伊恩·汉伦

  What must one have to be a writer? probably something to write with. Something to write about, assuredly. A good grasp of grammar and the ability to punctuate appropriately. Like i said earlier, something to write with, on, around; be it on a rock, with a rock, wishing that someone would get around to inventing a goddamn pencil (which is mainly just more rock, but processed).

I could write a story about the guitar in the corner of my room: about how it made the long trip I will most never make across the Pacific Ocean and the trip to fort fuck it had to endure before arriving at the guitar center I purchased it at. That might be interesting, given the anthropomorphizing of said guitar and shit, it might even make a killer bi-lingual children's special some day. In fact, fuck it; Im writing the antics of Ya-Mi, the japanese guitar who lost her mother to the vicious piano companies.

What do I know about being a writer? What has been thrown into my goddamn head and mixed about like a very, very healthy smoothie except make with long island ice teas and xanax? Here's a little of what I know:

If it isn’t making dollars, it isn’t making sense.

Mommy and daddy are pretty fucking passe.

Whoops, I made a list. Without bullet points.

You have to be an alcoholic, or caffeine addict, addict in general, nicotine engorged fuck of a human who wishes they could have given up on the rest of humanity but despite the periods of binge or isolation still yearn for that blessed sense of unity with the rest of your world.

You need strong calf muscles. For all the running about getting caffeine, alcohol, heroin, etc...

You need hope.

You need good musical taste.

You need scars; lots of them. An I don’t know that meghan has any, but after reading my brains out, that was the impression I got.

I don't want to give credit to her because for all I know she hates reading my stuff, but Meghan Pinson has a lot to do with what I chose to do; what I chose to be proud of.

All the same, Meghan, Thank you. 

je vis à Fort Collins, mais je vis aussi dans ma tête.

apparently i have x-ray vision in Portland

     J'suis le fou. 

     I didn't stay alive for this bullshit; I didn't fight and stress every nerve to the point of corruption to put up with the imminent destruction of the people i care about. This isn't what any of us fought for, this is a farce, this is a mediocre play with harsh consequences and an ending that leaves you wondering what the fuck you sat two hours for. There aren't any heroes, the villains aren't embellished enough and all the protagonist is quiet the whole time. 

    It's October. October is significant because of the timing, not because of the month. Every year in october I want to move, to get up and find something new and exciting and beautiful and the hope that the world isn't so disappointing becomes overwhelming to the point that i pursue it in the most manic way possible. I've toned it down, but the underlying desire is still there; more so because I am still a stranger and the stranger it gets the less i can put a hold on the urge to push foreword and just remain patient. 

Every damned year.

      Being in the sober living house isn't easy, either. I went to a room showing this afternoon, and although i thought the guy who owned the house and i hit it off real well, i haven't heard anything back yet. I don't really know what to do in these situations; i don't want to come off like the needy girl who just went on one date and calls obsessively, while at the same time it was an interview of sorts, so what do i do? send him a card thanking him for his time and consideration? I have another one tomorrow at four. i really liked this first guy, though. well, the chips will fall, and i suppose that, like a new car, the world doesn't always deliver.

Like this. What the fuck is this?

                 My life may be small and the things I do and enjoy may be small and while compared to you I am most likely not small, my small things and my small life are what I enjoy in small portions and ultimately no matter how big anyone feels, the kanye Wests of the world or the youth who have so many dreams who will eventually end up somewhere in my world, where dreams are the size of Texas and the world is the size of an envelope and intentions are well meant but calculation has become a survival skill, deranging and deforming the intentions into giant clouds that leave the small lungs in inverse proportion.

           You think you're the bees knees, the cat's meow, and you probably are somewhere. I thought after Amanda wrote me a letter in ninth grade all I had to do was become more worldly, but that was a small thought as well. I became worldly in the convoluted understanding that I had and despite my whatever the fuck attitude towards race you wouldn't catch me anywhere near the middle of Africa.

Am I a faker? a fraud? not in my mind. you won't catch me in eastern europe either. you won't see me anywhere fourteen year olds are paid three hundred dollars to kill me because i pissed someone off.

It's a lot like east St. Louis, but, you know, no black people.

simplicity at its worst

                We have platitudes and dumbed down metaphors because the lowest common denominator is always being sought. the easiest way to convey a message, the most reliable way to market a product, the most straightforward route from point A to point B.

laugh now, because these are a decade away from being the new Air Jordans.

        I had Taco Bell last night. Bean burritos, because they were vegetarian and a dollar apiece. If i had my own place, i could have instead made my own bean burritos, after soaking the pinto beans for a day and frying my own tortillas and chopping up the white onions, topping it off with shredded mild cheddar and salsa (strangely enough i would have gone with safeway select brand southwest salsa though). I would have enjoyed that. instead, it was just food. it made me not hungry and didn't taste like much of anything; the texture didn't bother me, and it was, undoubtably, convenient. initially i asked myself: "Why did I do this? What possessed me to go out and get taco bell?"
       But i thought of it abstractly at that point.
       It had been so long since i ate there, i asked the guy behind the counter if they still had seven layer nachos (they don't). It was kind of bittersweet, like i haven't been to taco bell for that long, but also that i was going back. It wasn't until about eight this morning that i cut the existential taco bell shit and really started wondering, "Why did I do this? What possessed me to go out and get taco bell?"

Long time, no see!

      No matter how positive i try and remain, no matter what good intentions i have going into something, or how passionately i feel about it, the end result seems to be just bringing me one step closer to death. I'm not talking about taco bell any more, or if i am, it's in the loosest sense possible. I've been thinking about this bumper-sticker tautology, the twitter anomaly, the quote fascination: that if you can't express it in 160 characters or less, it probably means that you aren't trying hard enough. This can't be an individual's fault; it's so prevalent it has to be a societal thing.  Louie C.K. did a nice little bit where he talks about mobile phones, and how (you know, since he was 41 at the time) he remembers rotary phones and the white people problems that went along with having to dial zero on the rotary phones. I'm pretty sure there were eighties and nineties stand up comics who wrote entire bits about the "fast food mentality" or whatever; but the memories are pretty vague and i don't give enough of a shit to cite references to ANYTHING 90's, including obscure janine garafelo or jerry seinfeld quotes, at 11:51 on october first 2014 when i'm thirty years old and have been eating Cipro for over a week and my girlfriend still lives in New York and I haven't gotten laid in six months.  I'm pretty sure that past thirty there's all sorts of bitching and moaning that goes along with losing a decade, and as much as i don't want to do it, it's going to happen.

   

yeah, i picked up the script late. Nobody is paying for it but me, so quit complaining.

https://soundcloud.com/soundremedy/daughter-medicine-sound-remedyyy