Depressed, Gender, Selfish

Hey Nicki, you’re so fine, you’re so fine, holy Christ I wish I was you so bad.

It’s nice out, but I am not outside.

The reason is because I haven’t taken a shower.

The reason I haven’t taken a shower is because I’m busy being in bed.

The reason I’m being in bed is because my computer contains so much work for me to do.

Drawn Out Storytelling is happening. It’s happening, but we still need more money.

I’m proud of my art. I’m proud of the things I do, but sometimes I can’t do the things that are truly important. The things that are important are done by Nicki Minaj.

I can subvert masculinity or question the concept of gender roles/identification, but what I can’t do is truly be empowering because I am not a woman. Beyond that, I’m not talented, but more importantly: I have a penis. It sucks.

Specifically what Nicki does that Missy Elliot and Lil Kim did not do before her was maintain femininity. PINK. She is able to project her femininity as her power. She co-opted patriarchy without co-opting masculinity. She even sings as the heterosexual Nicki in it. Usually I’m opposed to when Nicki pretends to only like men or women, but her hetero status is important in this video because it gives her the power to comment purely on the power she can demand as a woman over men. PINK.

Did you know she’s a woman?

There’s no question. Cus she’s got boobs and curves and PINK. Pink jizz. She fucking jizzes her pink jizz all over some dudes chest and he makes that face. That face. The face that every girl in patriarchal pornography makes as she gets a face full of facefull. I can’t do this because my jizz, despite being pink, comes out of a penis. It doesn’t come out of a champagne glass, it comes out of an uncircumcised, barely average, left leaning (politically and physically) dick.

People have asked me why I have so many issues with my penis in the interviews that I hold in my head when I’m fantasizing about fame and this is the problem: What can/should I do?

I can’t ever do what I need to do, and that’s both okay and terrible. Okay for the world, but terrible for me. It’s hard to reconcile.

Also, watch this show. They’re doing the things I wish I could do but can’t because of my stupid stupid stupid stupid stupid penis. AND she lip syncs to Nicki well.

Depressed, Lazy, My favorites, Pathetic


Yesterday I got fed up with the fact that my computer sounds like two tractors doin’ the dirty. By “doin’ the dirty” I do not mean hauling mud and gravel places, I mean fucking. Why does it sound like this? Because my computer’s fan must always stay on in order to maintain a heat level that is below hell temperatures and that fan that is constantly on has something stuck in it that makes it buzz like a drill being dropped in a hornets’ nest. I decided I was going to fix this once and for all.

The reason I decided this needed to be fixed yesterday was partially that the sound has gotten exponentially more intense over the last week. Mostly though it was because of “future-past.” For those of you who haven’t spoken with me for longer than an hour and therefore aren’t familiar with the concept of “future-past,” it is the idea of living your life not in the past, present, or future but rather living your life so that in the future you may tell tales of your past. I decided to fix my computer because I figured the adventure into the wonders beneath the metal scraps that enclose my life (aka: my computer) would be both an adventure without much movement and still an adventure.

Boy was I wrong!

Putting exclamation marks after depressing statements makes it look like you are able to make light of your depressing failures. This is the “future-past.”

I’m going to stop putting quotes around future-past because in order for it to become coined as a real phrase it needs to be treated as such.

My first failure was my failure to not have to move much. Obviously I don’t own a small screwdriver. I don’t know why I thought I did, but I really, really thought I did. I scoured my apartment like Gollum looking for the ring, then made lazy similes based on cultural references that everyone will think is personal despite the fact that I don’t really like the Lord of the Rings books.

Then I walked to the pharmacy. I hate the pharmacy near me. I love where I live, and I even love my tiny 4 bedroom apartment with walls the thickness of construction tissue. I like the bars closeby and the restaurants a little further away. But the necessities (bodega, pizza, pharmacy, grocery store) that have to be within a block according to Brooklyn cultural law in my area suck. My bodega’s cat is mean, the beer selection sucks, the juice selections sucks even more, and they constantly run out of crumb donuts. The grocery store is cold and disorganized, closes too early, and has really slow cashiers. I’m pretty sure the pizza place just closed down because of the latest health inspection.

The pharmacy has the worst employees. And not nearly enough toys. My perception of pharmacies is that they need to include basic medicinal needs and lots of useless toys. Maybe this comes from lollipops at doctors’ offices.

I found the mini-screwdriver and headed home. I unscrewed the back panel of my laptop. I unscrewed the metal container around the fan. I brushed out enough lint to make a cotton candy prop in an early talkie. That wasn’t what was making the noise though. I kept unscrewing. Even my newfound virginity (that’s a joke with the word “unscrewing”) couldn’t get my fan to stop sounding like a meat grinder being attacked by a jackhammer. It was the fan itself. It needed to be dealt with.

I followed the wires that plugged the fan in. They seemed unpluggable. They were unpluggable. I unplugged them. There were five wires that I unplugged. Pink, orange, and white all went to the fan. The two black wires travels around the fan and attached to a ball of something hidden by black electrical tape and attached to a copper tube that created a diagonal across my computer. With the black wires unplugged the copper diagonal rose in heat. A lot. I quickly plugged the wires back in. The dogs chewing on metal rods with motors continued. Maybe I could clip just the three wires that connected to the fan. I pulled a knife from my set of kitchen knives that I bought drunk off the internet. I mean that both in that I was drunk and buying things on the internet and that I was drunk on internet surfing. I cut three wires in my computer.

This may be one of the stupidest things I’ve done. But, y’know: future-past!

The computer won’t turn on. It knows that the fan isn’t connected and doesn’t want to ruin itself. I can trick it. I hold the wires together as the computer turns on and then let go once windows has started up. This way the computer doesn’t have a chance to save itself. It overheats and shuts down.

I have fixed my computer and am typing on it now. There are three small pieces of duct tape inside my computer making sure it works, the tractor orgy is still loudly happening, and there are screws missing from the inside of my laptop because, c’mon I was supposed to keep track of those tiny pieces of metal. Also, I’m worried that the duct-tape holding the electronics of my computer (aka: my life) is going to melt soon, so I haven’t screwed the back of my laptop back on and instead attached it with duct-tape.

So, what has the future-past done for me?

I have a computer held together by gluey strands and a constant fear of losing my life’s work. … !

Depressed, Nostalgia

Recycley Unproductive II (Other’s Depression)

Here’s some things I wrote about people I watched while in the subway!

It was his job, nay his requirement, to make the world better. Sure, it would exist without him, but if not in shambles, closer to them in his absence.

He would make it better.

If a person stopped at the red light a little further out then they meant to (blocking the path of any pedestrians who wanted to utilize their rights  to the right edge of the crosswalk) he would knock on their window and explain the error of their ways. If a paper describing a service unneeded or a band unheard of was on a post (littering our sight with his presence) he would tear it down and find the appropriate receptacle.

He was. Not very useful.

At age 52 another woman thought her to look not a day over 45. Though the mistake was supposedly flattering, she knew it didn’t mean she was attractive.

At age 24 she had celebrated her little sister’s 21st by escaping to a local pub. Though her newly legal sister had to force her ID on the barkeep, our protagonist was asked and analyzed by the same man because her legality at this establishment was in question. After the embarrassment of seeming to be a lawbreaker as opposed to the mentor she desired to appear as to her younger sister, she then wasn’t able to show of any skills of seduction either.

Her family liked meals together and didn’t mind meals alone too. Neither did they mind the extra weight that came with those meals. She had the unluckiest metabolism of her family of fatties. Nobody made her feel bad about her weight. Nobody except the world. A world that thought she looked like a perfect piece of veal – young and plump. Delicious. Too bad we don’t like food the way we like people.

His throat hoarse from a full day of howling on the subways, he once again perched himself against a pole and strummed his out of tune guitar and attempted to make his voice heard over the rickety train wheels. His fingers were hard with calluses that prevented bleeding and his forehead was sweaty with sweat of a person who was overweight and yet decided physical exertion should be a constant in his life. He scurried from train to train, half panting, half regurgitating sound from a throat rawer than any WWE fan’s wet dream.

I didn’t give him any money.

I sat awestruck by the performance being put on in front of me.

He wasn’t just playing Hey Jude on a wood whistle with a recording of someone else’s piano exploits backing him up. His face made all the jerky, near orgasmic movements that a bass player at a public school who is a little more talented than the rest of his jazz band makes to prove his passion for the art of music. When the music that he played had rest, he did not. Instead he opted to mime large smacks on the imaginary piano that rolled a foot in front of wherever he decided to be. Where he decided to be was always the most dramatic place to be. Whether it was with his back to the mic, walking toward the exit of the subway platform or if it was crouched down, eyes closed “feeling” the recorded piano and Incanese woodwind playing a bastardization of the Beatle’s hit, his poses illustrated how much he cared. And he cared a lot. He posed a lot.

The subway train came. It was loud. He no longer was. At least relatively. He reached down and turned off his boombox and his emotions.


Attention Whoring, Depressed

I Should be Famous

I’ve been waking up early lately. I think the morning job and the fact that I don’t have blinds of any sort which causes light and cold to enter my room at 6:30 is part of that. That would be the logical answer, but as fun as logic is, it is less fun to blame things on.

It’s because I wake up in guilt ridden panics of self-doubt and then I can’t get back to sleep because I feel to guilty and self-doubty. Not because of anything in particular but rather just a constant worry that I am doing nothing in life. I am accomplishing so little. I don’t give homeless people money because I don’t have money. I don’t save things except for piles of trash that I mistakenly compile in the corners of rooms I spend too much time in. My only output to society is art which is so intangible and useless and helps no one except a bunch of other people who do nothing but produce intangible and useless contributions.

If I were famous all this would be different. My audience would be so far reaching that the things I said would be important. When I talked about my inability to get out of bed for fear of having to put on clothes and accomplish something I would guilt some young teen suffering from depression into getting out of bed and making love to another young teen suffering from depression instead of just causing 10 of my friends to be a little more disgusted with the prospect of making love to me.

Let’s all stop judging what I do until I get famous – it’s really only interesting then.


At Least Luigi’s Not a Dick

The rotation of my bike wheel was accented by a clicking sound. As if someone was attempting to count the rotations of my wheel by typing a letter on a typewriter. I knew what it was. I didn’t want to be right, but I was.

There was a tack in my wheel. I had bought the bike only three days earlier – I still had no helmet or lock. Now my too small for me, purple girls bike who’s gears barely work has a flat. More specifically it has a hole in the tire that is being plugged up by a piece of metal meant to keep posters on walls.

Was this an accident?


I want to assume so, but recently one of the kitchen staff members stopped talking to me. Mario stopped talking to me because I told him to go fuck himself. I told him to go fuck himself because he tried to scare me in the morning. This sounds like I was overreacting, but this person has spent the past six months fingering my asshole while I talk to customers, asking for “besos” every time I need something from the kitchen, and pulling out my leg hair. He has spent the last six months “playing pranks” on me which involve gently stroking my ass when I bend over, screaming in my ear when I’m turned away from him and am trying to do something with hot liquid, and demanding to know how big my penis is and how long I can have sex for. He has spent the last six months assaulting me with questions about my female friends despite the fact that he has a wife at home. Questions like: “Is she your girlfriend?” “Does she want to have sex with me?” and “I like her ass.” I had gotten fed up. I had yelled at him multiple times explaining to him that though I enjoy a good joke, I don’t like being touched by him because it is an aggressive touch – to which he responded by asking if I wanted to fight. I have told him that I don’t find his jokes funny because they only serve to make me uncomfortable and in no way are for anyone’s enjoyment. Finally I told him I wasn’t going to talk to him again.

This coincided with the day that Kyle did the same thing. Kyle works with me and is harassed in a similar manner. One day he wouldn’t let Mario use his bike because the kitchen staff member had his own bike and did not need to use his bike. When Kyle went to the basement to retrieve his bicycle he found the air had been let out of his tire and there was no bike pump to fix it. They got into a fight in brunch when Kyle asked if said kitchen member had let the air out of his tire – a conclusion he arrived at when one of the other members told him that Mario had let out the air as a “chiste.” It was yet again, a terrible “chiste” that was in no way funny but only caused pain.

I’m a big fan of pain in comedy, but that pain should be shared. Comedy is about sharing pain. Bullying is about being the cause of someone else’s pain without being in pain yourself. Mario isn’t a comedian, he is a bully.

Do I think that Mario put a tack in my bike tire on the day he stopped speaking to me?

I don’t want to.

I really don’t want to.

I’m not going to.

But I’m not going to be surprised when it was him because now I have to walk to tutoring appointments and to work and his life is in no way more painful.

This entry wasn’t comedy either. Because it also caused you pain by forcing you read about my selfish bourgeois complaints about my craigslist bicycle being unusable, forcing me to use my unlimited metro pass.

Depressed, Nostalgia, Pathetic

Me: In Cars

Instead of discussing the New Orleans style flood of emotions that has occured upon coming back to Maine – a place I’ve hated my whole life – to realize that it is simultaniously as beautiful as everyone says it is and as horrible as I always said it was, instead of discussing the fact that the familiar water pressure of my childhood shower nearly brought me to tears, instead of discussing how free food and Tivo is making me rethink every decision I’ve made in life, I will be discussing why I don’t like to drive.

Driving is boring.

I love how in New York no transportation is wasted. I get on the subway only to write, read, and occasionaly masturbate. I can do none of those things while driving. Driving takes up the entirety of my energy. I have to stare at a road and hope that my destination comes quickly. In the car I had in high school I could adjust the display so that it would show how many miles per gallon I was getting at each second. I used to turn that on and then try to be the most efficent driver I could be. The problem occurs when you crash because you are paying attention to a small digitally displayed number as opposed to the road.

$3000 is the amount I’ve lost because of speeding tickets and cars I’ve crashed. That is about 10 times the amount of money in my bank account. Being back in Maine frightens me because most of this money was spent here as I would drive 80 mph on roads I knew well at 2am where the only other car out was the cop who pulled me over. This is why I moved to New York – so that I wouldn’t have to drive anymore.

I hate driving.

I also hate crying in the shower because the water pressure reminds me of waking up for high school, but I do it anyway.

Attention Whoring, Depressed, Gender, Horny, Lonely, My favorites, Nostalgia

Attract: A Post, A Female Post

Women, to me, are nostalgia bottled into breasts and butts.

I am still attracted to female anatomy, and maybe even more to the pain they feel from being subjugated to constantly being forced into playing the victim card in our patriarchal society – a pain I falsely understand as my own, but I don’t like women the way I did in the past. In the past, women represented an unattainable but very frequent goal. Something I knew I wanted, but didn’t understand how to get. Something that I gave too much power to, too much agency because society took so much of it away from them. When one combines a desire with an unwillingness to chase that desire, one gets nothing, and I got nothing. I wasn’t quite comfortable with that, but I understood it. I never felt anger because others (women) didn’t understand my how my sexual attraction was really just a selfless release of power – that I was constantly attempting to give the gift of agency to women I felt emotionally entangled with only to see my gift re-gifted to a man more willing to play with power. I understood their confusion because I was also confused as to what I was doing.

Whenever we grow, we also grow a comprehension of our past. We look at what we did and say “Why did we do that?” and then we answer that question because now we have to ability to look at the situation in a rational manner as opposed to being wrapped up in the emotional turmoil we’ve convinced ourselves is so important. I’m not saying that emotion isn’t important, but rather that it is fleeting. Emotion takes a lot of energy and to dwell on things that make you cry will make you tired. Constant tiredness is a symptom of depression.

I look back and understand a lot of my mistakes with women – but at least I had goals to fuck up. I haven’t truly desired a relationship in years. When I do find myself into a girl, it’s because I find my relationship to her similar to a relationship I used to have with someone else. Someone I had tricked myself into liking. Someone who I gave power and agency to only to get pats on the head and emotional diatribes back. Someone who makes me resent myself because they didn’t screw up, but I did. I was doing things wrong and I see women now as only an opportunity to make up for my mistakes. My mistakes were not that I didn’t bone them or make out with them or tell them how I felt. My mistakes were that I gave them agency and then forced them to use it. Agency is a lot of work and I wouldn’t let them be lazy. I love being lazy.

Laziness is not about not exerting energy, but also about being a selfless member of society. Laziness allows others to express their opinions. Laziness is listening. Laziness is helping others instead of helping yourself. This may not be the common definition laziness, but I am uncommon and therefore so are my definitions.

I was wrong in the past. I wasn’t maliciously so, but I didn’t allow people I was attracted to the same life that I had because I thought that no one else should have to deal with having my life. Now I do because I recognize the happiness I have, but I’m no longer attracted to anybody – truly.

Recently I hung out with two people that I spent far too much time obsessing over at different points in my life. My relationship to both is similar. They are similar. I miss them.

I miss them when they are right there because I will never be able to feel like I did. I really just miss myself. I don’t like that self that I miss, but he’s interesting. I wanna know what he thinks sometimes. I wanna know how he would feel right now. But I can’t because he doesn’t exist any more because he has been taken over by me. I killed him and I want him back. Not more than me, but with me.

A story I have been working on for a while starts off: “I need to explain to you all that while I hate myself, I hate all previous incarnations of myself even more.” I use the word hate and love interchangeably because as I’ve said before: “Hate is not the opposite of love, apathy is.”

I used to think of the graphical interpretation of my emotions as some sort of strangely oscillating sine wave where hate was below the x-axis and love was above it. Somewhere along my journey of life I added absolute value signs around the function of my life and love and hate became the same thing, but nearing zero became as depressed as I could be. I must be happier now. I at least enjoy everything more, but I want to hang out with all the previous incarnations of myself that weren’t this wise, that weren’t this understanding, that were attracted to these girls for all the wrong reasons.

I now find myself still attracted to them, but I fear it is just nostalgia. It is just me missing that scared little facial hairless boy who didn’t understand why giving didn’t result in receiving. Who didn’t understand that giving results in giving and receiving results in receiving and only once you do both are you truly adding absolute value signs to you emotions. Even I’m confused by what I just said, but I think I want to be. I want to be confused again and fall in love again and hate again and have it not mean the same thing over and over so I pretend. I pretend to myself that I want something that I wanted before hoping that I can get back any of those previous incarnations of myself and play with them. I really just want to play with myself.

I guess I succeed in doing that pretty often because I tend to masturbate to all these feelings of nostalgia, and also to breasts and butts.

comedy, Death, Depressed

Depression and Death’s Hilarity

I love Garfield minus Garfield. It’s one of my favorite websites. I recognize that it is a simple concept with sometimes very overdone jokes, but c’mon:

Watching a medium of comedy used for simply depressing ends is hilarious. It’s because expectations are thwarted and comedy is about surprise. I love surprises for the most part. I love surprise nights of misadventures, I love surprise parties.

I love all surprises except surprise death. That shit frightens me. My biggest fear is drive by shootings despite the fact that I have spent most of my life in rural Maine and St. Paul, Minnesota. Drive by shootings are frightening because despite their rarity, the awfulness of them is so awful that their expected value of awfuality is awful. It’s a multiplication thing, don’t worry about it. I am obviously very frightened of death because it means the end of life, but the idea that it ends with no reason is really the scary part. And in a drive by there might as well have been no reason because I will never know the identity of my killer and I will just die alone with no idea of why. And that makes me sad.

I want to cry in the third panel of my life.

Death, Depressed, Lazy

6:30 AM Death

I am writing this at 6:30am. It is not because I had some crazy all night party of funtimes and magicfarts – in fact I ditched the opportunity to party after someone else’s fantastic show in order to go to sleep and get up in time for work. Work that was supposed to start at 6:30am. Work that I didn’t have to go to until 12:00pm because I had switched shifts. So, now I’m back home with another five hours of day that I won’t be able to fall asleep during.

Why do I spend so much of the time I’m awake attempting to fall asleep? It’s such a waste. There is literally nothing less productive. It’s like you are saying, I’m going to attempt and fail to do nothing. Doing nothing is at least a thing. Doing nothing is relaxing, but trying to force yourself asleep is a complete waste of everything. And it never works. You just sit there waiting until your body doesn’t want to do awake anymore, and all the methods that don’t involve physically altering the chemicals in your body do nothing because anything else involves thinking, which is counter to sleeping. It’s like yelling yourself into a meditative state – it doesn’t make sense.

Life is so short, yet so much of it is spent doing things that are stupid and worthless. Life is stupid and worthless.

When I can’t get to sleep, it’s usually because I’m having intense (though intensely boring) conversations with myself. They are annoying conversations where one person is trying to be absurd and the other person is annoyed because none of the absurd jokes that the first person is making are funny and therefore not worth keeping me awake over and then a third person comes in and tells them both to quiet down because they are all trying to sleep right now. It’s a horrible conversation to listen to, but it’s what I use to try to and fail to put me to sleep. I always want to be awake because I need to do so much before I die and being asleep just puts you closer to death without accomplishment. My multiple personality disorder (aka: vivid imagination) is keeping me awake though because all of the people in my head want to stay awake as much as possible too. The probability of all of the voices in my head wanting to sleep at the same time is so absurdly minuscule that I could compare it to the size of my dick and people who hadn’t heard much comedy would laugh because they would understand that to be a self-deprecating joke that they were comfortable agreeing with because it had no basis on their actual judgement of the person’s worth as they would never have to see if the joke had an element of truth to it.

What do I do with that time awake anyway? Play video games and hulu.


Life is so short, yet so much of it I spend doing things that are stupid and worthless. I am stupid and worthless.

Attention Whoring, Depressed, Pathetic, Selfish

The Heat is Making Me Look Like I’m Cleaning Vagina

I only have one pair of shorts. The pair is also nearly the only non-undergarmet article of my clothing that wasn’t previously owned. It’s a pair of athletic shorts I bought during the week and a half that I wanted to play basketball with my friends because I had nothing better going on in my life. That was a bad summer. All summers suck. I hate the heat. I get dehydrated easily. This is the furthest south I’ve lived in the summer. This is the hottest summer of my life. Fuck New York. I’ve started drinking Gatorade all the time to try to maintain a decent level of electrolytes.

Fuck New York.

New York is making my look like a douche – Wearing athletic shorts and drinking large containers of Gatorade.

There was a douche in my nerdiest math class who wore the same outfit and drank the same thing while he didn’t take notes because he was “too smart for that.” I hated him. I was usually the kid who was too smart to take notes, but this class was fucking impossible. This was Number Theory with Bressoud. Known for being one of the hardest math classes at my school. There were only 7 guys in the class and I was the least nerdy by far. Not by far. By so far that I couldn’t even see the next least nerdy person if we were lined up on the nerd spectrum. I was suddenly the stupidest person in class. My weekly Risk games made me seem cool because I had three friends to play Risk with.

One of these kids way less cool than me and way smarter than me was Jacob. Jacob also liked weightlifting. He was a douche. He would chug 24 ounces of Gatorade every class period in the midst of answering questions I was struggling with. UGH.

I wasn’t jealous of him. He had a really depressing life. He had 4 facebook friends (the true sign of coolness), and I had only ever seen him hanging out with one person: his girlfriend – who was almost as depressing as him – and they broke up at some point, so his life must have sucked. I wasn’t jealous of him. I was confused about myself when I was around him.

Socially, I’ve never considered myself a success. I’ve never cared to be one, so that’s okay. I wear clothes I find comfortable, I am mean the first time I meet people, I don’t censor my masturbation talk. I’m not a social success. What do I have over this Jacob kid though? Not my intellect. Not my athletic abilities. But I’m definitely better. I know that. So I must be better then him somehow, and social prowess is my last avenue to blame. I don’t want to only have my social abilities to rely on to prove that I’m better than somebody. I don’t care about society. Fuck society… No. Fuck him for making me embrace society.