Mood Swinging to My Favorite Beats (Draft Cleanse)

I’ve met people who didn’t listen to music. This post should end there, so I can go end myself.

I like to ask people whether they’d choose to be deaf or blind. Surprisingly, most would prefer to be deaf. Oh, nevermind, now that I wrote it out I understand why. Sorry folks, if you’re new here, I try to write my stream of thought, without deleting what I previously wrote(minus words) so I contradict myself and answer my own questions a lot.

I understand being blind would be much harder than being deaf, for the average person, but being deaf would be impossible for me, I think—I could be wrong.

I can’t make music. I have a person with ADD’s attention span. I hate when people with shitty attention spans say they have ADD. Sorry, stream of thought.

Shit, I just remembered that I’m horribly self loathing and prone to racing thoughts; I’m not sure music would be able to soothe that when I’m staring at nothingness. But fuck, if I didn’t have music, what would block out the voices.

Alright, slight change: would I less likely kill myself if I was deaf or blind?

Still going with blind.

My paintings would be shit, unless I could annoyingly label them as homages to Pollock. And biking. Fuck. I wouldn’t be able to bike.

Who the fuck am I kidding? I’m on the verge of killing myself as is, I wouldn’t survive either.

Oy, where was I going with this post? Something about music.

We all have a song, or playlist, we go to when we’re feeling down. My go to is a rare acoustic version of Jimi Hendrix’s Angel. I never knew how rare it was until I lost the CD it was on. I can’t buy it anywhere, it’s not on Youtube, which is my main music source, and for a while, I went without it. Sad times. But I found it on soundcloud recently. I’d take this song over a rough fuck with Marion Cotillard…really, I would. But nobody understands why I love it so much. The reason is simple and silly: Hendrix hits the wrong string about 1/3rd of the way through. My love for beauty despite imperfection.

I’m not sure why I never posted this post—it was basically done.


Good Morning, Sun.

I was able to keep my alcoholism at bay last night. I’d like to say it was pure willpower that kept me from not drinking, but the reality is we didn’t end up going out to a bar, we just went to someone’s house. Now, the fact that I didn’t drink at the house either, is quite an achievement, but I pretty much knew everyone there so it wasn’t too hard.

See, still find a way to self loathe.

Onto the good shit. I went to bed by ten and woke up to see the sunrise. I feel fucking great. I always forget how fucking great I feel when I don’t drink the previous night. It’s something that I should always remember. Waking up and not feeling like dog shit, that’s a good shit to me. How pathetic. No, no, no, no self loathing.

I think I’m going to take my niece to Sleepy Hollow with my brother. Happy Hollow is a small zoo in my city. Chances are, if you went to elementary school in SJ, you’ve been to Sleepy Hollow. It’s no Oakland or SF zoo, but it’s a nice place to bring toddlers and young adolescents to. I can’t remember the animals they have; I know there was a reptile section, a petting zoo, and a jaguar, but other than those, I don’t remember. Regardless, my niece will have fun. She loves petting our huskies so she should love petting a jaguar.

Just kidding, she hates petting our huskies.

Just kidding again, she loves them, but unfortunately, there’s no jaguars in the petting zoo.

We’re not going to go until much later; until then, I’ll continue to cleanse my drafts. I’m down to 293. Apologies if some of them don’t make sense.

Also, if no one responds, I’ll get to start on the next section of the chain story I started. I’d rather another writer get down on it so please please please people, don’t be shy, all are welcome. Once it’s done, it will be edited and maybe sent out with everyone’s names.

This is the where we’re currently at:

It has instructions on how to submit, and a bunch of my notes I added to the end for people to go off of/understand the direction I was thinking of going. It doesn’t have to go that way—feel free to offer up ideas.

Lastly, I want to use this to publicly apologize to my friend, Tara. I failed her. I was supposed to write a story for her, but I failed. I was down and uninspired and particularly self loathing. I couldn’t write shit but posts about how much I hate myself. I’m apologizing because now I’m inspired; now I’m able to write; now I’m working with other people on a story. I hate that I wasn’t inspired before. I hate that my stupid brain finds a way to be inspired after I truly needed to be inspired. It’s fucking terrible.

So, sorry again. I promise to do my best to make it up to you and everyone else.

Cheers, hope to be posting more today.


One Could Only Dream

Is it bad that I want to destroy the environment just because I don’t want to hear about the retarded aspects of social justice anymore? People need some real problems to focus on. Our hierarchy of needs need to be reset.

I want the Pacific trash vortex to be the size of Australia. I hope I live long enough to see a country claim it as their own. Saying America would is boring, but that would probably be the case.

Maybe we could transplant all of our trash culture to it. Kim Kardashian could be the first lady, but Kanye can’t be president—he’s actually talented…annoying, but talented. I’m not sure who’d be the president; probably a Soundcloud rapper named lil something stupid.

The primary imports would be talent and creativity; the number one export would be dating shows and shitty music…until we place an embargo on it, stage a false flag and nuke it. By that time we’d have pure fusion weapons so we wouldn’t have to worry about radiation. Maybe the nuke will fuse the bloated egos and ugly personalities and trash into a new stable element that we’re able to synthesize and use to create a new type of fuel to leave earth and go chill on one of Jupiter’s moons.

One can only dream.

I like the ocean and roses and chameleons too much to destroy the environment.


I’ll just have to wait for an asteroid or aliens.

This is Getting Rotten

I’m still here.

And I still hate myself.

Probably more than before, but it doesn’t really matter anymore.

Forced smiles are getting tiresome. Everything is getting tiresome.

My eyes want to close, my heart wants to stop beating, my brain wants to be donated to science, and my liver wants to be used as a paperweight.

It takes more muscles to frown than smile. Bullshit. Not if frowning is your default expression. Asshole.

I cut a smile into my balaclava. Every morning I plan a revolution from my bed. Maybe tomorrow.

I’m grumpier than I was a few seconds ago. I’ve been in a bad mood for more than half my life.

A few weeks ago a big ass Rottweiler latched onto my leg while I was riding by it. Blood immediately gushed out, ruining my favorite socks.

“Oh my fucking god! I’m so sorry,” the Rottweiler’s owners screamed. “Honey, do something,” the annoying housewife said to her annoying husband.

He unbuttoned his shirt and gave it to me to wrap around my leg. It was sweet.

“Should we call the ambulance?” they asked me.

“Na, it’s not too bad—I’ve had worse,” I told them.

The dog locked eyes with me and said, “My bad.”

I accepted its apology with a smile. It was a pretty dog.

The shirt was soaked and no longer holding back the blood from the huge gash on the front of my shin. It didn’t hurt, but the amount of blood was semi worrisome.

“Alright then,” I broke the awkward silence, “My house is right down the street: I have gauze and alcohol and all that shit.”

The couple was upper middle class; the shirt around my leg probably cost a hundred bucks; they didn’t look like the types to have a Rottweiler; they looked like the type that would have a shnoodle or cockapoo or some other puntable designer dog.

“Well,” the housewife said while I adjusted the shirt, using the sleeve to wipe up some of the blood running down into my shoe, “do you want to call the police?”

They were terrified.

“Na, shit happens. I’ll survive, but keep that beautiful beast away from kids,” I said before hopping on my bike and pedaling away, leaving shocked and relieved dog owners.

If it was a stupid dog, I would’ve called the police, but I like Rottweilers, especially beautiful goliaths like theirs.

I got home, and bandaged my future scars. I wasn’t worried about rabies—they were too rich to have a dog with rabies—and I wasn’t worried about all the blood.

Shit happens.

The next day I got kicked off the train for blowing up on a guy sitting in the bike car without a bike. This fucking infuriates me. And it’s not even because I can’t sit down—I get on at stops with that many people so I always have a seat—it’s that others can’t sit and watch their bikes because some asshole doesn’t know train etiquette..

As I waited for the next train, I laughed while thinking about how fucking annoyed I was at a rude person, yet the previous day I took a vicious bite to the leg and acted like nothing happened.

It’s so me.

Dog bite: shit happens.

Rude person: I hope they get hit by a train.

I really need to get the fuck out of the city.

I need to escape.

I need my hut overlooking a small town in South America. If I’m going to be around people, I need them to have a simpler hierarchy of needs: food, shelter, family; not phone, Starbucks, Tinder.

My misanthropy is making me boring. Every post I have to talk about my hut in Uruguay. I’ll change it to Argentina in the future. Monaco looks pretty, but I’m pretty sure it’s the most expensive place to live on earth. Nevermind, the people who live there are probably even more annoying than the people here.

My misanthropy is getting exponentially worse. I would never hurt a person though—outside a punch to the larynx to shut them the fuck up—and I would make sure the Anarchist book store was empty before firebombing it.

My misanthropy is beginning to damage the environment.

Some lady who regularly rides the train started talking to me about global warming while getting off. Her bike has a bunch of annoying stickers about the environment and “Bush is Satan” and “No blood for oil”. I was tempted to ask her where her “Obama is Satan” sticker is considering he continued the Bush Doctrine, funded rebels who now use them against us, overthrew Gaddafi, drone struck additional countries we’re not at war with, and much more, but I didn’t feel like arguing with an intellectually dishonest partisan.

She kept yapping at me as we walked down the train platform. She wouldn’t shut up. So I lit up a clove, took one puff, threw it on the ground and walked away.

She doesn’t talk to me anymore.

I want to get a sticker for my bike that says, “My other ride is a hummer.”

People like her aren’t wrong, they’re just so fucking annoying. Sanctimonious cunts, inhaling their farts and exhaling hypocritical political positions.

My misanthropy is making me support positions I don’t agree with.

“Can you sign this petition calling for the end of the Gaza embargo?”

“No, I think the Israelis should just annex the Gaza Strip.”

“Can you sign this petition asking for the release of all Killer Whales and other sentient mammals from aquariums and theme parks?”

“Fuck killer whales. Their bent dorsal fins make me smile. I agree with the Japs. Whales are a delicacy.”

“Would you like a pride button to support the LGBTABCDEFGHIGKLMNOPQRSTUVWXYZ community?”

“No, I don’t like rainbows or gay people…and bisexuality doesn’t exist, they’re just hypersexual people.”

I don’t believe in any of this shit, I just hate the people telling me it. All of them wear scarves in summer and have thick brimmed glasses and septum rings and colored hair, and they’re all fucking boring.

I also hate petitions. They don’t do shit. If they did, the final season of Game of Thrones would be getting remade.

I’m such a sweet person when I’m alone.

People bring out the worst in me.

It’s my fault. I’m weak.

I just want to be normal.


I still can’t kill myself. Maybe in another ten years.

Sunday et Fin

Post wise, it was a fairly good weekend, though nothing too creative.

I’m happy to be back and interacting with the lovely folks of WordPress. I hate social media, always have, but this community is so pretty and inspiring and encouraging—it’s kind of surreal how much I like it. I’m a cynic and a pessimist, so I tend to look at every good thing expecting the worst or searching for a catch, but I’m happy to say, I don’t need to do that here. I’m still suspicious of the kindness and support towards me and my writing, but that’s just because I’m a chemically unstable, paranoid asshole, though I’m learning to believe all of your kind words, and all of the kind words I receive in my real life, and kindness in general.

I learned a weird thing about me today: I don’t wear boxers most of the time. Yes, I free-ball. How did I not realize this? I have no fucking idea. I’m neurotic and obsessive and hyperaware, yet I’m also an oblivious ditz. What’s weirder is, none of my past lovers have ever mentioned my lack of underwear. Maybe it’s a new thing. I don’t know. I do develop weird quirks out of nowhere, often having to do with things I deem unnecessary—so maybe that’s what happened. Again, I answered my question shortly after posing it to myself. I’m a weirdo. And there has been some head and/or ball out oopsies while cycling. Yea, I’m a moron. I knew I often go free-ballin, I just have horrible short term memory. This is my thinking process, folks. A dumpster fire, yea?

Hmm I actually feel like writing more.

Some new things in my life: I changed roles recently at work, with an embarrassingly small raise that makes me want to firebomb my building(that’s a joke, NSA, not a threat), but I’m kind of stuck at my job right now because the healthcare plan they provide is amazing—a must for the amount of therapy/medication I require to half-way function—but I really need to start looking harder for a new job, preferably telecommuting and independent contracting. Anyways, I’m now a Graphic Support Coordinator; it sounds fancy, and definitely looks good on a resume, but it basically means I coordinate our Graphic Support team (duh) to fix live designs and root designs on our marketplace, work with engineering(who are crazy smarter than me, and autistic…I think) to fix issues in the tools/programs we use and propose updates and fix/report glitches. I do a lot of shit on the side, writing instruction manuals for our tools and processes is probably my favorite task, that I do despite having a team that could do it for me—I guess that’s just my love for writing. I’ve had a few “that email was fantastic, I want you to write all mine,” which is pretty funny, to me. I love writing epic emails, that, unbeknownst to the people I’m sending them to, is just me mocking the company, and my bosses, via verbose explanations for inane processes that could be explained in two long sentences. I find it hilarious, but again, that might just be my weird personality.

Alright, no more work talk. How about some spicy stuff: I met a new girl, one that my lover will love once I surprise her with our new plaything. She’ll be the super freak in the equation. Some of her fets involve fire play(scary) rape play(I’ll never do, not my thing) extreme dominance(I’m down) being fucked on top roses, thorns and all(kind of interested in, but I don’t like wasting pretty flowers) double domination(down, but my lover is not very dominate) cutting(ehh no) watersports(the name is creepy, but peeing on girls in the shower is funny, not sexy) and a bunch of other interesting fets, many I have never heard of, nor will ever likely try. I’m still the vanilla one, but I love to please, so I’m pretty much down for anything, as long as it doesn’t creep me out. Dominance is a weird thing for me; I’m able to be a dom, but I’m such an easy going, you do you, type of person, that it makes it hard to tell a girl to shove her ben wa balls in her ass then lick my cum off my boots(yea, TMI? sorry). I’m a novelty whore—I love trying new things in all aspects of my life—so I’m constantly looking for new ways to get my rocks off, and the number one thing that gets my rocks off, is getting another person’s rocks off. That makes me a good lover, I guess.

Hmmm what else? Ohhhhhhhhhhh I bought a new bike. Fuck, she’s amazing. Her name Is Cabrini Green. She’s a mean 24 speed with disc brakes and an incredibly sexy lime green frame. Fuck. My lover got mad because I describe Cabrini like she’s a gorgeous woman. Sorry, I’m a cyclist :). I can’t wait until spring. Currently, I bike 30 miles a day, but once the weather gets better, I’ll double that, on average, and likely triple it more days than not. I fucking love riding; it’s so fucking fun; it makes me feel so fucking free. One day, I’m going to disappear on my bike. Head south down the coast, into Mexico to chill for a bit, then smash through the rest of the shithole Central American countries(sorry, they suck) except for Nicaragua, it’s beautiful, then skip the first two countries(?) in north east South America(?) and go straight into the non shitty countries, then Brazil, and settle in Uruguay. I think that itinerary is correct haha. I’m fairly knowledgeable geography wise, but I got drunk while writing this.

Uruguay will be my home one day, maybe Argentina, though I’ll be outwardly anti Che Guevara if I live in the latter; he was an asshole, murder, and hypocrite, the last being the worst. I can’t stand people who like Che Guevara, it’s fucking annoying. Yes, he had an enviable life, but as a person, he was shit. A failed capitalist turned communist; a doctor that enjoyed killing people; a homophobe; a possible rapist; he was a slew of shitty things people ignore because he was hot as fuck. HOT AS FUCK. I’m not gay, but I’d bend him over. Jokes, kind of–I’d let him suck my balls.

Simon Bolivar is a real Latin American hero; the George Washington of South America, the liberator of five(contemporary) countries, an amazing leader and thinker, up there with the founding fathers of America. The US really fucked up by not assisting Bolivar in his revolution. South America would be so much better if the US had assisted two hundred years ago, not turn most of the countries into banana republics. Ew, I’m getting into politics.

I want to move into South America, only a few handful of countries, because they maintain Eurocentric values(people might not that I call it that, but it’s true) that mesh well with my personality. America in a vacuum is lovely, and perfect for me, but I hate the mechanics that keeps it as the world’s soul mega power. Fuck, politics again. I’ll leave it at, I’m proud of being an American, and despite all the shitty things it’s done/does, it’s still an overwhelmingly positive force today…though, it might not(probably not) won’t maintain it’s position for much longer. Hopefully, it goes down the route Sweden made: a former empire(small, yea) that turned isolationist, and created a self sufficient economy(I can’t remember the term for that). FUck, no more politics. I’m drunk and rambling haha.

Oy vey, 1200+ words of me saying nothing—I’m a platinum rambler. I’ll leave this at, I love all of you. Thank you so much for reading and liking and commenting and being you. There are so many unique souls on here—it’s quite comforting. You all make me feel weird and normal at the same time. Thank you. I hope everyone had a great weekend and have a great week. Good night.

And ehhh I’m not spellchecking or going over this again at all, so sorry if there are any errors. Blah blah blah, I say this every time, you know what’s up.


Running Out of Names for Rambling Posts

Hello world!

First, I want to apologize for not responding to all the pretty comments people left me. I definitely will today once I’m able to verbalize how special, yet normal, you all make me feel. I’m not very good at responding to comments—they’re often much prettier than the posts they’re on, so I get crazy anxiety trying to properly appreciate them.

With that said, I feel amazing today. Fucking amazing. Almost too amazing, which I hate is a thing, but I’m not going to fuck up this good mood by vivisecting my happiness. I will say that it’s largely the result of quitting booze again, at least until Xmas Eve, when I have to get drunk to socialize with my sister in law’s beautiful family who like me for some reason. I’ll quit again after that for a week or so, until New Years, and then I’ll be ridiculously hammered for all of January.

I quit quitting things as New Year’s resolutions, because I wind up not only failing to commit to the resolution but often coming out of it much worse. Now, I try to trick myself into not doing something by making it my resolution.

Last year’s resolution was to try heroin for the first time—I failed.

I’m usually miserable around this time of the year. I hate Xmas, primarily because of its consumerist nature (I know, how hipster of me), but also because of the weather. I wish I was able to hibernate like a bear…sleeping through the shitty weather, waking up when it’s pretty again and going on a salmon rampage. Mmm salmon steaks with garlic butter over rice with grilled asparagus. Fuck, I’m hungry.

Anyways, back to me feeling amazing.

I woke up early today, brewed a gallon of coffee, took my dogs for a walk, and came back home to my giggling niece. She’s a beaut. I can’t wait to teach her how to paint and write and read. She’s going to be a better person than me, better than the world around us—she’s going to change the world, or so an uncle can dream.

She already has a proper library, a few dozen books short of mine, mostly filled with baby books, but there’s a non-baby one I bought that I happily read to her. Shit, I read it by myself. I wrote a note in it for future her to read. In summary, it says how special her unborn self is to me; how special her parents are to me; and the impact the book had on me as a kid. It’s called D’Aulaires’ Book of Greek Myths. It turned me into the classicist I am today and helped shape my imagination.

I tell her in the note that I think her favorite god will be Athena, but there’s no pressure, and mine is Apollo

I can’t wait to talk to her about Greek mythology—I don’t have anyone to now.

Hurry up, Maddie, and grow up so we can play and dream together.

After reading to her for a bit, I sat down and started writing. I’m halfway through the part two of my Luna C. Soledad series. I’ve been adding to the draft over the last few months, so there’s quite a few ideas I need to formulate, but I should be able to post it tonight or tomorrow—I’m a slow ass writer.

I like creating new Lunas. I have so many more to create; maybe one of them will include parts of my current lover…maybe not…I’m not sure yet.

I also have two other drafts open to work on when I get bored writing about Luna. One being my oldest draft about a suicidal man who dies after stopping a terrorist attack. I like the idea of a man heroically saving others only because he cowardly wants to quit life. I like contradictory thoughts and actions, and characters who externalize apathy because they’re painfully empathetic inside. I don’t know if that makes sense.

I want to eventually develop the writing skills required to compile a collection of short stories and poems, or a novel, but I have a long ways to go. Maybe I should get back to my writing and stop rambling.

I hope everyone is having a lovely day.