dahamblr asked: SWAG?
So much so that I have grown weary of it. Alas, I am too dope.
This is the one thing.
(via notthekrustykrab)
Failure, pt.3
She told me we’d meet at the footbridge. I was early. The creek under the bridge was swollen from the days-long rain and it ran loudly, sucking at the fallen leaves and twigs and empty beer cans along the bank.
Mission Statement, circa October 8th, 2011
I’ve returned to this, because I think that it really helped my flow of thought and ideas in writing even though I think that I’ve gradually become a terrible writer without your influence. I don’t know, I used to be able to think of hilarious witticisms and things like that and I wrote that one really good essay for Thing, but this deadline that I’m on right now, I’ve got nothing.
My ramblings about duty.
Contents unedited, of course. It’s real hip:
Goddamn everybody. Politics is making me sick. People like Spark’s own [name redacted] are swallowing the narrative shoved down their throats by bastards like the Koch Brothers and repeating it. The line of course goes like: “Everyone in America is equal and has an equal chance at both political and personal success. To say otherwise is to be a money-grubbing lazy ass who just can’t be bothered to actually work hard, like we rich people did. You know, on the backs of the poor.” I just don’t understand why anyone would be willing to accept that. Do they not understand that the ultimate goal of these people, the Koch Brothers and their ilk, is to gain total control over American politics, to reduce the voice of the common person to a little gnat? I’m trying to get my thoughts together here. Suffice it to say, the Koch Brothers are bad.
Parade of Failure, pt.2: A science-fiction story by young me, with all the badness that entails.
The two men sat across from each other at a table in a cafe. It was a cute little place called Annabelle’s, very quaint, with lots of pastel colors and simple menu, two pages, and only one size of coffee. The two men liked the atmosphere of Annabelle’s, and met there whenever they had business to discuss.
The Parade of Failure! A series of snippets and false starts.
I decided that I will show all of you on the Internet the stories that I never got done, both as a way to give purpose to something that would otherwise rot on my hard drive, and as a way to keep all of my fan satiated.
This one is based loosely on the ravings of beloved crazy man, Francis E. Dec.:
While he slept, that’s when they got him. He’d be lying there on his bed and then the robotic surgeons, shaped like men except with eight arms, gray metal instead of skin, and black night vision eyes. They would come in with their lasers and scalpels that were built right into their Swiss Army hands, and they would crack open the door to his apartment. They would go down the hall, into 102, and work on the man named Sal. Into 103 and work on the woman he didn’t know. Into 104 and work on the family whose child, a boy, had a lazy eye, the lazy eye they gave him. Then, they would find Norman, in 105.
Working Through Writer’s Block
I’m having terrible writer’s block. So I decided to crop a less emotionally revealing passage(because I have to be aloof. You know.) from the journal I’ve been keeping with the help of the fine folks at 750words.com. Here you go:
I am a failed man at 17. Perhaps not. Charles Bukowski went to community college. But he’s Charles Bukowski and he is an object of hero worship for me and I am a fuck, a dumb fuck that idolizes and strives to imitate and be someone other than the man that he is. And why have I found this obsession with masculinity? Is it some subconscious ghost of Hemingway, part of the hero worship?
Meetings
I used to come down to Scholtz when I was in high school. It used to be the place where you would go to when you wanted to do something. Or anything at all. Living up in the hills and not being a farmer tended to leave you with a lot of free time. Scholtz wasn’t much. Just another river town like any river town, with just a couple thousand people, but held up against Wallamae it was like Memphis.
In Which the Plot Thickens
I’m sitting there, on a folding lawn chair in my shack’s front lawn, beer in hand, and before I see it, I hear it. Amos’ van wheezing its way up here. Oh, how I hated that fucking sound. Only ever got it when the Amish fucker needed a place to stay after doing something stupid and getting himself in trouble with the sheriff. Sure, I could turn him down, but I’m no hypocrite. I’ve had my run-ins with the law and I know what it’s like to be desperate. So I let him stay. And now he thinks we’re the best friends there ever were.
