Message in a Bottle

I’m glad that Josh Duggar is an Arkansan so I have a good, relevant example to throw out there when people start complaining about restroom access. I’m 37 and I’ve never seen anyone’s dick in a restroom. Then again, maybe I haven’t been hanging out in the right ones.

I had stopped looking at Facebook for a couple of months because just reading about things like this gets exhausting. Everyone complains, then everyone complains about complaining, and my only recourse is to zoom out on the map settings of this game we call life and try to take a Southparkian third side. That’s a losing battle, though, because there’s always some fucker trying to metajetpack past you into the stratosphere of opinions and everything becomes dick waving (pussy waving?) one-upmanship. One-upwomanship? One-uppersonship!

It’s also shitty to suggest that other people shouldn’t have different opinions. I know that I know nothing and all that jazz. I’m attempting to stick to things I know something about instead of reading a headline and suddenly becoming a Ph.D. student in whatever I want. Rainn Wilson calls that being a “wikidiot”. He’s right about that.

That being said, I’m going to stop being the cool guy who tells everyone that online isn’t real. Of course it’s real. If everyone had built giant steampunk vacuum tubes and sat around firing missives at each other 150 years ago it would have been just as real. It definitely is tunnel vision, though. It’s a horse with blinders on, and the people driving have great interest in what you’re going to buy.

There was a time when I thought that I could be some kind of left-wing political commentator but it’s just not funny. It’s inane. If you want a bunch of smug fuckers to read your posts and masturbate over them, it’s definitely possible, but you’ll soon be sucked into the hellhole of meme creation and distribution, countermemes, metamemes, triple-reverse meta ironic memes, until you find yourself writing for Salon or submitting free content to HuffPo and wondering what happened to your life. Oh, nothing happened, because you probably still work at Starbucks.

I really hope I’m not working retail when the new $20 bills come out.

It’s pretty weird that some white women are getting all fucked up over being called a “Becky”. This is another thing I wouldn’t even know about if not for Facebook. The rage machine is real, yo. Facebook is a fucking crab bucket. You can throw a bunch of crabs in a bucket and they won’t escape because they’re too busy pulling each other down. You can throw a bunch of underemployed college graduates into social media networks…

AND I WILL POST THIS ON FACEBOOK, because that’s where everyone is. My only recourse at this point is to attempt to sit on the edge of the abyss and throw in stones, or messages in a bottle, and see what flies back out. Some Lovecraftian horror will probably grab my leg and drag me into the darkness. It’s okay. I’ll climb out again.

It’s hard to have 40,000 photos on a site, ten years, thousands upon thousands of posts, and not see quitting as burning the library of Alexandria. I’m not that important to you, but I am to myself. You are the only person you have, really, so think about erasing YOUR internet history, especially when you’ve spent thousands of hours chronicling, for better or worse, what you ARE. What you were.

Hell, looking back, I hate most of it.

Maybe we weren’t meant to diarrhea shit every thought all over the planet. What’s the point? There have been moments in my life over the past two years when I felt like I needed to barf out some hellish screed and I just couldn’t. Either there was no audience, or it was something I couldn’t talk about publicly, so I stewed. I ruminated. I fucking pushed it down sometimes and others I dealt with it. I felt… relief. I had stopped asking random strangers for answers. I had realized that there are none.

So this is the metascreed about all those screeds. This is the thought outside the universe, from the place I’m always trying to reach. The place outside opinions.

I think I can get along with just about anyone now because I’ve gotten to the point where I’ve realized that we’re all swamp apes fucking about, buggering on, ramming into things and exploding. Dropping dead like flies. It’s a goddamned war zone!

That’s the thing that keeps me kind when I want to be cruel. I know something hurt everyone. I’m not the messiah here. I’m such a stupid dickhead (I’m probably still the worst), but when I look at where I started it seems like I’ve flown a million miles in an angle somewhat approaching the right direction.

The big test is not staring at this and waiting for red numbers to pop up. The big test is letting this dump sit on the pasture and get hard.
The biggest test is not looking back to see if the chickens show up to peck it apart.

We’re all being blown to bits but that’s okay. My daughter picked a yellow flower for me, and I don’t know that I’d ever looked, really looked, at a dandelion up close. There’s a lot going on in there. You may have to remove your glasses, or put them on, depending on who you are.

I’m good at uplifting. Sometimes. Sometimes sometimes is all we have.

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