Got Stuck At Work Way Too Long And It Fried My Fucking Brain.
Got stuck at work way too long and it fried my fucking brain.
More Posts from Mistahsojourner and Others
Funny as hell.
A Moment on a Tough Day
You join hands with your sister.
You pray over a sick dog.
I think I’m slowly getting over myself. The operative word is slowly.
I want to write an essay.
What about? I don’t know. I think I can do it though. It is going to take some trying and some discipline from me though.
If I could exist as some kinda layabout, I would do that. I’d shave when I want to. I’d sleep when I want to. In fact, I’ve kinda done this. I’ve spent a great deal of time jobless. You get a ton of time to yourself. Thing is though, it’s pretty much a living hell. Even if you have a place to go if you absolutely cannot pay your bills, it’s awful. You don’t feel like you have a reason to be living. You don’t feel like you deserve to live. Fuck. It was one of the worst things I’ve ever experienced. I did that off and on for about 6 years.
I fucking need space.
I could have spent all that time that I had writing but I had even less focus than I do now.
Nothin’ in my head
except the lies
duct taped together
that make the dream we live in breathe
down our fuckin’ necks.
that breath is warm, sista or is it brotha?
smells like cheap perfume worn by Lady Liberty
after Elon Musk gave her a roofie
then he went to the stars
and forgave y’all’s sins
but said hell no to stock options for all
and tickets to the billionaire’s ball.
Never alone
got alphabetical men listenin’
to midnight confessions
of dangerous love
that will make them drink
and die one of those deaths
that ain’t quite official.
-----------------------------
You just kinda start. You see where things go and then you get stuck. That’s okay, I guess.
The inner-city crack epidemic is now giving birth to the newest horror: a bio-underclass, a generation of physically damaged cocaine babies whose biological inferiority is stamped at birth...[This is] a race of (sub)human drones ... [whose] future is closed to them from day one. Theirs will be a life of certain suffering, of probable deviance, of permanent inferiority. At best, a menial life of severe deprivation ... [T]he dead babies may be the lucky ones.
-Conservative columnist Charles Krauthammer in 1989.
People like to pretend there was a time when the American conservative was sane and not possessed by cruelty and a special kinda crazy.
It’s not a myth. It’s a lie. It’s total bullshit.
That’s so called respectable (and soon to be deceased) conservative writer/thinker/fantasist/whatever the fuck Charles Krauthammer condemning an entire class of people when they were fetuses back in the much simpler and much more innocent year of 1989.
Only difference now is there is less sophistication. Less subtlety.
There were dog whistles before but now the dog whistles are replaced by screams and shrieks.
You could say something wicked this way comes but you’d be wrong.
Something wicked was always here and just leveled up the wickedness. Just made it nastier. Just made it harder to look at. Just made it make your ears bleed faster so you plug them and tell yourself it’s all gonna be okay.
See, we all gotta confront the possibility that it might not be okay.
I’m reasonably certain there is an alternate timeline where America descends into fascism to the strains of “Holding out For a Hero” by Bonnie Tyler.
Even as I sing along about pining for a street-wise Hercules, the spirit of eternal fascism tickles me.
This song pines for Charles Bronson in Death Wish.
It’s calling out for a version of Walt from Gran Torino who doesn’t have a redemption arc.
It’s calling for a cop who becomes like The Punisher in real life.
Umberto Eco wrote of the cult of heroism.
This song could be the hymn for the cult of the avenging hero.
My desire is to become better at writing. Why? My sense is that it could lead me to a more fulfilling life. My standard answer to the question, “Why write?” has been that I find it satisfying but it’s more than that. As a human being, my desire is to lead a fulfilling life. In fact, that might be the thing that I want more than anything you care to name. I don’t think it will lead me to anything like financial security though. Financial security is elusive. There is tension there. This world is a bitch to live in like that. Everything is so god damn expensive. This shimmering dream of a world that might really be a nightmare has us all running ragged for a collection of dead Presidents that is just big enough to make it through another day.
This is gonna sound like bullshit but I also connect my writing to the struggle for justice. Writing is a vehicle for conveying truth. Words can bridge the gap between human beings who are profoundly alienated by the endless chasing of nickels and dimes. People who work jobs that leave them bleary-eyed and bored and angry need to know they aren’t alone. Maybe I can reach out and touch a few who are on the same frequency. Maybe I’m not even qualified to do that but I figure that I’ve got to try. Why the fuck not?
I get the sense that I’ve got to challenge myself. I gotta try and write something that takes some effort. I was thinking an essay of some kind. I’ve got to give it some thought. I don’t know that I can pull it off and maybe I can’t. I might learn something from trying.
If this reads like inspiration porn, I apologize. I hate that shit.
This song. So god damn much. My god.
