Death, Gender, Lonely, Math, Media, My favorites, race, Socialism

In Which I Qualitate/Quantitate

Don’t read this until you are ready to READ this. By that I mean, click on all links. You don’t have to read them, but they are an important part of the narrative. But do read the last link. It is the most important and is a news story and provides context.

c) I’m pretty sure that everything I think has been thought before.

That is simultaneously comforting and terrifying.

Often times our world is misled by what we think we think though. We then suffer under the great injustice that is our own misconceptions of ourselves. Specifically, the fact that 4 million more people watch Modern Family than The Middle. Both shows analyze the changing definition of the American dream, but one does it through shallow analysis of obvious xenophobia and one does it through thoughtful revelations about the inhumanity inherent in a capitalist society that refuses to empathize with struggle. Modern Family is a person who has not listened’s analysis, The Middle is someone who paid attention’s analysis.

1. I have had arguments with three people who have stated their frustration with the Occupy Wall Street Movement. Each of them went like this:
Them: “I agree with what they’re saying, I just don’t know what they’re saying.”
Me: “Have you been down to Zuccotti Park?”
Them: “No” and a bunch of more words that don’t matter.

2. I have a belief that Taylor Swift is doing the more harm to American society than Lady Gaga – specifically that Taylor Swift is doing the most harm and Lady Gaga is doing the most negative harm (negative used in the mathematical sense). This belief is challenged often. Typically those conversations go like this:
Me: “Don’t ask, don’t tell would have been repealed 3 years earlier if it weren’t for Taylor Swift.”
Them: “That’s ridiculous” They’re right “Lady Gaga isn’t even saying anything. She’s just the same mindless pop that we’ve had forever.”
Me: “Have you heard her new album?”
Them: “Um..” and a bunch of defensive lies about how they have an appropriate sample size that don’t matter.

3.

2. Frankie Heck – Patricia Heaton’s character on The Middle is a true hero of the Michael Moore union version of socialism. She is a lighthouse that shines light through all the cracks in the American Dream. Hard work equals hard work, but having money equals having money. Surrounding her is pain and suffering that is solely the gift of a desire for things she is told she deserves. And yet this could all be solved with a simple sharing of some wealth. It doesn’t need to be opportunity because we don’t all need to the freedom to try. We need the freedom to succeed. And success is not defined by being in the 1%. Then only 1% of us, necessarily succeed. I aim for 100%.

I like to play a game called turn concepts into rants for socialism in as few sentences as possible.

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Death, Lonely, My favorites

My Hour in Union Square – Diversity; Happiness; Misuse of Punctuation?

First there was the man who looked like he could play my father in a movie. He didn’t look like my dad, but if I were in a movie they would cast this white haired jewfroed hippie with the sensible sneakers and the monochromatic windbreaker on as my dad. Next to him was the hardcore Irishman. Tattoos were on his knuckles, but if it were possible, I’m sure tattoos would be on his heart. Two brothers sat next to him. They cared for each other ~ They would die for each other -: I’m pretty sure one was mentally handicapped. They were hugging now, but you could tell they have a history of fighting when times get tough. But when times aren’t tough, they love each other better than other people do. Next bench down, communicating off and on with the larger group were two broskies – one black, one white: handshaking and laughing at how they were so awesome. Everyone enjoyed their presence too. Every once in a while this group of joyous public park patrons was visited by a middle aged black woman getting off her job that involved a bag that was close to being a briefcase and an unstable 35 year old conspiracy theorist.

The one thing that brought them together on this would-be-dreary day:

Heroin.

Mostly their conversation consisted of comparing track marks.

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Lazy, Lonely, My favorites

I Work In an Office

I don’t know how I feel about being in an office again.

The last one I worked at was populated by four people named John, Mike, Greg, and John and I still maintain that that was the best joke I never wrote. Two and a half hours after I started working I finished working and I exited into the joy that is the first beautiful day of the year. I love that day where it first gets warm and people go out and smile as they enjoy weather and life. I went to a dark movie theater and sat alone as I watched Battle: Los Angeles while eating my leftover vegan sampler that I snuck in via a plastic bag I got from a bodega.

It was the second day in a row that I worked in an office. This time my day had extended to four hours. I hadn’t eaten lunch, but having just found out that my bank account was significantly in the red, I attempted to postpone what my stomach was growling at me to not postpone. It was raining and I had to pee. Ready to continue the being a part of the warm weather, I had worn a light shirt with no hat or umbrella, so I ducked out of the rain and into a bar. There I could use the bathroom. Two birds, one stone. The bartender grumpily told me where I could urinate. There were two people at the bar: A woman doing her taxes while she was in a suit and a man with an eyepatch. It was very silly.

Battle: Los Angeles was very silly. I just wanted a safe place to eat my constantly cooling quinoa and kale. I wanted a safe place to make up alliterations about leftovers that only quite make sense. A movie about how important military spending is was not the safe place for me to do the “elitist” things that the Right wants me to feel self conscious about.

The bathroom didn’t lock, barely even closed. Then I looked around me and was confused as to how this bathroom should be used. Despite no sink, there were three toilets. Two were urinals. There was no stall around the sit down toilet and the room was far too small to share with a shitter. As I tried to choose a urinal, I loud hammering began three feet above my head and chards of ceiling started falling into the urinal.

When I had entered the movie theater I was greeted by a man who wanted to see some other movie. I would tell you the movie, but I couldn’t understand what he said when he drunkenly yell-mumbled his intentions at me.

The hammering continued. I think there was a man in the ceiling banging on a metal pipe with a metal pipe.

It’s more interesting outside the office.

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Hungry, Lazy, Lonely, My favorites

Halal-Oooh-Yeah

I wrote this while digesting Halal.

 

I just wanted Halal. I was done tutoring and now I wanted Halal. I don’t love Halal – I just crave it. It’s one of those foods that I never want until I want it and then there is nothing else that I can think about/desire.

My stomach feels like a man is yawning and stretching inside it despite my stomach being far too small to hold a man.

There weren’t any Halal carts in sight when I left the apartment where I was tutoring. He didn’t need my help. By “he” I mean my student. Sure, I taught him extra info and I think my weekly visits push him in a direction academically that is positive. He loves me though. He said it. He said: “I love you.” I thought :”I want Halal from a pushcart.” He said: “Can we be roommates?” I thought: “I’m gonna get both sauces.” He said: “Can we be best friends?” I thought: “What if I could mix chicken and falafel!” He said: “I’m 14… that means I’m legal… in… Cambodia.” I thought: “I should have been listening to this conversation.”

I’ve been propositioned for sex by lots of older men. Never one younger. Never a teenager. Never one who was “Joking.”

This came after he asked if I had a girlfriend. A question I always answer with hesitation and self-disgust because I’m never quite sure how to define my relationships and that inability fills me with shame. He took my hesitation as an indication that I preferred sex with men.

My heart is trying to depart my body by burning its way through my skin. This sentence is a physical not metaphorical sensation. I just ate something out of styrofoam.

I had walked six blocks with no sign of Halal. My method of taking whatever street had green lights assuming that the fact that I was in Manhattan would be enough to mean I ran into Halal was not working out. The smells of Dunkin Donuts, Subway, and other indoor eating establishments filled with digestive tract ruining food products were tempting but could not distract me from my intended meal of day old chicken, week old lettuce, prehistoric onion and rice – yellow from stagnation – covered in sauces white and red.

I think my skin wants to melt off, but I’m not going to let it.

He told me a couple of weeks ago that all the girls in his class were “too flat” for him to date. I think he meant in the crotchal region. He doesn’t know that that was what he meant yet.

Each brightly colored street was simply a mirage of mean, rice and sauce that only provided disappointment and stomach grumbling. Until one. One street had the thing I wanted. In the form of two carts offering similar options. But different. In the form of a decision. Fuck. I hate my lfie.

My hair is greasier. I don’t know how it’s that instant, but my forehead seems slimy.

I picked the one across the street because I wanted to continue crossing streets with green lights. It took 40 seconds to make my food! How exciting! Now I had to find a subway station. It didn’t matter witch one, I just wanted to sit down and eat my new meal while it was hot. 5 blocks and 10 halal carts later that seemed less plausible. My stomach is mad at me for its lack of food filling. My brain is mad at me because I refused to use it in finding the closest halal cart to the subway. And I am mad at me for caring so much about stale rice and meat.

My brain is less functional than usual – I think filled with grease.

Then I realized the problem with my plan: Rush Hour. I crammed my self into an R-train feeling self conscious about the cumbersomeness of my styrofoam box of food product as I danced around a bike and a dog that needed to travel during rush hour.

Fuck it.

I ate it. On the subway.. The red and white sauce dripping of the ends of my mustache, my esophagus filling with discomfort, thoughts of a 14 year old closeted boy wanting to discover his sexuality stuffing my head and I was _______.

This is a mad lib and you get to fill in the emotion.

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Lonely, Pathetic

I Wouldn’t Want to be a Part of Any Mile High Club That Would Have Me as a Member

On the back of my seat on this Iceland Air flight to Stockholm it says: “Good Night is ‘góða nótt’ in Icelandic. It has a soft and cuddly sound.”

This is not a reasonable thing to say, and definitely not a reasonable thing to write.This is subjective. It is a subjective thing to say about words. It also means nothing to me. Unless góða nótt is pronounced oooohawwnomnomsmawwow, I don’t understand what this means.

Let’s all get distracted by the couple next to me whose actions could be described as similar to the sounds of good night in Icelandic. Airplanes are the only time I want a girlfriend (even when I have a girlfriend). Two people in two seats with two armrests is way more comfy than two people in two seats with three armrests. Of course it’s not only the armrest that separates you from the stranger laughing uncomfortably loud at Fools Gold starring Owen Wilson. I always force myself to lean as far away as I can from my neighbor in an attempt to distance myself emotionally from the mouthbreathing moron ordering Jack Daniels and reading a paperback cookbook.

If I had a girlfriend I could sleep on her shoulder drooling on her open copy of a book I lent her while demanding that she borrow my headphones to listen to “this Robyn song” and “this Robyn song.”

Sometimes i think i just want a younger version of myself to convince to grow up earlier.

Sometimes I ant something soft and cuddly.

Those time only occur when I’m 3000 feet in the air listening to the very un-soft and un-cuddly sound of my ears popping every 10 seconds. In other words: Hate, disgust, and discomfort drives me to relationships.

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Lonely, Selfish

I’m Sexy?

I was asked recently how many people I had had sex with. I counted and said the number, surprised and proud by what I thought was a large number. She responded: “That’s it? I thought it would be more.”

My pride turned to patheticness, which then turned to confusion, which then turned to self-doubt.

It’s not that I look at the number of people you sleep with as the mark of a man, but rather that I enjoy sleeping with people and so having a high number means I have enjoyed many different experiences, which sounds good. What was confusing to me about the reaction was that somebody would assume I had slept with more people than I had.

I always figured that despite the fact that we are people who are constantly transforming, there would be one constant in my life: People would view me as unattractive to others. Even if they found me attractive, they would assume they were the only one. But I looked in the mirror this morning and saw somebody weird. My face has decent looking facial hair that seems hip in the midst of a forest of manly stubble. I’m not gonna go crazy and say that I thought I was attractive, but I definitely understood my appeal to others. Especially in this era of scrawny guys with quirky choices ruling the world.

I got lucky. I was born at the right time.

Hipster bashing is so boring at this point. Not because they don’t deserve to be ridiculed – everybody deserves to be ridiculed, and not because only hipsters bash other hipsters – self-hatred without self-awareness is funny and should be a part of our world, but because we don’t know what a hipster is. We define it as people we are jealous of, and I am jealous of the person people think I am.

So I will now define myself as a hipster. Despite that I don’t know any bands that you haven’t heard of, can’t fix my bike, love sitcoms, and don’t shop for clothing with more than $10 in my pocket – I am a hipster! And by claiming it, I will change the definition. Because, like love, there is no commonly accepted definition, so I can create my own.

If you hate me, you are allowed to hate hipsters. That’s fine, but otherwise, you don’t hate hipsters because this is what hipsters like:

1. Kanye West and Nicki Minaj getting along

2. The fall of the laugh track in the American sitcom

3. Losing their i-pod

4. Being bad at fixing things

5. Math

6. Fantasy sports

7. Mirrors

8. Not washing things as often as they should be washed

9. Having a profound misunderstanding of visual art

10. Games – board or video

See here’s the thing. I love Stumbleupon – it’s great not only in it’s ability to waste your time, but also in it’s ability to tell you who you are and what you like. The last two websites that stumbleupon told me that I’d enjoy were an essay against victim blaming in rape cases, and an empirical (good pun) study of the Death Star. This is why I’m surprised to find myself seeming attractive: People who like nerdy shit and discussing rape intellectually don’t get laid – they get grants.

I could totally use some grants right now.

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Attention Whoring, Lonely, My favorites, Nostalgia, Selfish

Love is Pure Mathematics and the Neverending Story

I’ve mentioned it before, but the best thing on the internet is the wikipedia entry on Love. The entry climaxes when love is described as a “thought-terminating cliche.” What I think is so amazing about that is that in three words they are able to describe everything I hate about the world and therefore explain why I don’t feel love. Love is something that halts discourse and thinking rationally in favor of doing something unoriginal. You couldn’t describe anything in a way that made me hate it more.

Love is simply a word, but words are inventions, and love is humans’ most interesting invention because it is completely intangible yet has weaseled its way into our culture in such a way that humanity decided it was necessary. It isn’t. Love is conceptual, which is fine, so is joy or depression or any feeling, but love is a concept that we refuse to define and yet demand for everybody to understand.

“I love you, don’t you understand?”

No. How could I?

Nobody says “I enjoy fantasy basketball, don’t you understand?” because no other emotion demands so much out of another person. You can enjoy fantasy basketball and not give a shit if someone else does. You can’t love someone without them loving you back or your love becomes depression. It’s selfish.

This is why long distance relationships work. Because love is impossible. It is impossible to love someone that you see because they are real and love isn’t – it’s a made up concept that can’t exist between two (or more) actual human beings, but when you are not near that person it’s easier to create the person you love.

I’ve fallen in love before.

I’ve fallen in love before multiple times, but never with a person that I was near. Only with the idealized version of that person that I created in my masturbation memories. The person who made funny jokes about my cum when the tissue I was using got saturated. The person whose jokes were not theirs, but rather mine that I imposed upon them using my made up version of their voice.

This isn’t going to turn into another post about how I love myself.

I said that more to stop myself from going down that hole because loving myself is getting old. But because love is a fantasy, we can only truly love our fantasies, and our fantasies come from our mind.

My imaginary friends were Didi and Dodo and they lived in the fridge and the freezer and they slept in separate beds and they were married. I don’t know if they were in love. I knew they were married. I knew they liked to slide down my railing with me. I knew that they fit in my palm. It didn’t matter if they were in love, but they were. They were the only two things that were ever in love because they were imaginary – and love is imaginary.

This isn’t a disillusioned rant of a young child pretending to be jaded.

I said that to stop myself from making it such. But love can’t be real because theoretical creations are simply that: theoretical.

My entire academic life was in pursuit of studying mathematics, but I couldn’t ever get into the beauty of what G.H. Hardy calls “Pure Mathematics” because it wasn’t tangible and it’s hard to grasp something intangible by definition. Love is “pure mathematics.” Love is something that some people can feel, but only for something that doesn’t exist. Love is like faith, but in a person that you’ve made up yourself – as opposed to religion, which is faith a person somebody else made up for you. In a sense love is noble, but it’s delusional.

I want to get back to my point about how love can only exist with people who aren’t there because I feel like I have more to say, but I transitioned away from that. Well, I’m back onto it.

Love can only exist with people who aren’t there. That’s it. I think I just needed to repeat it.

Last time I was home with my parents, I was forcing volume out of my mouth in an indignant manner about how love was a bullshit concept created by the patriarchal bla bla bla of capitalist bla bla bla in order to enforce monogamy and bla bla bla and create xenophobia and bla bla bla. My mom heard the bla bla bla part and stopped me.

“Nisse, does the reason you think this way have anything to do with Dad and me?”

“No, of course not.” I lied.

I lied only in the sense that of course my perceptions of love are warped by the people who raised me, but I wasn’t really lying. Love is so ill-defined that each of us is forced to create our own definition of love – and mine is: a self-generated, difficult, selfish, act of pure mathematics that is based in noble delusion.

At least that makes it sound better than a thought-terminating cliche.

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Attention Whoring, Lazy, Lonely, My favorites, Nostalgia

I Like My Women

One of my favorite games to play is “I Like My Women Like I Like My Nouns.” It’s a game I came up with in high school wherein the participant starts off by saying “I like my women like I like my (fill in the blank with a noun)” and then continues to explain by offering one to three adjectives that are funny. If it makes too much sense with both women and the noun then your joke is obvious and boring, and probably a little sexist. If it makes too little sense, you are an attention whore. It’s a beautiful game of understanding expectations and their relation to comedy.

Summer after graduating high school I was hanging out with some of the other teachers at the arts camp I taught at. We were at one of the richer kid’s summer house on the water. I felt uncomfortable because while I was “friends” with all these people, everybody else was closer friends than I was with anybody. Except Jon. Jon and I were friends. We both felt uncomfortable because we assumed no one wanted us there. My problem (as if there is only one) is that I get indignant when I wrongfully assume I am unwanted. I decide if I’m not wanted for no reason, I’ll make sure there is a reason. I started playing “I Like My Women Like I Like My Noun” by announcing that “I like my women like I like my sailboats.” I chose sailboats because the bathroom that we had all gathered in as Alex showed us her house as though we were real adults who needed real house tours, because the bathroom had a wallpaper full of sailboats. I hadn’t been listening to whatever story was being told by the New York transplant leading our tour under the assumption that it wasn’t interesting, but now I wanted my voice to be heard and I had no transition into focusing attention on me. I then needed to finish my game.

“I like my women like I like my sailboats. … With low self-esteem.”

At the time this was vaguely true. Not that sailboats could have esteem, but rather that I was interested in women as depressed with how their lives turned out as me. I just thought it seemed relatable. It was very funny. Jon laughed. I think I won the game.

Yesterday I played again for the first time in a long time. “I like my women like I like my rice pudding. … Chunky, wet, and full of grains.” This is a different approach to the game, but I think still very funny. Mostly because I like to imagine a woman pooping barley out of sheer pressure on her internal organs. This is why this joke is funny. It allows you the opportunity to believe that there may be a connection between my desires when it comes to women and snack-desserts, then it fucks with those expectations, then you have to go back and realize what if there had been a connection – do I really like my women chunky and wet? Probably. But that’s still weird.

There is still another way to play this game. Earnestly. “I like my women like I like my shoes. … Nostalgically.” I recently switched back to a pair of shoes I hadn’t worn in a while because they don’t breath very well, and I hate sweaty feet. Before that I had been running through a string of barely formed sandals and sneakers whose heels I could typically see through and whose souls were in multiple pieces. I liked those shoes though, because they fit. I saw it was wrong, but I was lazy. I didn’t want to have to find a new shoe. I didn’t want to have to spend another $10 on footwear, so I dealt with it. I pretended that I really liked when my toe touched the sidewalk even though I was supposedly wearing protective gear on my feet. I called them “worn in” when a rock would come in through the hole in the back heel. Now I have on new shoes. They aren’t new shoes, but they are new in that I haven’t worn them in over a year and a half. They are new in that the heel is fully intact.

They are also a little annoying. I have to tie them and untie them to get them on and off because I haven’t worn them enough to be able to make them into makeshift slippers. They slide around, which is fun, but because they are vaguely platform shoes, I sometimes trip – assuming my heel is further away from the ground then it is. But I like ‘em. I’ve been enjoying my new height, ability to make loud clomping noises as I walk, and the way my feet look like a a clown’s feet fucked a gogo dancer’s feet. I have had this pair of shoes, or the exact same pair but older since I was a Junior in High School. They remind me of times when I was a cheaper attention whore. When I didn’t quite analyze each of my comedic instincts and rather just wore a funny hat or jacket, knowing it would get me a laugh. They remind me of high school dances, where Jon and I were the only ones dancing because we thought funk music could save the world if everybody just truly felt the groove. They remind me of icy winters in Minnesota when I would pretend I was on cross country skis, gliding to class on my tractionless boot-shoes. They remind me of all of the wonderful free suits I’ve worn with these shoes.

Yeah.

I like my women like I like my shoes. Sometimes I get stuck pretending I enjoy them when their “comfort” is really just my laziness and inability to see what would truly be best for me, and sometimes I jump into something new and exciting and it feels like it’s taking a while to really get, but even that’s exciting, but if I really analyze it – they are just the same as something I had before. I like my women like I like my shoes. Nostalgically.

I think I need new shoes.

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Lonely

Birthday Fuck

Playing early 90s racing video games where chunks of meat hit your windshield when you drive into an animal (like a dinosaur) in a laundromat on my birthday.

That’s unfortunately 157 characters so twitter would not allow that to be my status, but it is my status in terms of what status technically means. This is one thousand times better than my last birthday when I had one friend and we went to a whiskey bar and forced ourselves to “hit on girls.” By which I mean we started by offering to not by some girls drinks because of both our belief in gender equality and our other belief in not spending the little money we had.

The birthday before that was spent uncomfortably implying to a girl that she should have samurai training videos at home.

I’m gonna try to not think I should have birthday sex today. It only causes problems, but I also am faced with the fact that I’m another year older and have still had way less sex than I would like to be true.

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Indignant, Lonely, My favorites, Selfish

When Did I Become Such a Pussy?

I don’t mean a pussy like a female reproductive organ. I mean a pussy like the tapered piece of wood that you hit with a stick in order to hit it again with the stick in a game of tipcat.

I used to stand up for my beliefs. Back when my beliefs were stupid and annoying and made other people feel bad about themselves. But people needed to feel bad about themselves because they were making mistakes. I made mistakes too. I make mistakes too.

I still make mistakes. That’s important. You also kept making mistakes, but I stopped pointing it out. It’s not that I stopped caring. I still get frustrated and walk out of rooms just to stare at walls breathing deeply until I calm down. It’s that I stopped showing my reaction. Instead I sit idly by while I get flipped in the air and then batted away as far as can be batted. Then instead of hailing insults in my wake at my assaulters as I fly through the air I simply wait until I land and the bets have been placed on how far I have flown.

That joke will be funny to the one person who is googling the rules of tipcat while knowing the basic elements of the game and stumbles across this blog instead and finds themselves intrigued by the title because they are sexually frustrated because they haven’t gotten any in a while and are trying to keep their mind off it by researching 17th century children’s games. Well first of all that didn’t work, pussy. You haven’t gotten any because you are ugly and you refuse to get a haircut because you think that that will be compromising some part of your identity when the reality is that getting a haircut will just stop offering you the excuse that people don’t like your hair and that’s why they won’t sleep with you.

Second off: Fuck the rest of you that didn’t get it. Not that you should have gotten my joke, but more that I don’t give a fuck about you. I’ve given too much of a fuck about you for a while.

Did you read my last post? It mentioned Glee.

When did I become such a pussy?

People need to be tested. People need to be uncomfortable. People need to feel like shit. People need to feel bad about themselves. People need to be like me.

I had forgotten that. I had forgotten how important it is for me to to force everyone to be more like me.

Do you wanna see the first paragraph of my novel? I don’t give a shit. Read it:

“I am a prophet and this is my religion’s bible. My religion’s Bhagvad Gita. My religion’s Koran. My religion’s text in story form that explains the philosophies by which a member of my religion should live their life.”

The dude who wrote that wasn’t a pussy because that dude wasn’t scared of everybody’s reaction because that dude wasn’t so desperately lonely that he held onto any basic element of friendship that would make him feel like he wasn’t running wildly through a blank hall of broken ears unable to hear his screams. So he screamed softly the things that those ears wanted to hear. Well now I’ve whipped out my dick and you all are going to get earfucked.

1. You can’t get laid. Neither can I. Neither can people in Darfur. That person near you doesn’t want their genitalia near your genitalia, and that doesn’t mean anything more than the fact that they don’t want their genitals near your genitals. That isn’t some great indignance against society. Mostly this guy is a douche.

2. You’re a mother of an upper-class white kid with a nanny, you aren’t saving the world. In fact you are probably causing a lot of pain to the world with your 6 foot by 23 foot stroller made of petroleums made of dead pelicans. By the way six people died to make your engagement ring and you are complaining about your $50 haircut – you are a piece of shit.

3. Stop telling me that this silence is awkward. I know. I’m in it. I probably made it awkward in hopes that you would stop trying to talk to me.

4. Doing drugs doesn’t make you cool. Doing cool things on drugs makes you cool. Stop bragging about how much you smoked, drank, or at what time you did. Start bragging about how you need an alibi, you don’t know where parts of your body are, or you feel like you invented wormholes with your emotions.

5. Saying “fag” ironically isn’t subversive. Your existence is subversive – in that it subverts intelligence. I don’t think I used the word subvert right.

I think I’m less of a pussy now and more of stick.

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