Is anyone still out there? 

I may have to dust this off. 

My facebook is too tied in with my work to vent 

I need a space. @Rache? @shiropan? @fleener? 

I’m mostly using facebook now. Leave me a comment if you has facebook. I’ll probably actually start using this again for longer things, since they linked the two.

I’m not a big believer in dramatic “Leaving site deleting all” posts but a working person can only do so much of this crap a day, so I’m trying to “cut back” to just facebook where most of my RL friends post and plan things.

Like I said, I’ll probably use this for longer, bloggy posts as it’s better then the face book notes.

If you have a facebook and don’t already have me as a facebook friend, leave me a comment here.

I now

officially

have a poorly maintained presence on every social network, every, except live journal.

After a long hard day of getting punched a lot

you look at other people

and you think:

I’m hurt but I know something you don’t

I know the secret of what it takes to hurt me and I bet your secret is the same

And there is space around you on the sidewalk

Everybody thinks about welfare wrong.

Welfare isn’t free money for people that don’t work. Welfare is a cleanup service for people that do.

Thanks to the government, you don’t have to step over all those people every day.

You can just pay maybe an extra point on your taxes and get on with pretending they don’t exist.

I don’t know how you define “service” but I think building a little buffer like that right into society, so I get to do charity every time I pay taxes AND I never have to personally deal with the downtrodden is a great “service.”

The only thing “better” would be a “service” for putting unneeded “quotes” around “things.”

I don’t get it. I really don’t get it.

I look out over the crowd and I see the Leather Girls – the ones with the softball-shaped breast implants and the bad orange tans – pressing up against the Soft Boys, the guys with Indoor Jobs and Sensibly Rebellious Hair.

They’re out of the natural order.

They clearly aren’t edible

They clearly have no other purpose.

My gaze wanders and I see Peter Pan the Gothic Wonder, the guy that really needs to learn strappy pants and a hot topic T-shirt are not how you dress if you’re a greasy 32 year old mechanic with a meth problem. Next to him is The Incredible Expanding Sow, his sidekick.

She has the super power to make other people feel good about their weight by contrast. She learned this power sometime senior year in highschool, when she suddenly just . . . stopped being pretty.

Behind them is Let’s Get Fucked Up Pete, a guy who believes, passionately, that we should get fucked up. With him is Goodtimes the Ancient Biker. He was in NAM even though he’s really only 44, and he was a marine. He’ll tell you about special martial arts they only teach to marines that you can use to kill a man. After which, Pete will tell him to Get Fucked Up.

I ignore them and talk to Pretty Whore a little bit. PW is an OK person but she is pretty. This holds her back.

She and I look out over the densely packed area near the bar – what we call the Sea of Futility. Futility base, the Frustration has landed.

Everybody in the bar area wants someone else in the bar area, the only caveat being that under no circumstances shall the person they want be the person who wants them.

The doorman directs me, unbidden, to the coolest part of the building, the kitchen. This is where the real cool kids seem to be hanging out. I loiter here.

I look around and where I’m supposed to see other people I only see automatons and livestock. You aren’t my species, you fucks. You aren’t my species and you aren’t my friends and god help you if I ever get my hands on any sort of real power.

I can’t sleep.

Everyone offers up the same crap when you can’t sleep.

My least favorite suggestion is that I cut out caffiene, because that can keep you up, don’t you know.

Listen, you fucking cow, I am only going to say this once.

I’ve been up for a week

It’s not the fucking caffeine.

A reader asks:

Is that creative dry spell, or withdrawal from communication, or “writer’s block” or whatever it is distressful to you?

Mostly I am angry that every day they add more crap to xanga. I do not want to spend credits on minis and I thought subscriptions were a perfectly elegant form of social networking but I guess we need messaging and friends as well because myspace has them and by all means lets take the simple functional and beautiful and degrade it, xanga crew.

I’m sure the best audience to pander too is the hyperkinetic highschool douche set that wants very much to “pimp ” their xanga with all sorts of sparkly shit and stuff, never mind that these things are the internet equivalent of the singing plastic fish.

You want me to pay you money and buy premium and such? Why don’t you take one aesthetic step toward your original principle, which was simple function?

Do you think I’m too stupid to buy a domain and install wordpress on it? I’m not. I’m not stupid at all, most days.

I find it harder and harder to write on here.

What’s in my head isn’t writing right now. Not writing for here anyway.

There’s something there, though. Something I think might be real, but it has to learn to move in three dimensions.

Or I have to learn to move it in three dimensions.

If you look carefully, you can find a steam engine and buy it. Did you know that? That’s your question for the day.

Did you know that?

Something’s got to give with this job. I’ve become the guy that bitches all the time.

Look, it’s not a bad job, right? It pays well. It’s not SUPER hard manual labor or anything.

But it’s terrible on my life. On my time to myself and my time at the gym in particular.

Part of me thinks, “HEY PEOPLE LIVED THROUGH THE HOLOCAUST NUT UP FAGMO”

but part of me also thinks, “Man, fuck it. No one can pay me enough to always be miserable.”