Feeling Something Right?


Time is wasting, youth is fleeting, you’re dying. No really. You. Are. Dying. Every second you waste reading this sentence is another you will never get back. You may laugh now, scoff, make humorous gestures, but the truth is you know, and you fear it just as much as me. You’re going to die very soon, your youth, which once seemed an endless consistency in a world that spilt out of a firmly smiling mouth has begun to crumble and will soon be gone forever. Spent, wasted, dead.

What the fuck should we do then? Fuck if I know, seriously. I expect people to feel the same way I do, hold the same beliefs I do, yet I do nothing to advocate or support either of them. I arrogantly assume that simply believing in them is enough. That old adage, we all know, if you don’t film it, it didn’t happen, has a sort of profound relevance here. If you didn’t preach it, you didn’t feel it. So yeah, no matter how many hammer and sickle pins I stick on my designer jacket I’ll never crush the mighty bourgeois.

The last year’s been pretty drastic for me and I think it’s made me a far more confident but ultimately fragile person. Despite a few successful and unsuccessful forays into the dating scene I still found intimacy a deeply difficult challenge. I think I took The Cars song, Just What I Needed, a little too literally. Because I really do sometimes feel like I need someone to love to validate myself. I think that one made me very awkward in a lot of cases, that and the confused mix of booze and oxycontin led to many bumbling nights of exploring shaking hands and LED lights flickering like we were running the sesh life.

One particularly attractive Austrian girl appeared in my Kitchen one evening and after consuming an entire bottle of fireball to myself, yes every last drop. I began mocking her home then proceeded to black out. I woke up and she was in my bed with me, although we didn’t have sex she just stayed over. Apparently, though I had been performing the Nazi salute while telling her to shut up and help her Führer undress. Which she did but only because I had vomited on myself. Yeah, it was a good evening…

I think I quite immaturely I let my insecurities dictate my understanding most of the time and instead of maybe being a bit more confident and seeing it through I chicken out. I mean… It feels like I chickened out…

I think it’s been quite dangerous for me because I’ve been in physically abusive relationships just to feel it. In those moments you don’t want to not believe the person doesn’t love you.

I don’t know I don’t really know what to do with this blog anymore. It was a tool that filtered my life at a very different time. It was something for me to focus on when I had nothing and no one else too. I’ve spent a long time trying to find the right thing to post, I’m not sure this is it, but either way I’m writing it so I guess it doesn’t matter if it’s right or not. I guess my point is that the words I write on this blog don’t help me anymore. They are someone else’s now. Maybe they’ll help or do something for the person that might happen, by some awful mistake stumble upon them. All I can ask from this place is that it keeps its promise, and my life is never like it was before. I don’t need you anymore, and I never want to again.


Thanks for the bruises.


Let’s Rant ‘Bout: ”I’m sorry, but your opinion is in the minority”:


Authors Note: Bare with me as I regress into illogical preamble and madding, irrelevant thought.

It was a woozy weekday evening and the light was a hazy autumnal brown. I hadn’t eaten all day and the pit in my stomach began to plunge my work ethic as low as the v-cut on Kelly LeBrock’s dress.

I had been aggregating a collection of Heinz salad cream sachets for months, delicately storing them above a loose fitting roof tile. It was a mischievous form of entertainment that kept me from sustained periods of unbearable boredom. I’d imagine, years after my absence this collection, ripened and rotting with the smells of broken enzymes and bubbling fats.

It was a grotesque, evil image that removed me from the mind numbing mundanely of filing. Cardboard boxes towering higher than my own head each held documents that were so important and held so information that one person could absorbed it all. So they just had to be shoved carelessly onto cramped shelves and left forever in a dark room.

I watched a spider dance around a web of shining thread imagining my own life as a Black Widow. I’d sit lazily on the fringes of my Spider friend’s webs, eating their bait and complaining about my bad back. I’d insight hateful comments on twitter over the Spider government and talk about my xenophobic hate against the False Widow Spider and the rising number of Oak Processionary Moth immigrant workers taking good honest English homes and jobs.

I’d click on link bait articles that furthered my preferential beliefs that I am in fact the image and likeness of God and the world does in fact revolve around me. I’d make a Tumblr blog and write about how soft we are on women, calling for harassment on all public displays of progressive thinking while harking on about privilege. I’d write as a white male, militant atheist stuck in the friend-zone and reblog gifs of jiggly boobs and cartoon cats.

I’d copy wistful quotes onto Instagram pictures of sunsets and bastardize Francisco Bulnes with an elite sense of political centrist snobbery. Because anyone with any real political ideals is easy parody but in my almighty grace I’d end up punching down and already demoralized groups.

Makes my eyes seep with the pus of glorious angst ridden tears. Better put some Blink 182 in my tape deck.

All dissenting opinions on my own beliefs can and will be ignored because I’ve found myself in a space that encourages preference. The systems that our social media uses focus on our preferences and disenfranchise us from engaging with things outside those circles. Facebook makes you ‘’like’’ things, there’s no wiggle room there. It’s a binary system that enforces binary beliefs. Either its good or not.

It’s become the grammar of the internet, this dichotomy of binary appreciation. Youtube, WordPress, Facebook, Tumblr, Reddit and almost every freaking blog under the thinning atmosphere of our suffocating planet including this one! There’s been this push for us to strip our preferences down and brazenly wear them like scout badges. Big business has always wanted to aggregate the perfect, marketable profile of you for the sake of specifically targeted ads, and guess what? You’ve been doing that job for them. You’ve aggregated the perfect footprint. The perfect, saleable picture, the white man in his thirties that drives a ford car and watches the Simpsons and likes pictures of dogs and now he’s being sold a Simpsons dog lead and seat covers for his car. 

This, rant, this preamble, this concern for the grammar of the internet is all borne from one disturbing comment I read.

”I’m sorry, but your opinion is in the minority’

I sat dazed for a moment trying to decipher the meaning behind these words. There must be something. People valued it. It was highly rated and many replied, agreeing with this dismissive statement. At the time I was trying to write about cynicism, specifically my own. I was reading through my own text and comparing it to the horrifically scary online disinhibition effect. A reaction where, because of the internet’s lack of social restrictions and inhibitions that are otherwise present in normal social interaction individuals are able to peruse in and out cynical, hateful behavior without the fear of any kind of meaningful reprisal.

That’s why we get this spiteful brew of cynicism from our web going hours. Like the consequences written by Jean Baudrillard when he discussed hyperreality in Mass culture as a set ”of ritualised signs of information, with no actual content.’’ Just because someone can discuss an issue doesn’t inherently mean they are capable of doing so and more often than not they fail to even frame their argument, causing a growing web of straw-man conclusions to develop along the recesses of more informed debate. This sort of baggage is ultimately more harmful than good and personifies that ‘’disappearance of intensity’’ in dialogue described by Baudrillard.

What’s most disturbing about this statement, ”I’m sorry, but your opinion is in the minority’‘, is that it frames the opinions of those who are not represented by the majority as invalid. It invalidates all discussion that’s separate from the general consensus. Now of course this statement isn’t adhered to in any fashion by the journalistic press, at least those with somewhat reputable standards. Yet it’s still growing and expanding as a more common belief and the scary thing is that people haven’t even noticed.

We now live in tiny preferential realities where we can design our own truths and easily surround ourselves with things that prove those truths. Yet it’s just an aggregated fantasy, like my collection of hidden salad cream in the rafters, a day dream to seep the mundanity of real life away. To distract us from the real issues. The piling boxes and paper work that surrounds us and gobbles up every complex thought we want to explore. It’s a lot easier just to live that fantasy, to hit the like button. To exist in a world without challenge.


Let’s Talk About Block:

tumblr_lv7204GdSj1qhyqpto16_r1_1280 No, I’m not talking about constipation, but the nature of writer’s block, specifically mine… So if you also suffer from this please sit down and let’s share, because one of the few things that can make the process cathartic is talking about it. My traditional preamble complete let’s move on.   After a really ugly tour of some of my own depravities, I wrapped up some major personal projects which left me feeling rather empty. By that time I had been using antidepressants daily for nearly a year, and unable to renew my shoddy prescription of Diazepam I seriously considered starting a heroin habit. Although a quick review of my finances threw that jovial and irrational trip into dismay. So I regressed back to my primary aspiration, which was always a confused sort of wet humming mess that I could never really work out.

I’ve been fascinated by literature, writing and anthropology, but most importantly people. For the last few years of my life I’ve found some amazing stories in others. Some I thought I never would have wanted to know, but there’s a gentleness to storytelling that brings others together. It’s one of our most primitive pastimes, and that means it’s also one of our most important traits.

So in an attempt to recapture a sort of keen motivation I started weaning from others. Cannibalizing ideas, practices, even topics, and it served well enough although I couldn’t help but think I was cheating someone. Perhaps it was myself, although I suspect it was more founded from the idea of ‘cheating’. Despite the fact that term, ‘cheating‘ with its many connotations and contexts was perhaps ill-fitting to how I was really feeling. Nevertheless it still remained the one word I could use to closely articulate how I was reacting. It was in many ways a sort of imposter syndrome that had wreaked my illusions of self-worth and talent.

The consequences of this are quite dire to any writer, as the soul of self is so often wrapped up in ones capacity to create something that encapsulates their state. I felt detached from my ruminations drifting between different personas, some snarky, some academic and others just muddled.

As I looked around the web for insight into this block and my subsequent imposter syndrome, it seemed that almost anyone could have a respected argument as long as they wrote a lot. No matter how many fallacies they used as a foundation it seemed that to the internet eyes, sheer volume must account for insight. This accounts for why so people perpetuate broken ideas and memes, simply because their own understanding on what constitutes a well thought out statement is based on a word count.

Searching through these made me feel rather dire and isolated and knowing that the prospects for someone of my talented ilk has few if any opportunity to amply stretch this skill made me feel genuinely depressed. There is no better disenfranchisement than knowing what you want to do and what your strengths our yet still remain a victim of circumstance and be trapped forever to wallow in unsatisfactory mediocrity. My muddled identity as a writer, my misnomers in poorly phrased arguments, these all fretted me beyond measure. Writing felt like an unachievable head-space only reserved for those elite few who have the free time to leisurely measure every tangential idea that puzzles them.

Yet, sometime in the middle of the night, while I lay silently in darkness wishing for the sweet embrace of sleeps unconscious breath. I pined, pined to write and expand and state and make and create and never stop and keep writing and what’s this know I’m up and I’m typing it’s three AM and I don’t care the lights are on here I am typing and it’s coming It’s all coming there it is here I am and… Wow. I can do it, I can actually do it, sometimes at least, and perhaps my talents will never measure up to those few. Perhaps my conflicting personas will always muddled and diminish my reader base.

Yet upon much deliberation I realized my writing was my release, release from so much that it would be but a boring list to most. So I wonder, genuinely, as I ask you few who follow me, and those who stumble upon this blog by whatever means.

 How do you feel about it?