Welcome to Charming or Tedious.

We were sitting in a cramped booth surrounded by people posturing for invisible cameras at their sides.

It smelled like cigarettes and you couldn’t even smoke inside of the place.  I was annoyed.

“So you heard he’s going to be on the cover next month? God, I can’t believe it.  He fucks me once and never calls again.  Not like I care; I do have Steven.  But really; once? I’ve never had a guy only fuck me once.”

“Yeah, and now you’re going to have to see his face at every newsstand next month,” I say, and we laugh because really, who ever walks by a newsstand, unless they’re in the valley of death (Laurel Canyon) or Cahuenga, the land of washed up fake rock stars.

I’ve never shot heroin before but now is the kind of time that makes me want to. I am so fucking bored I feel like hurting myself.

Some asshole comes over and dominates my friends attention, so I get up and wander around the hotbox that is the newest “it” place.  Looks just like everywhere else, atleast to me.  Satin covered chaises, pin-cushion couches, striped paint. Everything in shades of black and gold and purple, emulating royalty…or a circus. I think about my parents, safe and snug at home, probably thinking about how unfair it is that Republicans don’t run the Senate.

I walk outside (therefore ruining my chances of getting back in unless I prostrate myself to the doorman) and take a breath of air. It smells acrid and…heavy.  I text my friend to come outside or she can walk home.  She comes out throwing daggers with her eyes. “That guy was hot, bitch. Thanks.”

“Guys only want what they can’t have.  You should thank me.”

Our heels click-clack on the dirty sidewalk as we walk back to my car, covered in Los Angeles soot and smelling like cheap drugstore perfume spray.

My car takes a couple of tries to start, but start she does, and I carefully pull out into the never ending traffic, settling in for the short drive to my friend’s apartment where we’ll drink cheap wine and talk about shit like designers and who’s promoting what club and why we’re too good to go there, until we do. I stare at the sky at a red light and feel surprisingly open.

“Don’t you ever wonder if there’s…more?”

“More? More what? More dick? More coke? More money? Because yeah, I want more of all of those things.” My friend cackles and I wince.

“No…more out here then what we assume.  Maybe we should, I don’t know…go to the beach or something tomorrow? Or, like, a museum. Or something.”

“Oh, like cultural shit.”

I hesitate. “Well; yeah.”

“Okay. But we can’t tomorrow-we have to go to Erik’s show and you know that’ll be an all night thing.”

I had forgotten about that. “Oh yeah.” I turn onto my friend’s street.  “I forgot about that.”

“I know, right?! Things are so easy to forget.” She grins at me and hops out of my car.

Things are so easily forgotten. 

We make it so.

Less Than Zero, Bret Easton Ellis

Charlie Diekatze

-Octave Mirbeau, Torture Garden

fringeelements:

Now it’s fine to disagree on things. I think orchestral metal is the best music genre evar, and most people disagree. That’s fine. My favorite color is green, most people’s favorite color is blue (that’s why all the big websites are colored blue), and more people have red as their favorite color than green. I prefer vanilla bean and I don’t find chocolate ice cream worth the effort of eating.

But those are all in the category of “subjective values”, as opposed to “truth”. When I disagree with someone on matters of truth, then obviously either one of us or both of us are very very wrong. Since truth is the goal, we should then argue until one of us convinces the other, or perhaps we convince each other on things. But once this process is over, we should find ourselves holding identical positions on the matter of truth in question.

When I was debating the “anarcho-capitalists”, it was a perfect match, because they broadly think this way too. So I would continue arguing with them - over a period of weeks - nonstop, trying to convince them and understand at the same time, until I found myself holding “their positions” which are now very very much my own.

But this leads to a curious development: the analytic thinkers eventually all end up believing the same things (for the most part). Not only that, but they begin to realize which arguments are the best for the identical position, and thus all say the same arguments. Culty? Well it appears that way to people with more tolerance for disagreements on matters of truth.

I do not get it, it’s just bizarre to me. These people will go on the internet or discuss IRL philosophy and politics, disagree, but then smile and say, “that’s interesting, I never thought of that” but then go on holding different positions. WHY WERE THEY EVEN TALKING IF THEY WEREN’T GOING TO CHANGE THEIR BELIEFS BASED ON THE COURSE OF THE DISCUSSION!!!???

This leads to the curious result of groups of holistic thinkers being:

1. More diverse in their views on matters of truth than analytic groups of people and

2. Less likely to change their positions in response to reasoning than analytic groups of people

That is, they’re more diverse and more operationally closed-minded.

Now I view this as just being the way realized truth manifests. “We” all agree on gravity and on the earth being round. The whole world agrees on this and will use very similar arguments to defend these positions.

So really we are all on a continuum of holistic and analytic thinking. Some things are so obvious at this point in history that everyone agrees on it, though some things are only obvious to small pockets (that the very notion of a state is utopian).

Cult? More like a mutation. Most new ideas, like most mutations, fail. But without mutations, progress never comes. And this is one reason I hate universities - they reify truth and prevent mutation.

Some would say, “on a completely free market, think tanks and organizations will pop up spouting all kinds of out-there ideas!” - which is totally true. Lots of mutations. Problems with that? Not really, since on a total market there’s no state, no army, no apparatus of compulsion, and states cannot be sustained by force alone (read my book, I’m not spelling that out here).

There’s little debate on the nature of god among atheists. There’s little debate on morality among moral nihilists. And there’s little debate on the optimal nature of the state among anti-statists. All three groups are lockstep. So when someone repeats the old “dogma” dogma and cries cult over alternative consensuses, just think about how truth has won out in other subjects.

Stefan and I had one of those “date nights” last night, which is something only seasoned couples do.  You know-you have to plan a special day or night to do something vaguely reminiscent of your honeymoon stage, which typically means you go out to eat and then fuck like rabbits.

So we decided to try out this little wine/tapas bar in Little Tokyo, which was fine, and of course maddeningly expensive for 3 little plates amounting to maybe half of one plate you’d cook for yourself at home; but hey whatever, right?  You’re paying for the atmosphere.  So we’re drinking wine (he a white, me a rose) and eating food and debating why I need to write another novel (I don’t want to; he thinks I’ve got some psychological block against it) and how things are going for him, musically.  And I’m cold since we’re sitting outside and my eyelids are droopy since I worked all day and I’m annoyed because I hate people telling me to write when writing isn’t something I do unless I NEED to. 

I get told to write all the time.  I haven’t written a novel for years; I’ve had my share of ups and downs with the land of literary arts and I very honestly prefer to leave it where I left it: nowhere.  I don’t wake up in the middle of the night like I used to with ideas; I don’t feel I have any burning confessions or life lessons to share with the masses; I don’t have the passion about it I used to.  This means I write short stories and poems every now and again, when the moment strikes me…but I am quite content to live the life of an average person, something so many people abhor and find depressing.

Stefan tells me I am lying to myself.  He tells me the last thing I want is to live some average life being some average woman; he says my mutable, always changing personality demands a different kind of lifestyle; he says the very nature of my being is, by definition, not average.  “If all you wanted to do is live a boring, average life, you wouldn’t wear the things you wear, go the places you go, and do the things you do.”

I also wouldn’t be dating him, then, would I?

It is true I am stuck in a limbo of sorts; caught in the middle between two personalities.  While on one hand, I enjoy the routine aspects of my life, I also vaguely and untouchably yearn for and almost rely upon the idea that at any time I could comfortably leave this life of reliability and do something “stupid”. I think almost all of us have this duality; the different between being able to live in a world where laws and concepts are set in stone and being, at essence, a wandering soul. How does something so soft, so mutable, fit into a world where nothing yields to the touch?

After dinner and our debate about art, love and all the rest of the esoteric mysteries about life (and bitching about the size of the bill), we went home, carried out the rest of date night and fell asleep at 12:30, my newest version of a “late night”. If this isn’t an enjoyable average life, I don’t know what is.

And then I woke up with the urge to write.

xo

sternerandrogier:

Funny: providing fun; causing amusement or laughter; amusing; comical

Rude: discourteous or impolite, especially in a deliberate way; without culture, learning or refinement; rough, harsh, uncouth

Thanks, Dictionary.com!

One thing I despise more than anything else in the world is rudeness. Mostly because it is uncalled for, at every time, at every level, and between any and all people. Rudeness makes me feel uncomfortable.  Especially when the rudeness is supposed to be ‘funny’.

I don’t think rudeness is funny.  The only time I think rudeness is funny is when it is directed at someone I dislike, in which case then it is amazing.  And really, that is what it comes down to: rudeness is meant to hurt someone’s feelings.  Why else would you be calling them a name or whatever rude ass thing is coming out of your mouth?

My own manfriend Mr. Sterner and, indeed, most males I know like to use rudeness as a way to joke around with people.  “I’m not TRYING to be rude, I’m trying to be funny!” Yeah, we know.  Except if you can’t think of another way to bond or joke around with people then to be rude, you’re a sad sack.  It is bullying taken to a slightly more ‘adult’ level, but it still makes you an asshole.

I have a friend who likes to call her other friends things like “dumbass”, “idiot”, “whore”, and the like. Every time some shit like that is said, all I want to do is say “watch your mouth”. Honestly-does she think other people like to be called names? Yes, we’re all friends.  We’re all having a fun time and we ‘know’ you’re joking, but I just don’t understand that kind of humor.  I find it to be the hallmark of people who don’t really understand how to like themselves, and therefore they can’t quite ‘click’ or identify with others.  It gives them a very subtle and indefinite sense of accomplishment to tear someone else down under the guise of a joke.

I will always cut off or distance myself from these kinds of people.

The average person must spend their day avoiding and brushing off the average asshole.  Think about all the rude, disinterested people you come into contact with every day: the asshat who cuts you off on the freeway.  The guy who jumps in front of you in line at the post office.  The rude cashier at the pharmacy.  The client who is unhappy and yells at you. The list goes on and on.  Most of us have learned to deal with and adjust to the moods of others, because the same way that laughter and happiness is infectious, so is unhappiness. So when it comes to dealing with people in my personal life, I truly despise having to deal with unpleasant people.  I know, you’re JOKING.  I know, you’re just trying to be FUNNY.  I know, the world is so SENSITIVE.  But really, are we? Am I ‘too sensitive’ to look at your completely rude and out of context jokes as insulting?

I don’t care if it is directed at me or not: when I see rudeness, it disgusts me.  Pandering to the lowest common denominator.  If you are so intent on speaking about someones flaws, at least pick someone in the news or someone NOT IN THE CONVERSATION.  I remember watching my friend’s boyfriend joke around with a group of us one day.  He wasn’t going CRAZY with the insults or anything, but he was certainly being rude.  Everyone was laughing, but there was a very palpable sense of discomfort in the room.  Don’t be that guy, people. 

Think about other people’s feelings. I promise you will be rewarded with better friends and more rewarding relationships.

 

 

My features form with a change in the weather
We can, we can work it out
My features form with a change in the weather
Weekend, we can work it out
When the wind blows, when the mothers talk, when the wind blows
When the wind blows, when the mothers talk
When the wind blows we can work it out

It’s not that you’re not good enough
It’s just that we can make you better
Given that you pay the price, we can keep you young and tender
Following the footsteps of a funeral pyre
You were paid not to listen, now your house is on fire
Wake me up when things get started
When everything starts to happen (happen…yeah…)

My features form with a change in the weather
We can, we can work it out
My features form with a change in the weather
Weekend, we can work it out
When the wind blows (When the wind blows)
When the mothers talk (When the mothers talk)
When the wind blows
When the wind blows (When the wind blows)
When the mothers talk (When the mothers talk)
When the wind blows we can…only we can work it out

Some of us are horrified, others never talk about it
But when the weather starts to burn
Then you’ll know that you’re in trouble
Following the footsteps of a soldier girl
It is time to put your clothes on and to face the world
Don’t you feel your luck is changing
When everything starts to happen (happen…yeah…)
Put your head right next to my heart
The beat of the drum is the fear of the dark

My features form with a change in the weather
Weekend, we can work it out
My features form with a change in the weather
Better late than never
There’s a change in the weather (we can work it out)
When the wind blows (When the wind blows)
When the mothers talk (When the mothers talk)
When the wind blows
When the wind blows (When the wind blows)
When the mothers talk (When the mothers talk)
When the wind blows we can…only we can work it out

I just had to laugh

The face you wore was cool

You were a photograph

hiddenballroom:

2010, 24 years old.

A Target employee made me cry today.

And by today I mean actually today, July 23rd. (Isn’t that fantastic?)

I went after work to just walk around. This is something that Target opens itself up to. 

My high school boyfriend and I had walking around Target in common. The nearest Target was an hour away. Early one Sunday morning in high school, as early as they opened, I made a secret solo trip to walk around when I knew no one else would be there. I was admiring their large selection of 100-piece cartoon puzzles, and there was Roger, my boyfriend, standing by the matchbox cars. 

“This is kinda funny,” I said.

“Hey,” he said, “Yeah.” We smiled for a few seconds. And then one of us, I don’t know who said, “Well, I’ll see ya later.”

“Okay, see ya.” And we finished our Target visits alone. It’s what we wanted.

I did this today, made this secret trip. On Fridays, I get to use one of the cars for approximately three hours to do with whatever I wish. Today my wish was to go to Target and walk around with my tiny wallet. I needed fingernail polish remover, 3M adhesive poster strips, and I allowed myself a sparkling blood orange juice. It said France’s Finest! on the bottle.

I priced scanners, pea green card catalogs, bed linens, backpacks, shower curtain hooks, metallic spray paint, fancy drawer pulls, baby shoes, summer string lights, desk chairs, & Uncle Buck on dvd.

This particular Target is a marvel, because before Texas, I’d never bared witness to the Super Target, with groceries and produce and a bakery and stuff! Man, their bakery was tremendous! There were orange rolls, whoopie pies, cocoa tortes, and homemade donuts with sprinkles. 

I was looking at a set of cupcakes topped with plastic popsicles when I saw him, well heard him. I had lost time there in the bakery, staring at the popsicle figurines, pressing a finger on the container to try and feel an orange twin pop. I asked myself a series of questions that have become normal:

1. Is there a hole for string to go through?
2. If not, is there atleast a part where string can be wrapped around?
3. If not, will craft glue hold this true?
4. Are they too heavy to be earrings?
5. What about a necklace?
6. Okay, how about a charm bracelet.
7. If the answer to 4 is yes and if no is the answer to 5 and 6, can you put it on a barrette or a headband?
8. Is this Japanese schoolgirl overboard? I mean, exactly when would you like to be taken seriously?
9. Can you make a pin out of it? Maybe a magnet?
10. What if you just set it somewhere, like on a table?

I was asking and answering these questions when I heard a young, deep voice. It said, “My break ended twenty minutes ago, this is my lagniappe.”

Who, I thought. Who has used this word among words? If he looks as good as a toaster I’m interested.

I turned around to see a small group of Target employees. The young man who said the word was laughing now, his back towards me. I couldn’t tell much of anything but his shoes, which were canvas, and had been colored in with permanent marker. Was that a slide? Or a ladder?

As he turned to walk, I could make out more of the shoes. See-saw. Monkey bars. It was a slide. Son of a bitch, he drew a playground on his shoes. I could see his face then if I wanted to but I was too busy deciphering the shoes. I pulled myself away from his shoes just in time to see the back of his head. A dear, dear head.

Fuck, I thought. I need to pull my head out of my ass.

I focused my attention on the popsicle cupcakes once again. I wondered if they were 3D or just flat underneath. 

“Ma’am can I help you with something?” I looked up. It was him. Oh my god, his face is beautiful. Dark blonde hair, familiar eyes, sweet little mouth, and A FULL BEARD. IN TEXAS.

Do you know how many baby-faced bearded boys I’ve seen since I moved here? None, none before him. I smile like a goon.

“Uh, no, I’m just browsing, thank you.” BROWSING? What the fucking fuck?! Why didn’t I ask him where the red velvet was? 

I spent the next fifteen minutes floating around the bakery, sneaking glances at him, trying to make out his name tag, eavesdropping on a conversation he was having with an older woman about some other baker and how she doesn’t line the pans (?) the right way. He definitely said, “Ah, Cloris, I’ll line the pans anyway you want me to. You’re the best.” There was a repretoire between this twenty something and this sixty something, it was just. Really something.

At one point he was piping sugar sesame seeds onto a burger cake. We already have lagniappe, baking, cheeseburgers, and shoe customization in common. What else could there possibly be?

I think at one point he noticed how I was just sort of there, and he looked up at me again and I smiled like a fucking idiot and started to walk away and then I looked back and then I went to check out. I thought about what I could do. Could I write down my information and have this check-out girl give it to him? Should I ask her about him? I was so close, I reached for a pen, wondered if I should just write an email address and sign it girl with the yellow bow. I had my hand on the pen when I noticed the girl’s name tag. It said, NEW TEAM MEMBER. This snapped me out of it. I dropped the pen back into my bag and walked slowly towards the exit. 

I took one last look on the way out. At first I wasn’t sure if it was him or Cloris, then I saw the beard and everything was whirly again. His puffy white baker’s hat, bobbing up and down. Like a cream puff on his head. Oh oh oh.

I walked out, back into same old Texas, The Letdown State. I drove slowly through the parking lot, tried to pinpoint where the bakery walls would be from the outside of the building. I got on the freeway.

A Spanish song was on, an emotional singer. As I drove, I imagined the baker in my room. He smiles and says the walls are the color of frosting. He calls me sugar. He brings me treats from work. We are talking about our mothers. We are combining our Sharpie collection. We are listening to music in the dark. We are kissing in outer space.

The singer sings Espernato. And I cry a little bit. No matter how long the space between genuine feelings, they come back and make you human again.

It feels so good.

Sterner here.

This reminds me of a time I have never ever talked about because, well, it makes me feel sort of awkward and timid, two traits I do not like to associate myself with although I very much embody them.

This was about 2 years ago; I was in *yeah* Urban Outfitters on Melrose with my best pal Jason, dicking around and looking at overpriced shit from India when I saw The Lumberjack.

I had recently broken up/gotten back together with/broken up with Heartbreak 3 and was so happy to be single, so refreshed.  Men-last thing on my mind at that time.  But I remember I looked up from this leather jacket I was fondling and saw this buff (not into muscles), blonde (NOT into blondes), bearded (wasn’t a beard whore) guy assisting some kind of wall display going up.  He was doing MANUAL LABOR.  In a GREY THERMAL.

Gulp.

My vision got this cartoony quality to it, like I was hit on the head with a squishy hammer of love.

‘Holy fuck, a Lumberjack,’ I whispered.

And then, magically, Lumberjack looked away from the rope he was holding while some emo in a beanie fiddled with the display and looked RIGHT AT ME.

And he cocked his head.

And he smiled.

And kept staring at me.

Now, any bitch worth her two cents knows this means “hi” in eye-speak.  Either that or dude is mildly retarded and/or famished.  I am an egomaniac so I chose the “hello”.  And I promptly ran away.

Mmph.

I quite literally regretted not talking to Lumberjack all the way up until I met Stefan.  That moment carried a lot of magnitute, obviously.  And seeing as how I still remember it today, years later, I suppose it carries even more weight then I care to admit (although I just did).

Little moments like this intrigue me.  Since no contact is made, you can never know what the other party was thinking.  Maybe Lumberjack just liked my sweater.

unbuttondrenegade: Forget Brainstorming

toldorknown:

Brainstorming in a group became popular in 1953 with the publication of a business book, Applied Imagination. But it’s been proven not to work since 1958, when Yale researchers found that the technique actually reduced a team’s creative output: the same number of people generate more and better ideas separately than together.

None of us are as dumb as all of us.

(via @fritinancy)

FINALLY, SOMEONE ACTUALLY AGREES WITH ME!!

I fucking HATE working in groups.

Mark Twain

Never start your texts with this lame ass phrase, party promoters, if you want anyone who IS NOT A DOUCHE to attend.

Where nothing

Nothing ever happens