I Don't Think Anybody But Spam Bots Be Following Me But...

This is not any sort of earth-shaking revelation but it was apparent to me today that I am capable of expressing myself very lucidly if I try just a little. It’s important for me to not try too hard. Trying too hard will fuck things up. You gotta dance with it a little. You make it smooth. You steer it gently and you make it do what it does. That’s how expression works for me. 

I got into a discussion with the parents about the way the world works, about U.S. foreign policy, about a better world. It wasn’t very long before I got fucking pissed off about their attitude. I’m not going to give you a blow-by-blow breakdown of this discussion but the gist of what I kept hearing from them was people can and have tried running the world a different way but those different ways have always failed. The way things get run in this country is not perfect but it’s a hell of a lot worse in every other place on earth you care to name. 

Is that what getting older does to us? We just shrug our shoulders and say, “Well, things will never be perfect but we have it a lot better than those brown people over there who don’t speak English and who get followed around by flies.” 

I am not at all convinced that this is a generational phenomenon. 

This is totally a propaganda thing. We don’t get educated about the way power works. Maybe we go to college and we get a professor who assigns some Zinn or Chomsky and then we forget all that when we go to work to make some asshole a bunch of money. I think maybe something like that is what happens. 

Day started all chill and then all of a sudden everything was on fire. Had excitable bougie folk to the left and to the right of me. I’ll spare you the details. It’s really not important. 

I could pat myself on the back for surviving all that. I could say I’m tougher for having gone through it. Fuck that noise. I’m not. 

I’m just glad that it’s over for the moment. 

Tomorrow is the 4th of July. I’m just thankful for the day off of work. I don’t plan on celebrating. Fuck nationalism. The only thing I’ll really be celebrating is waking up and being aware of the fact that I’m not punching a clock. I’ve spent a lot of national holidays sitting at a desk in some ugly-ass, depressing office somewhere with a headset on waiting for phone calls. There is a tone in my ear and there is someone terribly surprised that someone is actually working. Some would even comment about how terrible it was that I was working on the 4th of July. 

God damn it. I spent way too long answering phones. I will forever be bitter about that. I’m never getting over that. 

My brain is fried. 

One day 

I can awaken from the dream

and I’ll be a YouTube star. 

My idiosyncrasies will be viral 

and my soul will be trademarked. 

Maybe I can buy myself a seat 

on The Muskrat’s space boat to Mars 

and I can suffocate 

with the richest 

and the sexiest 

while the people left behind watch 

while the minds that coded all the killer apps 

die well-dressed. 

Maybe I’ll upload 

in some time, some place 

that’s warm 

and that ain’t so cruel 

and that’s broken in some way 

that’s easier to fix. 

Maybe one day 

I can awaken from the dream 

as a man 

who sorta knows what to do 

sorta knows the truth 

sorta knows how to love. 

I just dropped in to see what condition my condition was in. 

I wish that line was mine. 

Thing is though. It doesn’t matter that it isn’t. 

Sometimes I wanna scream 

cuz I’m wise to the game. 

I know the game is rigged

but I ain’t wise to all the ways the game got put in me 

without my consent. 

I catch myself playin’. 

Hate myself for the size of my wages 

and the fact that my words ain’t commercial 

won’t pay my bills 

won’t free me from dreadin’ the first day of the week 

and from feelin’ all Shawshank on the last day of it. 

Midweek in lieu of more imaginative title

I haven’t been reading over my words too much lately. I often do while in the course of writing them but it’s pretty rare that I revisit them after the fact. I think that probably needs to change. I read over the words I wrote yesterday about faith and lack thereof. Things were more lucid and interesting than I initially thought but there was more awkwardness and lack of clarity than I’m comfortable with. Things that read clumsy get on my nerves. Unfortunately, it seems to me that I’ve got a knack for that sort of thing. It’s frustrating. It pisses me off but it’s not like I’m trying to make a living here. Language that is just functional bothers me. I like it to have flair, swagger, style, musicality even. I guess it can’t always. I guess it depends on what the hell it is you’re trying to do. Maybe I’ll get on firmer footing with this. It has been awhile since I’ve actually tried at this. Of course, I’d contend that I’ve never really tried.

There are things I don’t want to do. There are places I do not want to go with this.

I don’t want this to degrade into pounding out “hot takes” on current events. I’m absolutely nobody. Nobody cares what I have to say about the horrors of the age. Of course, that doesn’t mean I’ll never comment. I’m not above breaking my own rules. If somebody shoots up a school or some other place like probably happened today somewhere in America (Fucked up, right?), do you really need me to tell you how awful it was? Do you really need me to ruminate about how surreal and terrifying life in Trump’s America is. You don’t. You’ve got people with more expertise and talent than me to do that. The other thing is I’m invariably going to read an issue of Current Affairs (look that one up. Good magazine.) or listen to an episode of Chapo Trap House or Citations Needed (Great podcasts. Listen to them.) and my take is going to be influenced. When I had short-lived podcasts of my own, it essentially became this frustrating exercise in “hot takes” on current events. I definitely delivered them in my own style but it felt very derivative and pounding out “hot takes” is exhausting.

It seems pretty inevitable that I’m going to re-tread ground I’ve already been over. How many times can you read that I just don’t want to go to work? That I’d rather chill in a dimly lit room? That pretty much describes every single day since I’ve been conscious.

Of course, I think maybe I’m catching myself engaging in “market thinking.” I’m under no obligation to make this interesting in the least. I’ve said that this is not my diary or my journal but it essentially functions that way and I’m some weirdo that has inexplicably given the public access to my inner thoughts. It does not get more non-commercial than that. Still, if this gets boring or tired, just remember that you’re getting what you paid for.

So... I woke up and thought

Being aware of your own internal life and spending time there makes you remember that others possess an internal life as well.

This has the side effect of wanting to make sure the world is gentler.

Maybe I'll try bearing my soul on this fucking blog to strangers who might happen by cuz that's how lonely I really am.

Monday, Fuckin’ Monday

If my chest ever caves in and I find myself standing before the wrong God, it’s probably gonna be on a Monday. 

Monday is for bad shit. It shouldn’t really be that way, should it? Nah, it shouldn’t but it is. It should be for staying in bed, if you want to. It shouldn’t be for dread. It shouldn’t be about living to suffer. It should be about watching dogs be all happy with their heads sticking out the window in the passenger seat of a car. It should be about petting strange cats. It should be about taking some time to cry if you need to.

See, that’s why I think we need to quit this capitalism shit. It’s way overrated and it’s profoundly evil. I suspect most everybody who has ever worked knows in their heart how fucked up it is. They know it ain’t right. They know the game is rigged but they keep playin’ the game because they don’t know anything else. They can’t imagine anything else. I don’t even know if I can imagine anything else. The word faith just popped into my head. Faith. What the fuck is faith for me? Belief that something better is possible. I’m not talking about the idea that some day I’ll be brave, sexy and rich. No. A better world. 

I woke up this morning mildly stoned. I always tell myself that I will not get so fucking stoned on a Sunday night but I never listen to myself. I could be wrong but I think it’s quite possibly a bad idea to be even a little high at work. Who wants to be stoned in an office building? Let me tell you, it’s not fun to come into the office at 7 AM and get told that everything is on fire and you are the one that’s going to put it out. I’ve had that happen and lived to tell about it. Oh god damn it. Not this. I don’t need this. Beads of sweat on the back of my neck. Fuck. Why did I come to work today? Cuz I’m tryin’ to be an adult. I haven’t missed a day. People think I’m reliable. People think I’m personable. People think I know my shit and I kinda need all that because on paper I’ve been a bum for like 5 years and I’m trying to quit that. Okay. Let’s do this. You got this, brotha. You got this. 

Yeah. Nothing happened today. Nothing that made me sweat. I spent a lot of time looking busy and some time actually working and I just ran out the clock and now I’m here typing this. 

Guess most everybody who is everybody hates Mondays. That might be true but I don’t find a lot of solace being a member of that club. Typically, I just want to get the fuck home and sleep it off. It was alright though. Maybe tomorrow the devil will decide to fuck me up. God, I hope not. 

I’m one neurotic son of a bitch. It’s not good. I should probably be talking to someone. 

I guess I could be more well adjusted. I never want to be too adjusted though.

It’s a queer thing. What’s a queer thing? Glad you asked. I live in mortal terror of some stressed out motherfucker who can afford to play golf coming to my desk to yell at me but see, there is all this crazy shit going on in the background. 

The President is talking crazy and sinister. You know it ain’t normal. You know you can sense evil. You know the substance of that shit. You tell people you got a bad feeling. People tell you not to worry. 

People are being put in cages but it’s people without power. It’s people who don’t speak English. Bad shit happens in these cages but see, it’s people that society is comfortable un-personing. It’s them today but who the fuck is it gonna be tomorrow?.

You know you’ve seen this guy before. He’s some kinda archetype. He’s a manifestation of the worst parts of all of us. Sometimes you find yourself yelling till you’re hoarse but you get told to calm the fuck down. 

Truth be told, I got no clue what to do. I know there is so much going on outside of myself. I’ve podcasted my rage and my concern. I’m a dues paying member of the local chapter of Democratic Socialists of America and hell, I may even have to start turning up at meetings. I have an ACLU membership card in my wallet. I’ve donated money to striking teachers. I know all of that is so very, very little. 

As I type this, the song Holding out for a Hero by Bonnie Tyler is playing on a loop. The words seem sinister to me in the place where my head is at. The idea of a hero riding upon a fiery steed seems fashy as fuck. 

There were some twists and turns here, right? 

I’m really tempted right now to just write the words “Monday fuckin’ Monday” and be done with this. Yes, that would be really lazy. 

Monday, fuckin’ Monday. 

Tucker “Heil Trump” Carlson

I woke up irritable and thinking of Tucker Carlson’s stupid fucking face. It’s the weekend. It’s god damn lamentable that my thoughts are dominated by that soulless motherfucker. 

I struggle. I chase my nickels and my dimes. Dolly Parton sang that workin’ 9 to 5 was a hell of a way to make a living. It is. You do what need to and then in the background, you got Tucker Carlson corrupting the minds of your parents and your grandparents with hatred for The Other, immigrants from Mexico and elsewhere in Latin America. 

I loath Tucker Carlson. I would not mind him undergoing some kind of Damascene conversion. That would possibly be a beautiful thing but real life isn’t a movie. Real life is messier and sadder and dumber. I doubt he has it in him. Barring some kind of Damscene moment where he comes to see the strangers in our land as not strangers but brothers and sisters, I would love to see Tucker Carlson and others like him hit with urine filled balloons everywhere that they go. 

The Tuck is on my mind because I saw a clip of him last night where he basically called undocumented immigrants trash. It’s not surprising. The man does possesses a seriously kinked social conscience but it’s chilling. It’s clear to me that what we’re seeing is an insidious campaign of de-humanization aimed at undocumented immigrants. 

I’ve said it before but it’s hard for me to shake. We all live our lives. We deal with all the insignificant bullshit that comes with that but in the background, the way is being paved for horrifying crimes against humanity. We shouldn’t kid ourselves. The crimes are already in progress.

I’m no expert on the infamous Rwandan genocide but I’m reminded of the fact that Rwandan media executives were convicted of inciting genocide. See, the poison that was being put out over the airwaves primed the population to grab machetes and go out killing. 

Do I think that we might see vigilante mobs going out to kill Latinos? We’re about one Fox & Friends segment away from something like The Purge. Okay. Yeah. Maybe I’m completely wrong about that but you can’t just write people like Carlson off as harmless clowns. We do that at our peril. 

The President

I’m going to tell you the truth. 

Not gonna put sugar or honey on it. 

It’s not that I disagree with the President or his policies. 

It’s not that he represents everything that is soulless and wrong. 

No. 

It’s that I fucking despise him. 

With everything in me.

I hate him. I don’t give a flying fuck about discourse or listening to or understanding the other side. If you are going to come to me with that, fuck you. I don’t care. We are past that. What has the fucking discourse ever gotten us? What has being respectable gotten us? 

You can tell me that I’m wrong in my hate. That’s fine. Maybe you’re concerned with the effect that such intense feeling has on my health. I mean, God bless you if you think that. Let me tell you, it’s hard to carry around, aight? 

See. I’m owning the hate. I’m not dressing it up in some pretty three piece suit and calling it something polite. Nah. This is me owning it. It’s ugly. It’s awful but I’m owning it. 

I go off sometimes. I fucking lose it. I lose my voice. I get told by people, “Oh. You’re so full of hate. Everybody hates him so much. It’s scary.” What the fuck?! WHAT THE FUCK?! What do you think he’s full of? Love? Hell no. If you are going to put on that stupid red hat, you do not get to play that card. That’s perverse.