I work with a woman whose name I don't know ( Read more... )

Robby and Layne (his lady) made a baby, and I am an uncle. She is not named yet, nor do we even know how big she is. My dad named her "Rainbow Sunshine" (she was born in Portland amidst a low-hanging cloud of patchouli and stale marijuana) but that's probably not what's going on the birth certificate. Details will be forthcoming.

The man sitting next to me is apparently very successful. He's about my age. He does music, or art, or skateboarding, or some fucking thing. Maybe it's all of the above; I'm only casually eavesdropping on the conversation. He's been invited to this coffee shop by the woman sitting next to him to speak with the three teenage hipsters seated raptly ( Read more... )

check this shit out.

( no, really )

I found out this great way to scare cats ( Read more... )

I don't think of myself as a person that cuts people off, but I've become more willing to do so in recent months. No doubt it's the result of my self-defensive selfishness . . . the informal cost/benefit analysis that I run internally when an interpersonal experience sours. I gauge whether a given association is worth its attendant bullshit. ( Read more... )

Obviously your lives have been empty in the absence of horrible details about mine. Believe me, this is a thing that I know. I know this. Be assured that I have been busily generating more horrible details for you to consume. Feast upon them. Rub them like butter on your exposed brains ( Read more... )

Sometimes I spend my time reading things that are better expressions of my own deeply personal rage than anything I've ever written myself. Things work out like that sometimes. People on the internet are better at being me than I am ( Read more... )

things that are not clever ( Read more... )

Someone said once that writing about music is like dancing about architecture. Well, writing about writing is like masturbating about porn.