Not everything I write here is twitter commentary I delete the next day once it’s aired out because you gotta keep it light. If you stop having fun with the stuff you dream up, what’s the point? Anyway, when I get goin’ with my real pals over a drink, we have a quality time in the joke department. We do fine; nothing gets missed.
By the way my mother has cancer. I just remembered this:
I’m living at home. I wake up. I discover a note taped to the front door. In the big Sharpie letters of my mother’s handwriting, it instructs us all to “be quiet on the front porch” for the sake of a dove that’s made a nest in one of the hanging plants. I go outside and look around. I don’t see anything. And then I do: between the yellow and pink flowers, from the bright green depths of the plant, I see the bird’s two black eyes. It stares at me; I stare at it. And that’s sorta like where we are with my mother’s cancer.
I had a girlfriend. We were watching The Skeleton Key. I said: “This movie sucks. I refuse to watch any more of this idiotic film. We should be watching Kurosawa or Jean-Luc Godard. Come on, turn it off. This is bullshit.”
What I was thinking: “This sucky idiotic movie is going to give me nightmares. Can’t let her know I’m scared, so I’d better act pretentious.”
AND THUS I TWIRLED MY MUSTACHE.
as many of you know, i’m in a wheelchair. i have a genetic neuromuscular disease called spinal muscular atrophy. it’s an incurable disease that causes progressive muscle deterioration and weakness, eventually leading to death. as you can imagine, i’ve spent a great deal of my life struggling to…
A penguin that is fat.
My friend was like, “Never get married, dude, you’ll never have time for video games.”
That seems like faulty thinking. Eventually he can make time for video games.
But I can’t make time for not dying alone.
If you see a snowman in line at Starbucks, stop him! He is planning to commit suicide!
Alternatively, follow him, let him do it, and enjoy your giant puddle of iced coffee while wearing his scarf.
This is an ontological question of embodiment; namely, which part of the body do you think contains the soul of a given creature?
I would submit that the soul of a seagull is in the goofy beak, and the soul of a shark is in the eyes (“…like a doll’s eyes!” — Quint from Jaws) and the soul of a penguin is in the black bowtie. Furthermore, I would submit that the synthesized name of a chimera must describe the creature in order from stem to stern.
Thus, a sharkgull is a creature with the upper torso of a shark and the lower torso of a seagull; therefore the soul of a shark but not the soul of a seagull.
Thus, a penguark has the upper torso of a penguin and the lower torso of a shark; therefore the soul of a penguin but not the soul of a shark.
And since I’d humbly submit that sharks are more dangerous than penguins, therefore a sharkgull is more dangerous than a penguark.
But not nearly as charming!
Being very depressed, let’s say suicidal, is like mapping a mountain range, or a canyon, or some other dangerous wilderness.
It’s good in the sense that you now understand the territory, and maybe your map can help some future traveler.
It’s not-so-good in the sense that you now have the option, previously unavailable, of returning to that region if things go badly for you in civilization. All you have to do is pack your bags, and leave a note.
It would be NUTS if a Wild West gunslinger pulled a pistol out of a hollowed-out Bible and shot another gunslinger, and the bullet was stopped by the gunslinger’s Bible, which he then pulled a pistol out of and shot the first gunslinger.
And it would be even MORE NUTS if both of those gunslingers were themselves giant Bibles wearing cowboy hats.
I met a girl named Kat.
I met Kat while Vice President of the ODU Student Art League.
I watched Kat’s anime DVDs.
I recited my terrible poetry for Kat.
I got into some hanky panky with Kat.
I started dating Kat.
I dated Kat for three months.
I decided this relationship with Kat had no future.
I decided to dump Kat.
I did not have the courage to dump Kat.
I passive-aggressively dumped Kat for several weeks.
I went to a movie with Kat.
I said “No, nothing is the matter, Kat!”
I argued with Kat.
I lied to Kat.
I said “Well if that’s how YOU feel about it maybe we SHOULD break up, Kat, because obviously that’s what YOU want.”
I had successfully transferred the blame to Kat.
I watched Kat storm out of my car, crying.
I watched Kat trip and fall while running up her apartment steps.
I saw Kat’s massive, gay, African-American roommate sprint out of their apartment with vengeance in his eyes.
I actually locked my car door.
I thought quickly.
I said through the half-open window “Dude I would never hit a girl, I didn’t hit Kat, I am so against domestic violence bro, I don’t know why she’s crying, I would never strike a woman ever.”
I watched confusion play across the giant roommate’s face.
I heard him say, “Uh, yeah, I didn’t think you had.”
I tried to telegraph SURPRISE that anyone could POSSIBLY be mad at me for something BESIDES actual domestic violence!
I heard him say something else, probably.
I said something else, probably.
I felt clever, admittedly.
I backed out of the parking spot, hastily.
I talked to Kat the next day, and then never again, callously.
I thought about Kat an hour ago (four years later), wistfully.
I searched for Kat on Facebook, shamefully.
I saw Kat sprawled on a bed of comic books, sexily.
I saw a girl who could woo any man in the world, easily.
I said, “Dammit John…” angrily.
I sat in silence, hopelessly.
I got what I deserved, most definitely.
And then I wrote this tumblr post.
Apparently Dan Harmon, the creator of the show Community on NBC, pitches a big fit and threatens to quit at least once per episode.
This comforts me about being such a temperamental person.