100518 I don’t want to talk abot anything boring. From a boreen green came a sweet coleen and she smiled as she passed me by. Let’s make a list of all the things I don’t want to talk about: - being old enough that stuff starts to not work so well - my fat belly - drugs - being tired - kids and their interrelational problems - therapy and therapists - how the couch is when you go in; how they’re always so nice and manageable like a cucumber - how hard it is not to edit - how “sometimes this works and sometimes it doesn’t” is a misconception because if you’re doing it, it’s by definition working (it’s just that what you do with it can take many different forms, some of which may be useful or rewarding or valuable to you (or, ultimately, to someone else) in some way, and some of which may not - how what’s valuable to others and what’s valuable to oneself overlap in a venn diagram of compassion, empathy, and long-term individual and/or cultural survival fitness - there is no such thing as individual long-term survival - see first item of this list - megan’s boyfriend who’s not a boyfriend; how fit and quick and seemingly polished and civilized he is; being jealous of his youth and apparent mental and physical dexterity; how I would have been majorly jealous when i was younger; but this isn’t about me, for chrissake; it’s about how megan’s going to get hurt when this kid keeps her in the friend zone, and then she’s going to take it out on herself or others - see item five on this list - random stuff that i might say when i can’t think of any more items for the list - how much coffee i’ve been swilling lately - how a mixture of cinnamon, cardamom, and a pinch of sugar thrown into the aeropress just before adding the hot water makes a really nice aroma - cats - the screen door - the weather; how misty it is with impending tones of underworld - persephone, where are you now; i need your beauty; i need your full breast; that ache that your beauty leaves all creatures possessing when you leave us each time; we know you’ll be back but the sadness is palpable - nostalgia - eating - drinking That’s it. That’s all I can think of that I don’t want to talk about. SO what does that leave that I do want to talk about? Oh, wait. I just thought of at least one more thing that I don’t want to talk about: - how fucking absolutely brain-fucking-dead suck-ass-shit retarded this VAST FOOTBALL FIELD SIZED TRACKPAD is on this gimp-designed study-in-how-to-be-a-fucking-moron Macbook Pro; how glad I am I didn’t buy it OK. SO, let me just flip to a new ASMR tapping video so I can continue... and... OK, she’s really pretty. Anyway, whatever, that’s another thing I don’t NEED to talk about, because the YouTube commenters have it all covered. There’s a lot of stuff like that, you notice? Like basically, no one has to talk about anything, because everything is already talked about on the internet. If there’s anything itching or bumping at the corners or the outside edges of your mind, you can just look it up instead of talking or thinking it yourself; you can watch someone way more prepared or attractive or qualified talk or think it for you. And sometimes you don’t even have to wait for the itch or the bump and then do the search; if you just turn on and plug in, you can just wait a sec, and then someone scratchier or bumpier than you will have already provided all the motivation or inspiration or ideas or random combination of smart or clever or incongruous or impressive intellectual, aesthetic, athletic, comedic, touching, or tragic units of information that you could ever possibly need. In short, no one has to have any thoughts anymore, or desires, or ambitions, or interactions; all you need is to have a limbic system and the willingness to react, twenty four seven. So those of us sitting here doing stuff like this? We’re probably in our dotage. But then again, see number one on the above list. I don’t really want to praise myself, hold myself up as some kind of rag-tag rebel, say, oh, we’re the crazy ones that still do this old fashioned stuff, because I’ve seen people do that before, and usually they weren’t really doing anything. Or at least that’s what it looked like from the outside. They were just social misfits trying to make themselves feel better in spite of obviously being out of touch and not part of the connected crowd, the it crowd, the in crowd, the belonging crowd. They were the left-behind club. The narcissistic masturbators. The we thought we were so smart. The special. The didn’t have to work hard in elementary school so everyone told us we were smart. The wasted our lives. The drunk, the stoned, the non-agressive. The passive. The entitled. The shocked. The indignant. The naive. The camouflaged as open minded and hip. The safe. The hangers on in coffee houses. The dreamers. The imaginary salon goers. The suddenly old. The wait! desperately grasping at anything, anything at all that makes us feel like we still have a chance, like we exist, like we affect other human beings around us. The pissed on, the shit eating, the cum sucking, the toilet sluts, the cuckolds. Want to join us? In one version of the story, we pull it together somehow and become actual pirates and have actual adventures. There’s colorful scarves, twinkling lights strung from canopy to canopy, boldness, hilarity, braveness, risk taking, narrow escapes, and always, always, always, camaraderie. Do you want to take a chance and roll the dice and hope that version of the story comes up? What are your alternatives? What have you got to lose? Come on. Get your coat. It’s getting cold out. Let’s go. We’ll laugh together and talk about whatever random shit comes into our heads as we head down the moonlit dirt rut towards the seaside bodega where everything begins. Or might begin; would begin; where it will begin if it begins at all. If.