(Originally posted September 13, 2017)
I don’t know of many creatives without some odd habits. And, with me, the most prominent and noticeable ones are my night owl tendencies and my relationship with jackets. I’ve talked about the night and my place in it before, but I’ve barely, if at all, discussed my jacket fixation, and I think it’s about time I fix that oversight. Because I goddamn love jackets. If I could comfortably sleep in a jacket I would—and don’t think I haven’t tried. Continue reading
(Originally posted September 12, 2018)
I don’t really know the age group that reads my posts. But, in case you are a young person like me—and you feel stressed out and worried and anxious about your future—I have something to tell you.
People have no idea what they are doing. Continue reading
(Originally posted September 30, 2017)
One could not overstate the significance of the foam sword. Perhaps, in the entire history of the room, and the house’s various occupants through the years, the foam sword was the most important thing to ever grace those four walls. For one, it tied the room together nicely; for another, it made several religions with its very presence.
The owners of the house, a Mr. and Mrs. Spelling, were the first to become aware of the foam sword. They found it in the center of the guest room, sitting on the floor, and radiating off immeasurable glory. Continue reading
(Originally posted September 26, 2018)
As a nerd, and a “scholar of life” (if I may finally, finally reach peak pretentiousness), I’ve learned an important lesson for people—and artists especially.
And, before I go forward, a warning: It’s hard to apply.
Really fucking hard.
But, it’s also an admired quality. Continue reading
(Originally posted April 28, 2018)
“We are not real living beings, you know,” Caffeine said, then jerked his head to the side, looking at the door to the room.
“Yeah—but it doesn’t much matter. It’s nice being as we are, at least,” Alcohol said, and sat down on his chair. He stared up at the other two and smiled goofily.
“It matters a little bit,” Nicotine said, parting back his ginger hair. “I, for one, like to be flesh.” Continue reading
(Originally posted April 2, 2016)
“AHHHH!” the man screamed at the empty sheet of paper, making it move in a slight, wavering fashion on the mahogany wood table.
He reared back, his face taking on a bluish tinge, and he breathed in and out. The man sounded, vaguely, like a squeaky toy caught underneath a car’s tire.
He put his hands on his knees and leaned back down once he could breathe again. His face, his skin, now so close to the white paper that the moisture stained. Continue reading
(Originally posted February 6, 2016)
The pond ripples underneath my fingertips, and my face sputters into a mess of stretching lines and round curves. And it spreads across the entire pond, in however small a way. I take a drop and smear it across my forehead, and it feels cold with the summer heat.
It’s tempting to plunge my entire hand into the froth, and feel the strains against my skin, but I can’t, not here, not now. Continue reading
(Originally posted November 4, 2015)
So, for those of you who don’t follow me on Twitter, I somewhat recently sent out a series of themed tweets called #philosophicalgiftbaskets. In these I attempted to explain complicated philosophy via the miracle of gift baskets.
It went about as well as one could expect.
Here, are those tweets.
Welcome to Solipsism.
The gift basket does not actually exist.
#philosophicalgiftbaskets Continue reading
Have I really been doing these for 3 years now? Damn. Well, alright. Most of you are probably with the program by this point and know that it’s about that time again. But, for those of you who have no idea what the Christmas Collection is, it’s a series of reposts. I spend a little while each year picking out 12 articles that mean something to me (I’ve decided to forgo the categories this year) and then post one every day up to and including Christmas day. Continue reading
He had his hand against his cheek, and his eyes looked tired—even with the candlelight in them.
“So,” she began, and he held up his hand.
He had this odd, multi-band ring.
“No, none of that. Be more open, would you?” Continue reading
Can there be logic,
In the face of so much,
I can’t tell. Continue reading
He sat, dead-eyed, with his hand on his chin. “I know.”
And, with those two words, she sputtered. “How…?”
He smiled at her and leaned back in his chair. She could not say for sure, but something seemed to move behind him—something huge.
“I know things, not to worry,” he replied.
“I’m worried,” she said. “This is a secret. I can’t have it getting out.” Continue reading
I promise I don’t mean this as a brag—that’s not my intention. It’s a simple symptom, byproduct, a side effect of something that a lot of writers strive to do—and, if you embark on your writing journey a certain way, you’re going to hit this too, and you should be aware of the potentiality of it. Continue reading
Hear it move,
Here it out there,
In the dark. Continue reading