Journal Entries (June 4th–10th, 2013).

Tuesday, June 4th–I got up around 3:38 or 4:38am.


Here’s a correspondence between me and S___, one of my Basset ladies–

Hi …:

How are you doing these days? You’ve been silent of late.
Hope all is going well for you and Miss Belle.


Me– Miss Belle is quite well, both bossy and goofy. She could stand to lose a little weight, but it’s so hot outside already, even late at night….

I’m not so good, to be honest. From August 2012 to February 2013 I was with a state agency that’s supposed to help disabled people find work. Long story short, after a bunch of tests and evaluations, they concluded me to be completely unemployable in my current mental state, said they should close my case and I should apply for Social Security Disability Insurance (which is very hard to get), and that if I did get SSDI I could get better medical, psychological, and psychiatric help from Medicaid than I’m currently getting from the City and County.

And I’m not to thrilled that, a few months before turning fifty, I may not have any kind of decent life or career from this point on.

I’ve already got a diagnosis of Bi-Polar Level II, but I’d like to get tested for social anxiety, which has become a big problem in recent years (I very seldom leave my apartment any more), and it was also suggested I get tested for Asperger’s. I think I may be having another nervous breakdown, as I feel worse than I have since my post-Fred breakdown of 2006-2007….

Some friends, who have been doing well in the new Texas oil boom, have offered to take me to Europe for my 50th birthday in a few months, if I can handle it. I’m undecided and only moderately interested.

I did, however, have my doctor declare Belle to be my Emotional Support Animal, complete with a letter from her.

In the meantime, I’ve been trying to concentrate on reading, writing, and taking photos. I have to run errands today, which is stressful, but I’m planning to hit the library and an art gallery, as well as, of course, Petsmart.

Sorry to unload, but that’s why I’ve been scarce around the Adventure Club of late.

Hope all is well with you and yours.

S___–…I’m so sad to learn of this, but I know an attorney can help you get SSDI. I’ll try to write from home tonight, OK? You hang in there OK? Thinking of you. Hugs, S___

Me– Thanks.

I’ve talked to a local attorney–most tend to turn applicants down for the first try and only get interested if you’ve been turned down initially. I called SSA the other day and have the initial phone interview on the 20th, to see if they’ll consider me. But yeah, any legal help I can get would be much appreciated!
Thanks again!


Someone posted–

Two MSU basketball players raped a woman in the dorms then one admitted to it. Their only consequence was that they had to move out of the dorms. This picture is of me and one other woman holding up this banner during Midnight Madness. Two other brave souls had a banner on the other side for a while before some jerk started playing tug or war with them over it. This was taken before we got booed at by 10,000 people and police escorted from the stadium.

How screwed up are people to boo at this?

I responded–

One thing I’ve never heard anyone really discuss is the degree to which our society is fucked up when it comes to sports and athletics. Sports seem to trump EVERYTHING. Actions and behaviors are judged as to whether or not they will disrupt the smooth flow of athletic events.

The best example is the case of Michael Vick. When he was caught torturing and murdering his dogs there were a substantial number of people who took the position, “Oh dear God—how can we let this happen to Michael? How can we get him out of this mess as soon as possible so he can get back to playing football?”

Never mind that he was a twisted killer who deserved to have been executed for his crimes, rather than being given a slap on the wrist, a short prison term, and then a new contract and millions of dollars, and praise from everyone from the President on down for his “rehabilitation” and “atonement.” (I won’t even get into the whole fucked-up sub-category of how some people were claiming this was strictly a racial problem, and that he didn’t deserve to be punished because he was black, or that this was a case of white people favoring dogs over black people, etc.)

And right and left as soon as he got back into professional sports there were sports journalists praising him, comedians making lame dog jokes, and so forth, and sports-obsessed apologists insisting, “He’s paid his debt to society.”

My point is, apart from this animal rights rant, our fucked-up society values this twisted killer’s abilities as an athlete more than it deplores the cruel and blood-thirsty nature of his crimes. So it doesn’t surprise me that 10,000 basketball fans prefer to excuse those MSU assholes from committing rape, as long as they can continue to watch the rapists play sports.

We as a society really need to address this, but I haven’t heard anyone even dare to bring it up in a major way.


Someone posted a photo and labeled it–

The L.A. Riots, 1992

I responded–

Wow, has it been that long?

I was working as a sorority house security guard in Austin then, and I remember before work the night of the day the riots started my coke-head boss called me up and told me what I should do if there was rioting near the UT campus and someone tried to storm the sorority house where I was working.

And I thought, “If you honestly think I’m going to risk my life defending these rude, obnoxious, entitled, spoiled little rich girls at a minimum hourly wage you’re off your fucking rocker. As soon as someone comes around with a Molotov cocktail looking for rich people to fuck with, I’m running out the back door.”


Eventually I got out of the house, did some photocopying, and had a fairly long wait for the express bus downtown.

So I when I was finally on the bus, going down Guadalupe, and we had to slow down to a crawl because somebody on a bicycle was ahead of us—not in the bike lane, not on a less-trafficked side street—but on one of the major streets in town, in a regular traffic lane, taking her sweet fucking time.

Now I was a big cyclist for about ten years, and I can sympathize with cyclists to some extent, but this was ridiculous.

And I had to dig my hands into the arms of the seat in order not to scream out to the driver, “FUCKING RUN INTO HER!!!”

No, I am not a nice person.

But be glad that I have enough sense not to be a driver.


I got off at the Court House and walked over to the revamped Hickory Street (formerly Hickory Street Bar and Grille). The new ownership took out the buffet, and now you order at a counter, take a buzzer, find a table, then wait for the buzzer to go off, and go pick up your food.

My only real complaint was the music was turned up much, much too loud. Had I been eating with other people we wouldn’t have been able to hear one another speaking.

I had specialty-brand chips and soft drinks, both of which I liked, and the over-sized “Double Veggie Burger” (black bean burger and Garden burger, baby greens, red onions, tomatoes, and American cheese, on a wheat bun). The red onions provided a perfect note of sweetness to counteract the slightly bitter flavor of the greens. It was a very tasty burger–one of the best I’ve had. ($12.67, plus $3.00 tip.)

On my way out I loaded up on free magazines.

From thence I went to AMOA-Art House at the Jones Center–my first visit in about two-and-a-half years. Photography was allowed.

The first exhibition was “Constructed Landscapes” by Seher Shah. I got a lot of photos of one of the pieces from that in the lobby, especially as it related to the people and cars moving around outside. I took a few pictures of the interior of the gallery.

I sat in a little screening room and watched Cinthia Marcelle and Tiago Mata Machado’s nine-minute film, “O Século,” then in the elevator watched a little bit of one of the “LIFT Projects:” Nancy Davidson’s “I’ve Been Everywhere.”

On the second floor I looked over “Temporary Insanity” by Pinaree Sanpitak, which was an installation of cloth objects–some spherical, some tear-shaped–some of which had motors inside them and responded to any noises you made as you walked among them. So I was stamping my feet and clapping my hands, and they were rocking and vibrating gently back and forth, and sometimes making mechanical purring noises. I commented to some other visitors that it was like being in “Pee-Wee’s Play House.”

I went upstairs to the mezzanine to get more free magazines, and found more interactive stuff: Asian brass bowls, Post-It Notes in the shape of the objects downstairs upon which we were to write what the objects reminded us of (most picked Buddhist terms–I wrote “Fred and Belle.), and there was a collection of cardboard “Skyscrapers”painted black, set before a silhouette of the Austin skyline, and upon which we were encouraged to draw with white chalk. (One of the visitors was doing something akin to a Tic-Tac-Toe game; after they left I drew something akin to Ionic columns and entablature on one side, a Romanesque arch and columns on another, and photographed them.)

I took more pictures of the interior, especially the faded filigreed designs and stenciling painted on the walls which dated back to the time the building was used as a theatre. I asked the docent when the theatre was built, and she said the 1920s, but the designs looked a little earlier than that to me. If they were from the 1920s, I’d have to say it was the early 1920s at latest.

And so I went out into the heat and headed to the Library. It was awful. I got inside, went to the Video section, and was so overcome from getting so hot, and got so depressed looking at the DVD titles and thinking of James E. that I thought I was going to cry. I checked out some videos, snagged some bus maps, got a couple books on CD, then got some more books on the second and third floors, before checking out.

Here’s what I got:

+”The Rape of Europa” (DVD).

+”Fantastic Mr. Fox” (DVD).

+”The Beat Hotel” (DVD).

+”The New Twenty” (DVD).

+”Ratatouille” (DVD).

+”Dearie: The Remarkable Life of Julia Child” (CD).

+”Tropic of Cancer” (CD).

+Leonard Pitt–“Walks Through Lost Paris.”

+Dennis Cooper–“The Marbled Swarm.”

+Rainer Maria Rilke–“Letters To A Young Poet.”

+Thomas Wright–“Built of Books: How Reading Defined the Life of Oscar Wilde.”

+”Blanton Museum of Art: Guide to the Collection,” (Edited by Sheree Scarborough).

+”Blanton Museum of Art: 110 Favorites from the Collection.”

+Dom De Luise–“Eat This…It’ll Make You Feel Better!”

I had maybe a ten or fifteen-minute wait for the bus. I was dazed all the way north.

I got off across the street from my apartment and went to Petsmart for dog food. The cashier commented that I looked as if I’d had a really long day.

I then went to Dollar Tree and found four or five white trash women block the entrance from inside, standing there and chattering away. I walked in, frowning, grabbed a basket, rather pointedly said, “EXCUSE ME!” to one woman, and she suddenly looked around as if she hadn’t even noticed me come in, and very reluctantly stepped aside.

I gathered the things I wanted to buy, shuffled to the register, made my purchases, and bagged everything up with difficulty. I stumbled down the sidewalk of the strip center. A young father had the good sense to move his kid out of the way of me and my wide, heavy mass of bags.

But as I approached the entrance to Petsmart, some fat old woman came out with a big bag of dog food over her shoulder, and a mush-witted grand-daughter to one side. She saw me. I came to a reluctant halt to wait on her. I frowned. She looked put out that I was annoyed with her for getting in my way, then she let out a barely-perceptible, “Harumph,” cocked her nose in the air, and proceeded forward at last, finally getting out of my fucking way.

I got to the corner, crossed the street, and headed home. The middle-aged couple who work at Taco Bell together were just arriving home at the same time, and were, as usual, arguing with one another. Belle started barking as soon as she saw me.

The fat Taco Bell […] was going downstairs as I crossed the bridge to my door. She yelled some stuff over her shoulder, then muttered as she got towards the bottom of the stairs. I couldn’t help wondering if the muttering was about Belle and not her husband, and I was getting ready to yell obscenities at her if I detected that she was speaking about Belle, but nothing came of it.


“Husky” guys like me have no business living in a climate this hot.

My extremities are numb and shaking from being outside in this shit. I got so hot a few hours ago I thought I was going to start crying.


Someone posted a photo of Elizabeth Taylor in “Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woof?” I commented–

I have some friends whose family Christmas Eve tradition is to get liquored-up and watch this.


Someone posted–

I am a hard person to love, but when I love, I love really hard.

I responded–

Jerry Lewis disowned one of his sons when the latter sold some gossipy stories about his dad to a tabloid. Jerry’s explanation, which rang true for me, was, “Love hard, hate hard.”


My air-conditioner was making the hard, metallic, scraping sounds it always used to make when it was low on freon. I called the number for the apartment office and got a recording saying that this was now a long-distance number and I’d have to dial the area code. I tried that and got another recording. When I called “Information” I was told the number hadn’t changed. Subsequent efforts proved fruitless. And I know the goddamn office hasn’t moved!


I formally severed ties with DARS and had my case and file closed as of today. My Case Worker said I could indeed re-apply at a later date if need be.


Someone posted this–

“It is absurd to divide people into good and bad. People are either charming or tedious.”–Oscar Wilde, “Lady Winderemere’s Fan”

I responded:

I divide people into those for whom I will a painful death and those that I would spare.


Someone posted–

“You’re a different human being to everyone you meet.”–Chuck Palahniuk

I responded–

Sorry, Chuck, but I’m a colossal asshole to most people.


“All at once we were madly, clumsily, shamelessly, agonizingly in love with each other….”–Vladimir Nabokov


Wednesday, June 5th–I woke early again.


My Basset lady from yesterday wrote–

…I’m so sorry for your health issues-it can be frustrating, but please pursue the disability-it does take an attorney advocate to push things through.

If you go to Europe, who’ll look after Belle?…

I wish I could be of more help-other than a listening ear.
I’m here though.

Hugs to you,



For some reason, in Austin, there is a period at intersections when all the lights in every direction are red, and it lasts for a much longer time than necessary. I don’t know what the point of this is, and I’ve decided they ought to use that down-time and flash the message: “Think On Your Sins.”


I listened to the first two CDs of “Dearie.”

I got very tired and retired fairly early, without reading any in Bogarde.


Thursday, June 6th–Belle woke me before 7am, but I didn’t get up until a little after that.


This is why I almost never call in a maintenance request to my apartment office if I can possibly avoid it.

I called them yesterday afternoon and now it’s almost noon and the cock-suckers STILL have not come and fixed my AC or brought by my new AC filter. It’s like waiting on the fucking cable guy!

I don’t like having to sit here worrying when those assholes are going to show up or if they’re going to want to come into my apartment (which I really, really hate anyone to do), or if they’re going to disturb me by banging on the fucking door or ringing that annoying doorbell. I just want to be left in fucking peace always, but I’m afraid I can’t start a movie or listen to some music or something or settle down and read because as soon as I do those fuck-wits will show up.



My friend J__ K__ wrote back–

Sorry about the extra difficulties you seem to be facing at the moment. We certainly all have something or other making things more difficult. I hope you feel better soon.

I am glad that your friends had a good time in Italy….

“Unemployable,” eh? That doesn’t sound like fun. Just think of all the time and effort you could have saved searching and applying for jobs in the past many years had someone told you that before. Have you ever read “The Deerslayer” by James Fenimore Cooper? I just finished it the other day and really enjoyed it.

I thought HR people in the U.S. were dicks, and then I have talked to a number of them here and was really impressed by their dickish skills. I talked to a guy yesterday who was calling from the epicenter of the protests in Istanbul who “invited” me to come meet him for something or other. I told him I was under the impression that there was some unrest in the area. He told me there is nothing wrong there and they saw “a group of people” earlier but no big deal. I am going to guess that he straight up lied to me.

Good luck with what you think you must do to get on track (for exactly what, I don’t know). Later.


One of the weirdest things about young people these days is that they over-enunciate contractions. For “didn’t,” “couldn’t,” and “wouldn’t,” they say “did dent,” “could dent,” and “would dent.” I suppose that has something to do with the widespread lack of confidence, the same thing that causes “up-talking,” or ending each sentence, be it verbal or written, in a question mark.


Today’s bit of advice: Don’t be afraid to read dead authors.


I just watched “The Beat Hotel,” this documentary about the rundown old hotel in Paris that was for a time the home of such famous Beats as Allen Ginsberg, Peter Orlovsky, Gregory Corso, and William S. Burroughs. It covers, among other things, the development by Burroughs and Brion Gysin of cut-ups and the Dream Machine, the completion of “Naked Lunch” and the full story behind its title, the composition of Ginsberg’s “Kaddish,” the party where the Beats met the French Surrealists (and Ginsberg knelt down and kissed Marcel Duchamp’s knees), and the iconic photography of Harold Chapman, which included famous images of Ginsberg and Orlovsky.


Friday, June 7th–Again, I awoke much, much too early.


Someone posted– the world is over populated and some of you need to die

I responded–Absolutely! I’d say about 6 billion people to be exact.


Someone posted–“Someday, someone is going to look at you like you’re the best thing in the world.”

I responded–Well, they’d better hurry up, because I’m not getting any younger.

The only people who have really looked at me like that are dogs.


I worked in a bookstore once, and this asshole father had had his fill of the place, and wanted his kids, who were looking at books in the kid’s room of the store, to get up and leave with him.

When they didn’t do this immediately his tone got very sharp very quickly, and when they said, “But Daddy…,” this asshole said, “I’VE GOT A BELT!”

I was about ten feet away, squatting down and working on another section, and staring hard at him. I was just praying for that mother-fucker to try something, anything, to give me the slightest reason to jump up and start whaling on his useless ass. But the kids got up and sheepishly walked down the aisle ahead of him as he jutted out his chin and triumphantly strutted out.


My favorite therapist said, “Speaking off the record, as a friend and not a therapist—man, you really ought to write a book. You really have a way of telling stories!”


Someone posted this, along with photos– Extreme close-ups of human eyes by Suren Manvelyan

Others commented–

This just in: Eyes are terrifying.

You can actually see the hole that is our pupils…If eyes are the windows to the soul then people have terrifying black holes for souls

I’m ripping mine out.

this is so cool im gonna scream

The 5th picture is the craziest

Some of them kinda look like buttholes

I responded–

I wonder how many love poems have been written that included the line, “Your eyes are like puckering butt-holes.”

But seriously, the human body is just nasty-looking, for the most part. Human biology just repulses me.


I think if a car alarm goes off for more than, oh, fifteen seconds, we ought to be able to smash the car into bits with a sledge hammer.


It’s a great feeling to dig around in my library, come across a book I don’t recall ever buying, and saying, “Well, huh. Where the hell did that come from?”


It’s isn’t even mid-afternoon and I’m already sick of this fucking day.


So way back in one Friday night in 1991 a friend who had left Judaism to become a charismatic born-again Christian called me up and asked my plans for the evening. I said I had none. We discussed our options and he suggested going to the movies, which is something I am usually up for.

He looked over the listings in the paper and saw an ad for “My Own Private Idaho,” and concluded that since it starred River Phoenix and Keanu Reeves that it would be a cross between “Stand By Me” and “Bill and Ted’s Excellent Adventure.”

I didn’t say a damn thing.

Well, needless to say, within the first few minutes of the film my friend was shocked. Indeed, throughout the film I kept looking over at him to see him squirm in his seat and claw at its arms, and try to shrink into himself somehow—whatever it would take for him to no longer have to see the things he was seeing on the screen.

Afterwards, outside the theatre, he carried on loudly, saying he felt he needed to go home and shower and scrub himself raw after seeing such “filth.”

“Did you have any idea it would be like this?!,” he asked.

“Well, of course. I already saw it on my own last week.”

“What?! Why didn’t you say anything?!”

“You didn’t ask.”


I listened to three CDs of “Dearie.” I read a chapter in Bogarde and retired a little after 2am.


Saturday, June 8th–I got up about 9:48am–much too early.


I reminded J___ D___ that he had said we were getting together today. I think he wanted to get out of it, but I reminded him that he’d stood me up on Thursday already.

J___ and N___ came up and got me, and we went way out west somewhere, to a newly-developed area that I didn’t know, to eat at some burger joint named “Freddy’s,” about which they were enthusiastic. The main draw for them are the fries, which are as thin as shoelaces. My veggie-burger was all right, though not really big enough to satisfy me, and the fries and the Oreo and custard dessert cookie were fine as well, but the air conditioning was cranked up so high that I was very uncomfortable, and couldn’t wait to get out of there. I really didn’t see the point of driving that far out of the way for that experience.

They gave me a few of the things they’d gotten for me in Florence, including a prayer card and medal combination of Pope Francis.

We went back into town, drove through the Shoal Creek and Bryker Woods neighborhoods, and then cut through North Campus, past the site of my old apartment. It was my first time on West 32nd Street in a few years and made me very nostalgic.

Then we drove around in West Campus and we amazed by the changes. The old Fresh Plus Grocery building was being bulldozed as we passed. The Nau’s Pharmacy was gone. Enormous high-rises were everywhere.

We drove by “The Blue House,” my old home on 22nd Street, which is now painted a putty color. We were all shocked and turned around and confused by all the changes and construction.

You certainly can’t live the “Slacker”/Henry Miller sort of life there now, the way I did in the early Nineties.

They explained, though, that J___ accepts change and adapts to it, whereas for me I feel change very deeply and it bothers and upsets me greatly.

They had wanted to go to the soda fountain at Nau’s, and I said that while both places had soda fountains, the famous one was in Clarksville. So then we headed that way, taking a leisurely prowl as we did so. Not surprisingly, we arrived at Nau’s just a the soda fountain closed. They didn’t want to hang around, but I was delighted at how much Nau’s reminded me of Katy Drug, my old-fashioned drugstore from childhood.

J___ and N___ walked out ahead of me and got into the car before I was even out of the door. I saw a magazine I wanted that is often free. I held it up and asked the hipster chick at the counter if it was free and she frowned.

A hipster guy joined her and said the price should be on the magazine. I didn’t find a price on the cover, but didn’t want to be asked to pay for the magazine, and was embarrassed by my poverty, so I set the magazine down and left.

We then drove through Pemberton Heights and I praised or condemned the architecture of the passing houses:

“Portico’s disproportionate….That’s proper….That one looks like an over-tall upper lip. See the vast space between the bottom of the upstairs window and the top of the porch?…Niiiice entablature….No entablature at all. Fucking thing looks like a person with an over-bite going ‘Thuh thuh thuh’….Corinthian columns over Ionic? Uggh!…Now that’s a lovely tower. Give me an octagonal tower any day….That’s a fucking atrocity….That’s a nice composition over-all, but it could do without the ugly garage….Where the fuck’s the entablature? You paid a million dollars for that ugly piece of shit?…Lady, you better get the fuck off of our tail or I’m gonna get out of this goddamn car right here in the middle of the fucking street and cut your rich, white head off!…Now that is nice. You see how they took the bones of a ‘50’s ranch house and worked in a contemporary Eastern-influenced minimalism? Very nice wedding of styles there. Good job!”

We then went to Central Market, where N____ wanted to buy beet juice for some eccentric reason. I decided to get my specialty coffee there instead of Sprouts.

We never got to have a nice, long sit-down discussion of my apartment problem, but I assume J___ just wants to dodge that topic.

On the way back to my neighborhood I got disoriented on Mo-Pac Boulevard–a road with which I am thoroughly familiar!

I had put off going grocery shopping yesterday (my Food Stamp day), because I didn’t want to deal with the heat, and wanted to wait until J___ D___ could drive me.

We eventually went to the HEB by my house, spending more than I usually do. I soon got depressed and sad and felt like crying, as I so often do in that store. J___ helped me carry my bags to my door, but I was already hot, cross, and stressed-out.

I fly into a terrible rage whenever I get hot or break a sweat.
After walking Belle and trying to get her to stop barking at me I was pretty much beside myself.

Such is life in Texas in the summer.

Why is it whenever I go to the grocery store I feel overcome with the feeling that I’m about to break down and cry uncontrollably?


They say it’s impossible to keep your eyes open when you sneeze. I say it’s impossible for me to not roll my eyes when someone introduces his or her significant other as “my lover.”


I think the more my dash gets filled up with pictures of Corgis and crowds out the posts on issues that annoy me, the better my life will be.

I’d like to see more posts on Bassets, but there don’t seem to be as many Basset blogs.


Sunday, June 9th–I woke before noon, needing to piss badly. I got up, did so, tried and failed to get back to sleep, and got up around 12:30pm.

Nothing much happened to me. J___ D___ bothered me on IM. I walked Belle several times, and listened to four CDs of “Dearie.”


Monday, June 10th–I got up some time after noon, I think.

As I finished up my first walk with Belle, we were headed to a dumpster where I wanted to throw away a bag of Belle’s poop, but we had to get out of the way, as the head of the Maintenance crew drove through in his big truck.

Then, seconds later, a white car came barreling through and we definitely had to stand aside in order to be safe. The driver frantically waved his hands to indicate for us to come on ahead, but Belle was moving too slowly, and I knew there’d be trouble getting her to follow me to the dumpster, so I indicated that this asshole should just go ahead and drive past us. It took me awhile to convince him, and when he finally did drive by he yammered some elaborate comments in Spanish, but I didn’t understand a word he said.

It took the better part of an hour to get my computer up and running normally because for the second day in a row it did a “Check Disk” program when I turned it on.

During my second walk with Belle we encountered two little boys, who were carrying sharpened pieces of wood, and were exploring the complex and the woods behind, looking for something to destroy or noise to make. They approached Belle, and she, as usual, got skittish and hid behind me, and I told them she doesn’t always like people.

I was afraid they’d try to poke her with their pieces of wood, at which point I’d have had to pick up one of the big, melon-sized rocks laying around and bash their goddamn skulls in. But instead they ran off and beat on a metal parking sign to make some noise.

When Belle and I took a walk still later the little shits came out of their apartment and one ran up and quickly petted Belle’s rump, to her annoyance. I won’t let that happen again.


I didn’t watch any movies or listen to “Dearie.” I was sad all day, and occasionally crying.


My political beliefs can be summarized very briefly: line up the Republicans, Tea Baggers, and Libertarians, as well as Glenn Beck, Rush Limbaugh, Alex Jones, and their ilk, and have them shot by a firing squad.


I’ve never understood the appeal of songs that consist of one line repeated over and over dozens and dozens of time. To me that’s as annoying as a ringing phone.


There is no one so absolutely, unshakably sure of himself as a college student saturated in a pet theory. It’s only later, out in the world, that the solid rock of certainty begins to crack, letting in the possibility of doubt and reconsideration.


“I have the two qualities you require to see absolute truth. I am brilliant, and unloved.”—Miss Evangelista, “Doctor Who: Forest of the Dead.”


Perhaps after I’m dead someone will come across my unexpurgated journals and read them and say, “Oh, is *that* what all that shit was about?”


What’s that you say? Can I put my hands on a medical document from 1993 written by a former doctor of mine who’s been dead since 2008? Sure, it was just here….


Several people contributed to this thread–

One–when people act cute when they’re actually terrible human beings

Another–There’s this girl who does this. She thinks she can get away with being literally the most obnoxious and thoughtless girl I’ve met for a long time ‘cause she’s pretty and bats her eyelashes at people.

Another–too bad literally everyone sees through the cute act

Yet another–everyone

Still another–does that give you guys a bit of hope

I wrote–

Like all the young women who’ve almost run over my pedestrian ass because they were too busy yakking on their fucking cell phones instead of concentrating on the road? Then they give a girlish shrug, a smile, and a wave, and drive on, as if that excuses everything. Well, maybe if I was one of those dick-for-brains men who thinks that if a woman smiles at me that means she’s going to hunt me down and throw sex at me, but I’m not like that. If you almost kill me I’m not going to give you a free pass because my libido has made me stupid.


Someone posted–I don’t think my dad knows the difference between “being lazy” and “living with the threat of having a panic attack almost everyday keeping you from doing things”


[…] says, “Well, the reason you’re afraid to get out of the house is that you stay sitting on your fat butt, cooped up in your apartment all day. If you got out more, then you wouldn’t be afraid of going out.”

Wow. Gee. I should’ve fucking thought of that.

And while I’m at it I’ll ignore the panic attacks, the fear I’m going to suddenly burst into tears, the fact that loud noises make me start screaming obscenities at people….


When you can tell which of your followers posted a particular post merely by looking at the subject matter, and not even glancing over to the avatar.


“Book collecting is an obsession, an occupation, a disease, an addiction, a fascination, an absurdity, a fate. It is not a hobby. Those who do it must do it. Those who do not do it, think of it as a cousin of stamp collecting, a sister of the trophy cabinet, bastard of a sound bank account and a weak mind.”— Jeanette Winterson

Me–“Why do you have multiple copies? What do you need them for? Why can’t you sell all your multiples and just keep one copy?”

“Because they aren’t identical. Some have variations in the text, illustrations by different artists….”

“But still I don’t see why you need all that.”

“‘O, reason not the need! Our basest beggars
Are in the poorest thing superfluous.’”


“Shakespeare. If you read some of these ‘unnecessary’ books you might know that.”


“When the whole world is running towards a cliff, he who is running in the opposite direction appears to have lost his mind.”—C. S. Lewis

Kinda like me versus all my Tea Bagger/Libertarian/gun-nut/conspiracy theorist/Republican friends here in Texas.


A follower wrote– Hi, I’ve been following you for a while on […], and I always notice when you post about how depressed or upset you are. I just want you to know that I care, but the reason I don’t say anything is because I don’t know what to say and I know that there’s probably nothing I can say to make things any better for you. However, if you do want someone to talk to, I’m here. Life sucks for me too lately. Not anywhere as bad as what you’re going through, though.

And this– And thanks for all the Hannibal posts, hehe. I’m relating to Will a lot too lately.


“You say you’re ‘depressed’ – all I see is resilience. You are allowed to feel messed up and inside out. It doesn’t mean you’re defective – it just means you’re human.”—David Mitchell, Cloud Atlas


I see my mental illnesses as frankly very sane reactions to having a seriously fucked-up life.


All of these posts about video game launches today are making me scratch my head.

I have about as much understanding or knowledge of that world as I do about a town council race in some obscure province in rural China.


I read some in Bogarde before bed.

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