And Now, To Write

To ... whatever, like a toast, like we make, like we care, like we mean it. I read somewheres that work has been described as running on a never-ending treadmill, and boy, do I ever feel stress-testy and unoriginal. And how come I never saw the option to monetize my blog before? No matter, I'll just be over here, obsessively checking the countdown calendar calculator, trying to ALLITERATE, just to get myself heard over the deafening sound of the afternoon acorn assault ... Nature, will you ever not win? The answer is no, if the question is, "Are you authentic all the time?" and I don't even know what that means any more; I miss back when I was well-adjusted and precious and thought I ruled my world. Because the more cryptic and purple my writing is, the more accurately it reflects my thoughts. People can't relate because people can't go there; you have to mind that gap, spit that game, push that production, hang on, hang out, hold on, hold out. For the one that sees right through you in a way that isn't alienating. I believe there must be a better system than ours, and in that place, logic is just rules and we can choose the ones we want to follow and break the ones we don't, and I'm sure the me in that parallel universe is very happy, because even in a parallel universe, I still pick the parallel you. Water shortage? We have convinced ourselves that this is not a lack, just an unfair distribution, sound fucking familiar yet? Because you can blank out water and insert anything, because, yo: Consumerism is just a juvenile demonstration of our predictive modeler adaptation, stretching it, arching it, forming new muscle memories by using it. More, faster. Better, later. See ya. Bye.

As easy as that, on the macro level, on the color-corrected galaxy level, and it's so cute how we sit around the dinner table of an upper-scale Italian restaurant talking about the coincidence of intelligent design. We can't be a blip! Son, we are a blip, you egomaniacal fucking human. Just finish your puttanesca and hurry back to your adorable little particle accelerator, before my husband's eyes stick that way, k?

Once we talked of knowing a thing, or even a slice of a thing. This (is?) all lies in a belief of blood, which we are bound not to give up. I'm not saying you're not real, I'm just saying: if gaming the system is the only way to win? Well, I'm just a predictive modeler, too, you know.

But on a cellular level, I'm not the Velveteen Rabbit at the end of the story. And I cannot escape the gravitational tugs at my humanity no matter how much I try. Same goes for you.

I only feel better at the water's edge and feel worse at my brain's edge, so what do you make of a person who lives inland and stupid most of the time? We call this "offsetting" which sounds a lot like, "off-putting" and while they aren't mutually exclusive...

At the office, I was asked to dumb one of my presentations down. My friend said, "Boy, they asked the wrong person!" But if I'm so fucking smart, how have I not managed to manipulate this world in a way that is favorable to me and mine? Or maybe I have. There's no accounting for that, I suppose. Turn over two cigarettes of your fresh pack. One for good luck, one for a good ...

Yes, there will be a lottery some day, and we have all already bought our tickets, even those that are temporally lost. Its like a Day of Reckoning, but with 100% less god and 100% more bare-knuckle boxing, with a candy cane to the breadbasket, kidney punch, kiss the canvas, hope you brought your caffeine kids, its gonna be a long Night, because there is no majority decision, just split decisions and lots of memorial tens and dementia pugilistica zombies, fighting for the same last fucking crumb-drop, as our predictive analytics wash back out to sea with the tides of the moon, and we cast our gaze to beyond, to see if we're going to root for who's on deck. Nobody is going to pay for this.

Yes, honey, we need some kind of a ....

tripod.