Lazy, Nostalgia

A New Way of Being Recycley Unproductive

To start off 2011 I will be scouring through my old notebooks to find writing so that I don’t have to create new things. Here’s something I wrote in a bar:

True Story

Battle

Extraordinary

I was watching TV in a bar on mute and those are the words that were chosen to move slowly and horizontally across the screen in-between shots of Brendan Frasier and Harrison Ford arguing. Taylor Swift’s Romeo and Juliet played on the bar’s radio and I got so excited about the possible symbolism of the event that I demanded the check immediately and gave forth my credit card even though I had the cash to pay for my BLT so that they would have to give me a pen so that I could write this in my notebook.

I don’t think there is any symbolism.

 

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Attention Whoring, Nostalgia

Library

I finished a notebook last week, so I’m going to begin posting things I wrote in it and never typed up. This post is “Shit I Wrote in the Library While I Waited for my Tutoring Client to Show Up.”

She ran back and forth from the library counter to her stacks of books she had compiled on the floor taking two at a time. It wasn’t that she couldn’t carry more, but rather that she originally picked up two when she leaned over, her lower lip extended to catch any errand snot that dripped from her nose. Bending back over seemed like too much work so instead she ran across the library one hand holding up her bright purple corduroy pants that only fell when she ran, the other holding the books she had picked up from her neat pile in the middle of the busiest library aisle. Her unwashed straight hair bounced off her head like someone was continuously shaking a sheet free of crumbs.

Her mother laughed, charmed with her daughter’s incapabilities.

I wrote, charmed with the girl’s incapabilities.

She didn’t think she had any incapabilities.

 

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Attention Whoring, Indignant, My favorites, Nostalgia, race

Remember It Seems Like a lot of Work

When I started this blog it was for a reason. I had this high and mighty concept of unlikability – of relatability and disgust – of forced self-disgust. People were meant to read and not say: “That’s like me!” but rather “Oh, shit. That’s like me.” They were meant to see the thoughts they had extended to further, lazier, grosser, more selfish ends and realize the dystopian future that they had set out before themselves. My blog has changed. I got tired of walking the fine line of lying and truthing – of constantly worrying about how an audience would react and if that desired reaction would be appropriate – and instead I just wanted to write. I now write.

5:37 am

My alarm was supposed to go off at 5:30, but it was now 5:37 and I was waking up without any additional sound. Should I go back to bed because my alarm didn’t go off? Should I set my alarm for 5:40? Should I assume that this is an illusion and break my cell phone? No. I should just get up.

I take a shower, I check my email. I have two more messages from a Fantasy Basketball fan who has been pestering me on how to improve his team. I tell him that I just don’t think Ray Allen is worth having on his team. I head out the door with my cell phone, wallet, and … keys? My keys feel small. That’s because yesterday I had lent the store keys to a co worker and then forgotten to get them back. Shit. I call her. She wakes up. She feels bad. I feel badder. I run. I run all the way to her apartment. 1.1 miles. It takes me 15 minutes. I didn’t run the whole way. I’m still making up lies.

When I started this blog, it was about a lot of things that were unlikable, but it focused on the lazy in us. Each title ended with “seems like a lot of work” and each entry was generally about me being unable to function correctly in society because I was trying too hard to not try. I wasn’t just lazy like Nisse Greenberg is. I was lazy like H2$. H2$ refused to admit he was wrong. He was right and he was a douchebag about it.

6:21 am

I arrive 9 minutes before I’m supposed to be at work. I grab the keys and stand out in the dark with a girl in her pajamas. She isn’t pajama rich. She’s pajama poor. I’m also pajama poor. We stand pajama poor staring out of half closed eyes made of anger we can only misdirect at our life situations. She is calling a car service so that I can get to work on time. I’m attempting to distract her by talking about how everybody I passed on my jog through crown heights was drunk and coming home from fun nights out, but I was going to work. I’m attempting to distract myself from the fact that I am going to work and there are drunk people coming home from fun nights out by talking about it. One of the groups I passed was two females and one male. He wanted to have sex. They also may have. None of that was interesting. What was interesting was that one of the females was carrying a portable metal detector that airport security uses on personal searches. I guess it’s phallic?

H2$ wasn’t simply lazy though. He was so set in his present that he refused to understand how his actions affected the future, and how his actions were affected by the past. His lack of understanding of history forced him to demand equality in gender by assuming equality in gender. When presented with an inequality, he tried first to indignantly equalize. This was a manifestation of laziness. This was refusing to study history. He thought he was just an asshole, but he was an asshole to women more then men because he couldn’t accept the basic concept that patriarchy had given him such an advantage in life. He was an asshole.

6:22 am

She hung up the phone. “You could just ride my bike.” Less money, get on my journey immediately. “Yes.” Two jackets, one pair of jeans, and loads of sweat, I headed off on a road bike meant for a 5’2″ girl in the pitch black darkness. I’ve been wearing two jackets lately because I like the way they look and feel. My lower jacket has good pockets, and feels nice against the skin. My overjacket looks hearty, and has a nice collar. I’ve come to somewhat respect a look that fits. I still don’t think there is objective good and bad in taste of clothes, but I do think that clothing is a form of expression.

The night before I had been in Bushwick at a concert that included a toy piano, a band with 7 members and 12 instruments and two video installations. It was loftlike because it was in Bushwick and had long flowing fabrics attached to the wall and ceiling in a way that made it feel very theatry. Oh, and the concert ended with a square dance. I love square dancing. I love dancing. After the first song, a couple of us went outside to drink our beers and get some fresh air. A man in a suit, blonde crew cut, and authoritative walk approached us quickly and demanded that we get inside with our beers. We obliged politely and watched as the man perused the concert, seemingly looking for someone at fault. Kyle and I began discussing how we had so quickly obliged to enter with our beers despite the fact that he had no real authority. Who was this douchebag? Who was this asshole? If he had had a scruffy beard and disparate plaid would we have listened to him? No. Kyle stopped mid-sentence. Wait, I was into this, I wanted to rant indignantly about image! “Dude,” Kyle started “That’s the guy.” I looked toward where his finger would have extended to see a man in a blonde crew cut, red hoodie, and triangle patterned neon tights. It was him. He was still walking authoritatively around as if something must be wrong. Our mouths unable to speak as this man had completely proven our point for us, we watched as he took off his hoodie, revealing the tights to be a part of a one piece leotard, climbed a ladder on the wall only to grab a child’s sombrero to wear and unhook one of the fabrics, which cleared the dance floor for simply a hanging chunk of fabric. Kyle and I gravitated toward the dance floor. “Oh he lives here, he’s an acrobat.” He climbed up the fabric and did some crazy circus shit to square dancing music. It was the most badass thing I’ve ever seen.

When I began writing, I did not want to seem cool. I did not want to get myself laid. I wanted to make others feel as bad as me. I wanted others to share in my shame – to recognize, embrace and the runaway from that embrace of the things that made them bad people. It was a disgusting goal, but I was living as a disgusting person – unemployed, half-bearded, and consisting mostly on free samples from Whole Foods. I was a scumbag, but I was bringing you all down with me.

6:39 am

I got to work only 9 minute late. The bike ride sucked though. The bike had those foot pedal foot holders, the ones meant to wrap around your feet. I wear shoes that seem like some sort of mix between gogo boots and clown shoes so fitting into anything meant to wrap around normal footwear, but I couldn’t just switch around the pedals because then the foot holders scraped against the ground. I panted as I rose my key to the door. I’m out of shape. Biking is tough. I didn’t even have to go uphill. It still seemed like a lot of work.

My blog wasn’t simply mental masturbation. It was full on masturbation. It was a fantasy of my life that in the end made me feel unfulfilled and dirty because I was unfulfilled and dirty. Mostly because I masturbated so much. I sat in my bed full of crumbs jerking off to the ramblings of a jerk off jerking off on a page.

I then worked a 10 1/2 hour day.

Things have changed.

A year and a half ago I started off lazy. Now I exercise before working a 10 1/2 hour work day and then heading off on a nearly two hour journey around Brooklyn to buy a new bike. Oh yeah, I did that too.

Ugh.

I should have just taken work off.

I think I’m running away from myself.

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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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Attention Whoring, My favorites, Nostalgia

Awww Hail No!

Mariano was eating hail.

I was calling my dad.

We all grow up in different environments, with different moments that change our lives. We are not the same person. None of us. Except for weather. Weather is the same. Someone once told me that they love small talk conversations about the weather. My initial reaction was to hate them because to me that was like saying “I hate fun” but then they explained that they liked these convos because it was the one time that everybody involved in the conversation was dealing with the same variables in the same way and was discussing the same thing.

The inoffensive nature of conversations concerning the nature surrounding you tends to offend me, but I also like extremes and weather is easily the most inoffensive conversation you can have. You can’t have opinions about what the weather is. You can’t argue about whether or not it’s raining. We all agree on the definition of rain. You can argue about what you like about the rain, but every body respects everybody else’s opinions of weather.

I left Perch for a second to pick up a hail stone. I told my dad that they were the size of ping pong balls. They weren’t. They were the size of my thumbnail. A woman walked by and said “This is crazy right?”

“Yeah.”

“I was in my car when it started.”

I was on the phone but it didn’t matter. My dad could hear her. She could be a part of our conversation.

“It sounded like someone was pounding on the roof.”

She had interrupted me mid-sentence with a loved one and I was smiling.

“I was afraid to get out of my car. I thought it would hurt me.”

She laughed because she thought that that was funny. It wasn’t. I laughed too.

I’m not polite. Being laughed at is a privileged not a right and it needs to be worked toward.

The weather made me a person. Made me a person who fits into this society in a way I am not used to. Made me a functioning member. Because we all were on the same page – a page I typically run from, but you can’t run from hail or tornadoes or earthquakes. I’m stuck on that page so I might as well be a part of that page.

I ate a hail stone.

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Attention Whoring, My favorites, Nostalgia

I Live Like I Write

They were right. I did look like a homeless, depressing version of Willy Wonka. I was wearing a knee length purple coat that usually gets commented on for making me look like the Joker or Prince, but this time I was also handing out free samples of Mint Chocolate Chip Ice Cream Gum that I grabbed from the free samples box at work. By “free samples box” I mean a box of free samples came in and we’re not going to give them out, so I thought I’d bring them to the street. Not that I believe in the product, but I definitely don’t believe in waste. Ironic considering the absurd amount of packaging I kept having to hand out with each piece of gum.

I have a beard.

Later I was introduced that way at the Moth – and though it still takes some getting used to to recognize that my most distinguishing feature is distinctly masculine – they are right. I do have a beard. It’s not a trimmed beard, or a stable beard, or a beard that any self respecting human being would don in their attempts to look attractive. But it’s a beard. It’s distinctive. It’s what helped me change my Willy Wonka look into the much more interesting manic depressive hermit/hobo Willy Wonka look that attracted the comments of others.

They were right.

I fell in love with a girl once in as much as I don’t believe in love but saying love now makes this story more interesting. I fell in love with her because she was really good at describing my writing. We had made out. Then we hadn’t talked for a while. I shouldn’t have been in love with her because we hadn’t talked in a while, but I was focusing on what happened two sentences ago. I was pulling off one of my stints of homelessness but friendfullness at the time and was crashing on friends couches before I moved back to Maine. The weather was just warming up in Minnesota but I had to carry any layers I thought I might need that day because I had no home to go back to and change. I was wearing the same knee length purple coat that I had been allowed to take from my high school costume closet that I described earlier. I also was worried about my inability to brush my teeth because of my lack of a sink to go home to so I was carrying a toothbrush in my mouth in case some spare water graced my mouth with its presence. I also had just bought a cane because it was $2. I was now attempting to learn cool cane tricks I could do casually as I walked. “Attempting” being the key word here.

I didn’t have a beard.

I had half a beard.

I had shaved half my face while leaving the other half fully homelessized. That’s when I ran into the girl I loved for her ability to describe my writing well and her willingness to one time make out with me. With a toothbrush in my mouth, a cane spinning wildly around my extended arm, a purple coat wrapped tightly around most of my body, and pubic-looking hair growing on half of my face I said “Hi.”

I didn’t go well.

She had described my writing as “chewing a fully wrapped Starburst without the satisfaction of feeling like a good kisser.” I live like I write.

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