Sunday, July 23, 2017

We're All Victims Here

I started seeing these signs springing up in yards and peering out windows all over town shortly after the first half-dozen protests against president Trump. While to some I imagine its message may denote something akin to the famous Egalité Liberté Fraternité that was perhaps the only worthwhile and decent part of the French Revolution, to me it's just another semiotic bit of noise pollution emanating from another dismally absurd American cultural dialectic. Have we always been so toothbrush-commercial in our ruminations, evocations, and demonstrations? Do I even REALLY want to know? I just can't take it very seriously, because guess who IS in office, and who all HAVE BEEN in office, and are in office everywhere else the grinding machinery of the sausage factory of the World System is operated. The only way I can see movements such as these being lamer and sorrier is if Spencers set up themed gas-mask kiosks at their pre-march rallies. Remember We Are the 99%? I vaguely recall it.

Monday, July 17, 2017

Taking It to the Next Level

Arbitrary life-stage benchmarks always struck me afterward as silly and ineffectual as those x-year production goals I used to hear poor Eastern European Soviet Bloc countries struggle to attain. Or even outright fascicle and sinister like the ones in Oceania that were destined for the memory hole. So, without further ado, here I am taking in a half-assed inventory of where I am and what all is happening; I've been indoors for a little over two years and seven months, am I worth taxpayer expense? lol Of course not! But I don't really care about that, anyway. I have at least gotten serious about quitting smoking and drinking, thanks to having suffered a couple serious injuries -- one of which I'm dealing with as I type. I've also managed to fuck off five jobs, but I take heart knowing that I can actually get a job when I need one and that I'm capable of keeping it for at least six months.

The result of my self-assessment is this: I need to both get a job before fall AND start taking it to the next level, this self-betterment business, now that I'm minimally functional enough to socialize a little and engage in prolonged damage control.

Tuesday, July 11, 2017

Jurassic Park Dining Hall

I was going to blog about something different, but yesterday’s explosive outburst of mine at a bumfeed inspired me to write about something different. Over the years I’ve been going to increasingly fewer of the bumfeeds, for two reasons:

The main reason is because of the specter of scarcity haunting our food pantries, which ten to fifteen years ago were veritable cornocopiae. It’s been making itself pretty comfortable, too! This is no anomaly: even big-money outfits like Trinity Cathedral are starting to skimp on portions and substitute garbage filler (e.g. white rice and bread) for their formerly nutritional offerings. My diet is a pretty big deal to me, even though — perhaps because of? — for most of my life it’s been mediocre to awful. What’s the point in eating when you’re only taking in simple carbs, occasionally accompanied with morsels of meats-of-evil proteins submerged in a lipid sea of arterial dismay? I could just go back to living off malt liquor, and do without the wait, putting up with idiots, and being sober for the ordeal. You’d be surprised how much 2000 kCal costs in junk food (less than five dollars at the Dollar Tree, ten at a convenience store), compared to the same amount derived from whole foods (I can’t see how this can even cost less than fifteen dollars on a good day!).

Saturday, July 1, 2017

Opportunity Cost

Nicotine gum just isn't the same as choking honest-to-goodness blokes (a.k.a “smoking...cigs”), but it's just gonna hafta do. Because I have to quit smoking if I'm to get the surgery on my wrist done, that I've avoided for months already. Fuck me! It's been busted up since mid-December! The trick will be to get me to chew enough of the stuff, because I both dislike gum and dislike THIS particular gum.

Tuesday, June 27, 2017

The Walls Are Closing In

I woke up one morning and bumped my head against the ceiling. I don't remember when exactly this was, because every morning I'm still bruising my noggin on the damn thing. I guess what I'm saying is I've arrived at a point in my life where I feel like I'm in that trash compactor aboard the Death Star; the walls are closing in, there's nowhere to go, and the inevitable end will be messy and terrible. The only "if" seeming to factor into this grim scenario is whether my doom be protracted or not, and how agonizingly long if so.