Pictures of you, Pictures of me

Photographs are an odd phenomenon.  They capture in stasis a moment of flux… in effect, they lie.  Life is never still like it is in a photograph.  Even a candid shot is a single image we never would remember, had we not printed it on paper or saved it behind a screen.

My partner and I are not married, so we don’t have wedding photographs.  But we do have pictures of our children.  On the fridge in the kitchen, there is a picture of me reading to them, and then there is a picture of each child, on his or her own.  Their cherubic faces – beautiful round eyes and open-mouthed smiles – look back at me whenever I’m fetching milk or cheese or cucumber, or when I stand before the door, wondering how I’m going to create something vaguely nutritious for tea.

And it occurred to me the other day to wonder why it is I have photographs of these people on my fridge, when I see them everyday, for several long hours at a time?  I mean, I can see the logic of keeping pictures of absent or deceased friends or relatives.  But it’s not like I’m going to forget what my children look like.  And they’re not so old that I’ve forgotten what they looked like at the time the photos were taken.

It’s had me pondering.  And this evening, when the middle one was screaming that she didn’t want to watch that programme on TV, and then she did, and the oldest one was spinning around despite my insisting he stop,  and the youngest one was crying because the oldest had just knocked her over… perhaps I keep the photos on the fridge to tell myself that they can stop, and look at me, and smile, and be very, very still.

Like I said.  A lie.

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Hangin out at OIA (MCO)

So, I am allegedly wasting time waiting for the arrival of my most beloved by eating what barely passes as Chinese food, even by American interpretations, while trolling the interwebs.

It’s a ruse.

I have actually positioned myself at the counter that looks right out onto the people mover between Terminals and watch as all the scantly clad international female travellers pass by. Some stop walking and lean forward against the hand rail giving me a peak at their cleavage while others make eye contact and give me a smile. But the best ones by far are the ones that glare at me like I’m lecherous old man and scurry down that moving sidewalk, not realizing the extra zing it gives their hip motion as they sashe away.

Ah, I love the females of our species no matter their shape size or color. I enjoy those who tease me, appease me, appreciate me or just glare at like a creeper. I mean no harm. God got it right when he made la femme fatale and I’m just admiring God’s finest creation.

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Fight The System, Post At DotSuck

Community websites frequently experience a burst of interest at the start followed by a rapid tapering off of participation. We’ve seen this happen at DotSuck recently.

There’s a ton of reasons for why this happens. In my case, I don’t like posting multiple times in a row on a community site. I know some people are busy, especially at this time of year. Others are busy having sex with beautiful strangers and doing drugs in hotel rooms.

Anyhow, it is a natural occurrence, but for a site like this to survive and grow, it is essential that it gets through this fallow period. To this end, I would propose that this week we should all try to post something – anything – daily.

For added fun, if we all try to make a comment – any comment – on the things that are posted, we’re helping the site move forward. If we can make it through May (or maybe June) as an active community site, we’re probably golden.

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Project: Your Rap Intro

Since Christoph has said its cool for us to post our own projects, I have a project for you nuts.

Basically, in part of my obsessive wank-mourning* of MCA, I stumbled across this video of MCA’s opening lines from every Beastie Boys song.

Now, the Beastie Boys were masters at rapping the kind of self-aggrandizing introductions that make rap awesome.

The project at hand is to write your rap battle introduction. This should include your name (or your hip hop nickname), some information about how awesome you are and (of course) what you are awesome at.

Post it in the comments or as your own entry. Its all good with me. Hopefully, Christoph will reward you with valuable points for participating. Maybe we can even lay down a phat beat later and make the official “DotSuck” rap track.

*Wank-mourning is when you are legitimately mourning but are doing so by obsessively seeking out every tribute and memory written about the deceased post-death.

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Etiquette Question

All right, so, I have a good friend on Facebook who has always been relatively sane and rationale. Recently, he has started posting links to various nonsense conspiracy theories.

I note that all of the sites he links to when sharin tin foil hat fodder are sites that also trumpet the awesomeness of American politician Ron Paul.

I am concerned that if I point out to my friend that these things he is believing are just nutty theories that he’s going to take it as a liberal assault on Ron Paul. I have no interest in attacking Ron Paul because I would sooner use an electric can opener on my anus than get into a debate with a fanatic Paul supporter.

(Sidenote: I, in fact, agree with Paul about some issues, but he has said and done enough loopy things to completely put me off)

Anyhow, how do I bring my friend back to reality without offending his fervent political beliefs?

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Looking for Something

My penis feels sticky, and itches from semen left too long to set and form a crust along the shaft. Jacking off without a cleanup strategy is always something that I come to regret one way or another. I shift uncomfortably in my seat and glance around for my phone.

My laptop is nearer, so I slump down into the couch and reach for it with the tips of my toes, slowly dragging it across the floor towards me. I don’t have a plan for getting it into my hands without having to sit back upright, but it’s best not to focus on these things, which serve only to discourage me. One thing at a time.

When I get into position I go immediately to dotSuck and click on the “New Topic” button. I’m laying down now, typing with one hand reaching down to the keys on the floor, with the other twisted and lost under my body, either asleep or by this stage quite possibly worn right off.

I write: My penis feels sticky. Need somebody to call to help locate my phone so I can contact a prostitute and/or nursemaid to erectify my situation.

I tilt my head back to funnel the drool down into my throat, but can’t muster the strength to swallow. I lean forward, giving up, and let my saliva fall to the floor. I lie there for 10 or 15 minutes, mouth agape, eyes open, watching the reflection of the TV in my puddle.

The phone rings. It is beaneath me, somewhere. I believe it is in the hand of my decaying arm. I roll myself onto the floor with a loud thud and the phone spills out in front of me. With my good hand I pick it up and say hello.

The caller says, “Hi! It’s Memo!”

“The character Memo Moreno from the obscure 2001 French-Canadian indie movie Driven?”

“Hah. No. From dotSuck.”

“Oh.” As I recall correctly, I posted there to solicit calls so I could find my phone.

“What are you doing?”

“Finding my phone. Thanks.” I have no idea how to hang up on somebody with this thing.

“Hey, who are you going to call?”

“Random numbers until somebody agrees.”

“Do you want me to come over?” He sounds slightly concerned, which must mean that he cares enough about me to blow me if I force the issue. I am not opposed to having just about any warm, wet thing on my penis, but I was planning to hold out for somebody with breasts I could clap together with my thighs.

I recall the coyly seductive photo Memo posted not long ago, with his all-American body on full display in the reflection of a mirror, accidentally on purpose. I ask, “Are you topless right now?”

“I might be.”

“I’ve had worse.”

“Hah. You’re crazy. Listen, I’ll be over there in about 20 minutes, just stay put.”

“Great.”

I spend the next 46 minutes trying to watch Driven from memory, but the characters keep developing wolves for heads and vibrating erratically. I don’t speak either French or Canadian, so the dialog is made up and, for the most part, the movie is two vibrating wolfmen talking about Radiohead.

Memo Juez knocks at my door. I don’t bother even to grunt, giving him the benefit of the doubt in figuring that the door is not locked.

Moments later he steps into the dark room, offering an apology. “Sorry I’m late,” he says, “but inventing the technology to travel to Vancouver in 20 minutes took me about 13 minutes, and then I had to find a shirt.”

“Huh?”

“It involves an antigravity device attached to the front of a secured chamber–in this case my washing machine–which creates a gravitational well and effectively pulls the chamber into it at an ever increasing rate, without losing the relative distance from that which it tows, and actually–”

“Shh. Why did you put on a shirt?”

“I am often shirtless at home, but I do put one on when I leave the house in most cases.”

“Take it off.”

“I’m just here to make sure you are okay. You were talking a little crazy earlier, and–”

“Take off your shirt.”

“I’m not going to take off my–”

“Shh. Take off your shirt.”

“Christoph.”

“Shh. Take it off.”

“I don’t feel completely comfortable doing that for–”

“Shh.”

With a sigh of defeat, Memo skillfully flips his shirt up and over his head with one hard-working, beef-eating arm.

“Come here.”

He takes one step towards me. “Like where?”

“Like right up to me,” I say, patting the arm of the couch.

He sighs some more as he comes closer to me. “All right.”

“Put your hands on the arm.”

“What?”

“Put your hands on the arm of the couch.”

“Why?”

“So they hang.”

“So what hang?”

“Your breasts.”

“What? No. And they don’t ‘hang’.”

“Come on.”

“No. My breasts– my muscles don’t hang.”

“I didn’t mean that,” I lie, “I mean, I just want you to lean over me so I can check out your muscles.”

“Okay then,” he says as he leans forward, dangling his breasts over my face.

I pull my sticky, itchy cock out of my shorts and begin to stroke it, while batting at his left breast with my free hand.

“Jesus christ, Christoph.”

“Shh.”

“I don’t even think I’m sure of what you’re doing right now.”

“Shh.”

He holds his position for about 3 minutes while I prepare my orgasm. He talks about his cats, who he likes to watch play in his garden, and I try to tune him out. Almost there.

“Okay,” I tell him, “Open your mouth.”

“Please don’t make me do that.”

“My penis is itchy. It needs a full reset with a proper cleaning. You are a very good friend.”

Defeated, shoulders slumping, he takes me into his mouth and finishes the job. His tongue is remarkably adept. He drinks it all down, pulling the last drops out of me with a strong, milking motion through clenched teeth guarded by his lips. He thoroughly licks and cleans the shaft.

When it is over he brings me a glass of water, then simply gets into his washing machine and leaves. He trembles like a wolfman. I will have to call on his services again.

I pour the glass of water onto the floor and squint at the reflected image looking back at me. We’re not so different, Memo and I. I look into our face and say, “I love you.”

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Watch How I Soar

It was another rainy summer night in Vancouver. The pitter-patter struck the shingles on the roof and the streetlights out the window were glowing with a haze.

They’re all rainy nights in their own way, Christoph thought, leaning back in his chair, away from the computer screen that was his constant companion and slavedriver all in one.  He opened the window, and the cold damp air wafted in.  In the cramped hotbox of his apartment, it felt good.

Just looking at the rain made him feel slightly better about life.  I know why the caged bird sings, he told himself.  But he couldn’t do anything so literary these days, nothing so important or sentimental.

He lit himself a cigarette, blowing it into the dark aether out his window.  The orange embers at the tip of the rolled paper drew a nice contrast to the subdued blues of his apartment.  He was sitting on the earth, sucking fire and blowing air at water out his window.  It was all so elemental.  For a moment, he wasn’t someone hacking out a living chasing Google search terms… he was alive.

“Hello stranger,” came a voice from behind him.  He didn’t have to look, although he was a bit surprised.  Her hand slipped onto his neck, giving him a half-massage, more out of familiarity than anything.

“Kimber,” he noted, more an acknowledgement than a greeting.  ”I see you remembered the keys.”

“You forgot to lock the front door again.  Busy?” she asked, a hint of playfulness in her voice.  ”If you’re playing writer, I can come back later.”

He suppressed a snarky comeback.  He might be getting paid, but this isn’t what he wanted out of life.  She knew it too… she could rub him the wrong way when she felt like it.  Why she felt like it, he never could figure out.

“You’re fine,” he said simply.   “What do you want?”

Kimber shrugged, leaning over his head to stare out the window with him.  ”The same thing you do, I suppose.”

“That being…?”

“To feel appreciated.  That’s why I swung by.”

Christoph looked at his computer fade out into a screensaver… a scrolling marquee read “I’M A LEAF ON THE WIND” before Kimber’s face interrupted the view.

“Fuck that Google bullshit, Christoph.  Let’s have a good night.”

And then she kissed him, kissed him like old times.  She straddled him on the chair, and it squeaked as they began to make out.  In the humid apartment, they stripped off each others’ shirts and Kimber stood up to remove her pants, and Christoph did the same, and then she pushed him onto the bed on the other side of the room.

It was beautiful and sad and comforting and even lonely, with the rain steaming out the window.  But it’s better to be lonely with an old friend, he decided.  Wordlessly, she seemed to agree.  They tasted the fruits of their companionship, in a rented room, and when it was all said and done, Christoph reached for his pack.

“You can’t do that in here,” she reminded him.

He merely nodded, standing up and pulling on yesterday’s jeans, which were closer to the bed than today’s clothes.  He walked over to the window, and offered her a smoke.  She declined.

“Where is this all headed, Kimber?” he asked.

She shrugged.  ”I don’t know, Christoph.  All I know is you should just keep writing.”

***

Christoph awoke from his dream.  It was a muggy oppressive summer night in Vancouver, and the rain out the window wasn’t nearly enough to sweep it away.

His computer screen shouted at him, “I’M A LEAF ON THE WIND.”  When he shook his mouse, an article titled “How To Prepare For A Camping Trip” stared back at him.  He tabbed out of it to a novel he’d been working on here and there for a couple of years.

He shook his head, clearing the sleep from it.  “Watch how I soar.”

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/

I was sitting around Christoph’s apartment with him and Princeps, like we always do on Wednesday nights. We were taking turns on Christoph’s old NES system trying to get it to work. We’d almost gotten it to load up once in November of 2010 and weren’t going to give up until we got it working.

I was plugging the AC Adapter into the NES unit slowly, deliberately in the hopes that some sort of electric connection might be made.

“Know what that makes me think of?” asked Christoph.

I looked at Princeps. We knew what was coming next. Christoph always would say something like “it looks like me fucking you up the ass.” Princeps and I had decided that the next time he made that little “joke” that we would call him on it.

“It looks like me jerking off into a NES,” he said.

That was unexpected, but also kind of hot.

“Yeah?” said Princeps. “I bet you masturbating into an NES looks nothing like that.”

“Especially with your large, athletic cock,” I added.

“I’ll prove it to you,” Christoph said, whipping out his 9 inch long erect member.

He approached the NES system like a pro, quickly pulling out the adapter and leaving its gaping adapter hole uncovered. Roughly, he slid his fat cock right into that tight little hole – it was as if the hole expanded so accept his girth.

“Not only does that look just like when you slide the adapter in,” said Princeps, “it looks pretty fucking hot. I want a piece of that NES.”

With that, Princeps dropped trou and yanked the game controller out of its connecting hole. He quickly slid 10 inches of man meat into the NES. The flap that covers the game controls on the NES unit started flapping up and down, like it was breathing heavy.

By now, I was experiencing a raging 4 inch erection, but there was no more room around the double penetrated NES.

“Hey, Joey,” said Christoph, “Why not have some fun with this?”

With that, he tossed me a “Dr. Mario” cartridge that was already lubed up and ready for action. I quickly slipped it out of its box and slipped myself into its box.

Before long, I said “I’m ready to blow.”

“Me too,” said Princeps and Christoph in unison.

“Don’t go in the game,” said Christoph. “That’s what broke it in the first place.”

“Where should we shoot our loads, then,” asked Princeps.

“Hey,” I grunted, “Remember Richard’s Why Not? article?”

We looked over at the couch where Richard slept peacefully, his mouth slightly open. We knew what we had to do.

After frosting his face, we crashed out. The next morning, at breakfast, Richard came down to the table with a big smile on his face.

“Guess what, guys. I got lucky last night.”

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Penn and Teller Fool Us (pilot)

Because I like Penn and Teller, even though I am always slightly bothered that Penn’s goatee is crooked.

The rest of the pilot is after the jump. (more…)

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Project: Hey, Let’s All Just Fuck Each Other

Say, you should post your own assignments/challenges, because this is totally your website.

Anytime you want.

While we all wait (let there be no doubt that we are all waiting for you), I do have a little project for you. I’m calling it a project this time.

I basically think it would be pretty cool if you wrote some short erotic fiction about two members on dotSuck. Include yourself if you want, and post it as a new thread.

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Playing shows in bars.

I don’t pretend to be some kind of rock god.  I’m either well on my way to being a sad-sack has-been or to staging a very mediocre comeback after a decade hiatus, potentially both at once.  Once upon a time, I fronted a rock band, and now I’m playing my first solo show in a bar on Saturday night.  It’s Wednesday night and I don’t even have a set list.

Fortunately, rock music is, for the most part, boringly easy.

I always thought that it was a bit unfair that vocalists and guitarists got all the chicks.  Rock music isn’t very complex for us.  If you know how to sing, or at least if you know how to sing badly but in a heartfelt manner, you can usually do well enough.  If you know about, say, ten chords, you can play 75% of all rock songs out there on guitar.  G, C, A minor, D, E minor.  F or B minor if you feel particularly froggy.  Go start a band.

No, what’s depressing is that drummers and keyboardists don’t get bras tossed at them.  Drumming may not be that complex, necessarily, but for all its straightforwardness it’s <i>hard</i>.  Getting your body to the point where it instinctively can beat out certain rhythms at different times and fast enough across the entire trap kit is a royal bitch, and it’s an actual workout to boot.  Music shouldn’t feel like exercise.

And keyboardists/pianists?  To do their jobs right, they actually need to know honest-to-God music theory.  They can play Beethoven; I’m the guy that says “fuck it” when he sees an Eadd9 and plays an E instead.  Who gets groupies?  Not them.  If there is a God, He truly must hate the fuck out of pianists.

So I did a search for a bunch of cover songs to pad out my standard one-hour show to four hours, and after I write them all down in my trusty notebook (chicks dig notebooks with handwritten tabs, it makes you look like a tortured artist type or something, I hear) I’ll get up on stage and play them all.  Some of them I will have never played before.  It won’t matter.  I’ll play them just fine; rock music really is that easy.

I’m not sure how to feel about that.  Basically there’s an entire society that thinks I and my fellow guitarists/vocalists are Jesus because we can do the musical equivalent of writing our names.  But if I ever felt like writing a poem instead, I don’t know who’d be there to appreciate it.

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Why not?

Masturbation.

The only thing more grabbing of your attention than that would likely be video of someone masturbating.

Yes, I am going somewhere with this.  Are you ready for it?

Today, I masturbated.  While this may not come as a complete shock to you, the fact that I was giving myself a yank at my place of employment might.

No, I’m not a sick perv that likes to whip it out and get my rocks off in public places.  This act was condoned by my family doctor.  For tests. Had to drop off a “sample” at a location more than an hour from where I live, but fifteen minutes away from where I work.  I had to do it somewhere.  Whatever.  You don’t care.

This got me to thinking about a couple of things.

1. How depressing of a job must it be to be collecting vials of seamen from absolute strangers instead of getting it all over your face?  You don’t get to watch.  You don’t get to participate.  You just get to collect containers full of the off white stuff.  Furthermore, what about the people that get to throw that under the microscope, watching half retarded, microscopic tadpoles traipse along in jizz fluid?  Oh to have a doctorate and seamen analysis.  My thesis?  Getting Pregnant from a Dirty Toilet Seat:  The escapades of office ejaculate.

2. Why is masturbation still considered a dirty thing.  People still deny that they partake in the activity, or when they don’t deny it, they’re making jokes about it.  Isn’t it about time that we all come clean face up to the fact that it’s a perfectly normal and satisfying behaviour?  Having a rough day?  Take five minutes out to centre yourself with a tug.  I’m not saying that it would be appropriate to whip it out at your desk, but it shouldn’t be shameful to go to a private spot and drop a stain.  If you’re friends with someone at the office, why not go to a private room and have an unsatisfying five minute triste just to think about something else for a brief period.

In conclusion, I’ve been watching too much Mad Men and Breaking Bad.

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Ass and Death

Today started off with a full 90 minutes of bathroom time tending to a pressing digestive issue. I am going to speak frankly here, so for your protection I am engaging DotSuck’s NSFW mode.

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Assignment Internet: Shelves

This week’s dotSuck Challenge Assignment Internet is to take a photo of your shelves.

It doesn’t matter what sort of shelf or shelves you choose. It could be your mantle, your game collection, a bookcase, etc. The choice of what you want to share with the Internet may be as interesting as the shelf itself.

Post your responses in this thread for 10xp.

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A Vivid Imagination

Coming home from school late one night, and by late, I mean at 1030 PM on a work night, I had an awful premonition as I approached a major intersection. I envisioned that when I pulled into the right turn lane alongside of a car already waiting at the light that its occupants would open fire on my vehicle with fully automatic machine pistols.

Alas, that did not come to pass.

After the light turned green, I hesitated to wait for a tractor-trailer to blow through the light so I did not get crushed into oblivion.

But there was no eighteen wheeler barreling down on a red light, in fact there weren’t any vehicles at all besides the earlier much maligned vehicle that had been waiting at the light on my approach.

I began to worry that I was losing my mind and should seek some psychosamatic analysis; But I realized that these visions were nothing more than a manifestation of all the fears, anxieties and insecurities that I keep repressed to maintain my glowingly outward, cool, calm, nonchalant and in-control personality.

It seems that I straddle the line between reclusive introvert and friendly extrovert in my daily internal conflicts.

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Pallas Athena

Let’s see. There are 19 major religious groups (20 if you count “no religion” as religion, which I do not). Christianity is the largest of these.

Apparently, there are five major branches of Christianity: Roman Catholic, Eastern Orthodox, Oriental Orthodox, Anglican and Protestant.

Under the Protestant heading, there are six major groups (seven if you count “Anglican,” which I do not since there fall under the “five major branches of Christianity” thing): Baptist, Congregational, Lutheranism, Methodism, Presbyterianism, and Reformed.

I’ve been thinking about this – albeit not much deeper thinking than I did as an undergraduate, but thinking none the less. One presumably chooses a religion because of the belief that its the correct choice – the path to salvation or what have you.

Presumably, everybody who choose a particular reason has also chosen it because they are convinced its the right choice.

With so many religions and belief systems out there, I can’t help but think that the odds of a person making the “correct” choice are exceedingly low.

I have a possible way of increasing one’s odds. I think religions develop over centuries like a telephone game – the more people that have received and passed on the teachings, the greater the chance there is that somebody got something wrong.

Thus, rather than getting mixed in with one of the newer religions, a body would be best served by getting involved in religions that draw from the oldest existing texts related to that religion. Presumably, those texts are closest to the original word of God and/or prophets and will increase the odds significantly that you won’t be sent to hell.

This means, as much as possible, rejecting anything that was obviously written by a human. In fact, I propose you’d be doing yourself a favor by rejecting anything translated by a human – learn the original language yourself. Basically, humans can’t be trusted to get it right. We can’t come to a consensus on simple, straightforward things like “thou shalt not kill,” so how can we possibly trust what anyone else tells us is in a holy text.

God or whomever obviously allows the vast majority of humanity to be completely misled regarding which religion is correct. Its the height of hubris to trust that your religion is the right one just because some non-divine human told you so. Odds are pretty good you’re damned for being a heretic no matter which religion you belong to.

Conclusion: Worship Batman.

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Facial Hair

Either I’m doing it wrong or some things really don’t add up.

After having a short beard for the last 6 years, I decided to have another decent try at this clean shaven thing for a while. I’m 2 weeks in and my patience is very predictably running thin.

Women seem to shy away from a guy with a beard, thinking it’s rough and prickly to kiss such a hirsute guy. Not that I’ve kissed a bearded man, but in my experience with my own face, this couldn’t be further from the truth. Certainly by lunch time, and usually earlier, my face, when brushed the wrong way feels like some awful low grit sand paper, by the time I go to bed I may as well be a walking, talking, rasp. In comparison, the 3 – 4 weeks growth that I usually carry around is actually flexible and tends not to be the industrial strength exfoliant that those short, rigid, bits of stubble approximate.

There’s a  strong suggestion that women tend to be hornier of an evening. Women also like kissing. Am I expected to call a time-out to go shave right before coming to bed, and maintain the mood? Or do women secretly actually hate kissing, or simply love the feeling of a cheese grater on their face?

Beards make a guy look older, more rugged, and more manly. Aren’t women always on about how they want a real man, not a boy. Well, how about a real man that actually looks like a man? Evolution never expected us to scrape sharp bits of metal across our faces every day or two.

In my case, shaving seems to give me pimples, ingrown hairs, and red spots everywhere else. Yes, I know I touch my face too much, and perhaps it would improve if I religiously shaved every single day, but that seems like an unusual punishment designed to result in dry skin and a complex around denying the fact that I’m not 14 any more. An electric shaver – yet another newfandangled gizmo to invade my life – might be something to try though.

So, women, when are you going to make up your minds so that I can either embrace my facial hair, or go figure out how to make my skin happy about being completely bare.

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Good To Know, HP

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A slice of my life.

I’m staring at the screen, thinking that I should probably write something so Dink will know I love him.  But I don’t know what.  I look over at that word mashup thing where it says the most common nouns in recent articles, and I see the phrase “adorable aids” staring back at me.  Maybe that’s why we haven’t eradicated AIDS yet; it’s just too goshdarned cute.  No horrible blights on the skin, no disfiguring tumors, maybe it is kind of adorable at that.  It doesn’t even kill you; it just opens the path for something else to come in.  It’s the pigtailed little sister of the disease world.

I look over at my Irish coffee.  Half gone and too cold in any case.  Maybe my next drink should just be a cold one.  I look up at the bar, and mull my options.  A Coke, but I’m not driving, so whatever.  A gin and tonic could work; they have Tanqueray and it’s delicious.  No Tanqueray 10 but that’s okay.  I could also do some Maker’s Mark on the rocks, or perhaps a Beam and Coke.  Or I could stick with the Irish coffee and feel like a writer with my fellow writers sitting at my corner booth.  I haven’t made up my mind.

I tab out of Chrome for a second, see Monday’s half-finished comic staring back at me, and tab back in.  The internet is a refuge from responsibility and when I’m here, the real world can’t touch me.  But I’m here to write.

I don’t know what I accomplished here.  The shitty thing about responsibility is that it’s necessary, or your life is a waste.  I wrote something, but it’s not what I’m supposed to be writing.  But I’ve got a couple paragraphs staring back at me, an offering to the Great Dink of the Internet.   Perhaps the internet gods will be satisfied.

I look for the “publish” button because after several years of messing with WordPress blogs semi-professionally, I still don’t know where the “publish” button is.  And then I get up and get a drink.

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Duplicitous Little Bastard

Facebook and I are sick of your games.

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