fun I’ve had making music. I will forever cherish this little thing for that, and I hope to make even more little things as I grow.
A Love Letter to Tacos
5/19/21, 5:50 PM
I fucking love tacos. There’s just something about the art of it, you know? Mexican food is my absolute favorite shit. They really know how to marry love and food, and it shows in the creations of their culture. It’s something I really appreciate in life.
I think food is a great expression of love in a multitude of variations. It doesn’t always have to be romantic. There’s just this warmth, this comforting quality applied to the moment when you’ve just cooked something for someone who means a lot to you. It’s a symbolism of appreciation, it brings people together. That’s what tacos are all about to me. You have this simply blank canvas you get to donate an entire identity to. It’s you—your taste, your thoughts, your fears—all stuffed into this small pocket of corn or flour. And if you don’t resonate with that for some reason, it’s at the very least fucking delicious. Enjoy either way, simpleton.
I actually don’t usually prefer the hard shells, for that itch I’ll turn to the humble plate of nachos. I’m much more a street taco worshipper. They’re soft and small, and typically are served in three’s, and if you’re eating them in a restaurant they require a special zig-zag looking stand to be held upright. They’re decadent as shit. The kind of tacos you get from a cozy food truck, that is honestly a physical manifestation of my love language. If we’re eating those kinds of tacos together, it’s because I appreciate your existence. Even if I don’t tell you (I probably tell you).
I also personally enjoy a margarita with my tacos, it just doesn’t feel right to keep the two separated. And as far as fillings go, I have no specific preference. That’s the beauty of the adventure, anything goes. Just yesterday the tacos I had (with two people I love) had blackberry jam, and were topped with this crispy like, disc of fucking grits of all things. Sounds awkward, but it wasn’t. The thing was unique, but it made sense somehow. It was fucking awesome. I definitely have grown to love pickled onions, too. They just have this acidic/sour thing going on that could round the whole experience out if the other ingredients are too rich or flavorfully dense. They just cut right through that shit. I wouldn’t say they’re a necessity, because I don’t think they belong in every context. I just think they play a very important supporting role when they’re invited to the right party—but there are definitely a lot of parties that benefit from their presence.
I totally love to try different tacos from different places, but I also very much love making them. I could go either way, its absolutely a vibe thing. It just depends what I'm feeling. Sometimes I wanna go out and get them, other times I’m inspired by something I’ve had in the past and I make something up at home—its fun to me. Sharing tacos together is an important experience for me, and as I said it means you have a special place in my heart. But if I’m making us tacos, you officially have a piece of that heart. I offer it to you. It’s yours, and I’m glad. I know I’ve made them for quite a few, and they are the world to me. I’m forever grateful for my people.
Love your friends. Make them a taco sometime.
Death & Debra (A Vomit)
5/19/21, 11:06 AM
Okay, so admittingly I don’t know who the fuck Debra is. Although for some reason I’m getting the vibe that she isn’t a very nice person. Probably has a God complex bigger than any room’s assigned elephant. No thanks.
There’s something about hitting that ‘publish’ or ‘post’ button after writing something that sort of sends this wavelength of dopamine through your brain, you walk away with some awkward sense of accomplishment. It seems to propel the ego forward a notch, and it feels good to cut through any dead weight you’ve felt has held you back. At least for me. So, rather than writing on Word and never opening the file again after a 10 minute burst of creative energy (bless the Sun), I thought maybe I could fabricate that feeling of purpose by creating an official space to create and publish whatever I want.
Every time I’ve been asked about where I want to go in life, I completely choke on the answer’s contents. My narcissistic ass has to explain that I don’t want to do anything because I want to do everything. I want to make video games, I want to write novels, I want to make films, I want to make music, I want to be a multimedia space cowboy billionaire with Tesla batteries for balls. I’ve been cursed (blessed?) with this childlike naivety that suggests “I will get there someday, its fate!”. Dude… I haven’t done anything! There are so many places in my head I’ve yet to explore—forests, jungles, deserts and mountains I haven’t taken the time to travel to. I’ve always been content with remaining dormant. I’ve thrived in states of stagnation in its most potent image.
For me, writing has always been a part of my life. I’ve always felt that it serves as a means to have conversations with myself, and really get to know myself more. I constantly struggle with the idea of identity, oftentimes feeling like a chameleon adapting to whatever environment is forced upon me, losing the rawest parts of myself in the process. I can’t be me if I’m everybody. At that point I’d much rather be nobody.
So to me this isn’t just a spoon-fed ego blog; it’s a pursuit of identity, self-growth and purpose. It’s me trying to understand who I am as a person. I want to be a better human for me and the people I love.
All of them but you, Debra.