Month: September 2012

funny sucking days

Chores is not the correct word. It doesn’t have the right ring to it. Chores, chores, chores. A bastardization of shorts. But what is the correct word, if not chores?

Pantaloncitos. The diminutive.

Mujercitas.

The rules are as tedious as the experience of reading and memorizing them. Language is all rules with little emphasis on the way the language feels. It needs to feel right. It is such with English, and it is such with Spanish. When they don’t feel right, they cannot be spoken. There’s the awkward pause to ask for assistance.

“Eh, como se dice?”

My grandfather did that often. “Eh? Eh?” His most prominent feature was his eyebrows. Mine grow wilder by the year.

I am becoming scattershot.

You tell me “you’re killing yourself.” I like knowing that I’m the one’s going to do it.

The things I don’t talk—or write—about are my jobs. I’ve had many. Did you know a woman’s shoe size is 2 greater than a man’s? A man’s 6 is a woman’s 8. Take that with you to the Footlocker. Black box testing is testing software in it’s final and packaged form. White box testing is in-depth analysis of the code and data. I don’t care for the latter. It requires deliberate critical thinking. Mine is incidental. Pushing a lawn mower allowed time for reflection on bitterness. I started early.

So many young people want to just be taken seriously. Sex, cars, jobs, debt. It’s a generational chant. Take us seriously. The older I get, the less I do, the less I care. I worry about my relational future. Can a man interact on an even keel when everyone is beneath him?

A lesson you learn twice is don’t trust a written voice. You learn this in regards to authors you don’t know. They’re far away and it becomes easy to separate them from their work. The second time you learn it is in regards to human beings who you feel you know, but you don’t. What they write you is not them. They are not the words.

I upload a text file (that’s TXT) every day with the assertions that I found during my playthrough. When I do this I’m tempted to ask, “Who am I?”

Chores is not the correct word. It doesn’t have the right ring to it. Chores, chores, chores. A bastardization of shorts. But what is the correct word, if not chores?

Pantaloncitos. The diminutive.

Mujercitas.

The rules are as tedious as the experience of reading and memorizing them. Language is all rules with little emphasis on the way the language feels. It needs to feel right. It is such with English, and it is such with Spanish. When they don’t feel right, they cannot be spoken. There’s the awkward pause to ask for assistance.

“Eh, como se dice?”

My grandfather did that often. “Eh? Eh?” His most prominent feature was his eyebrows. Mine grow wilder by the year.

I am becoming scattershot.

You tell me “you’re killing yourself.” I like knowing that I’m the one’s going to do it.

The things I don’t talk—or write—about are my jobs. I’ve had many. Did you know a woman’s shoe size is 2 greater than a man’s? A man’s 6 is a woman’s 8. Take that with you to the Footlocker. Black box testing is testing software in it’s final and packaged form. White box testing is in-depth analysis of the code and data. I don’t care for the latter. It requires deliberate critical thinking; mine is incidental. Pushing a lawn mower allowed time for reflection on bitterness. I started early.

So many young people want to just be taken seriously. Sex, cars, jobs, debt. It’s a generational chant. Take us seriously. The older I get, the less I do, the less I care. I worry about my relational future. Can a man interact on an even keel when everyone is beneath him?

A lesson you learn twice is don’t trust a written voice. You learn this in regards to authors you don’t know. They’re far away and it becomes easy to separate them from their work. The second time you learn it is in regards to human beings who you feel you know, but you don’t. What they write you is not them. They are not the words.

I upload a text file (that’s TXT) every day with the assertions that I found during my playthrough. When I do this I’m tempted to ask, “Who am I?”

For later.

  • Sex is a weapon for personal gain to prove superiority via dominance (versus a key aspect of emotional intimacy in a couple relationship).
  • Primary goal is to ‘win’ by overpowering the will of another, to ensure they know ‘their place’ – and sex is a secondary goal.
  • Main pleasure is derived from causing (emotional) pain to the other, i.e., tricking or manipulating them for own gratification.
  • The other is seen as a weak or defective ‘object’ without feelings, thoughts, opinions, etc, of their own.
  • Love is regarded as overall sex-focused, sex is equated with intimacy, and emotional-intimacy is tactically avoided.
  • Women only respect men who dominate them, and respect is associated or equated with obedience.

Creed of the patriarchy, I figure. Lifestyle to some and deviancy to others. It’s something I’m researching.

Read “Where Are You Going, Where Have You Been?” by Oates.

I’m awful tired. Been working long hours testing one shitty video game and one awesome video game. The awesome one reminds of the reason I’m in this business. Story is it, man. Story, characters, writing. Keeping score bores me. I haven’t done laundry and my jeep’s full of things I need to take to the garage. I want a massage but have zero interest in company that doesn’t just do what I want to do. I’d pay for such company if I wasn’t paying down credit card debt.

We make sacrifices in the name of stability and harmony. Is harmony not just everyone agreeing to do the same thing?

For later.

  • Sex is a weapon for personal gain to prove superiority via dominance (versus a key aspect of emotional intimacy in a couple relationship).
  • Primary goal is to ‘win’ by overpowering the will of another, to ensure they know ‘their place’ – and sex is a secondary goal.
  • Main pleasure is derived from causing (emotional) pain to the other, i.e., tricking or manipulating them for own gratification.
  • The other is seen as a weak or defective ‘object’ without feelings, thoughts, opinions, etc, of their own.
  • Love is regarded as overall sex-focused, sex is equated with intimacy, and emotional-intimacy is tactically avoided.
  • Women only respect men who dominate them, and respect is associated or equated with obedience.

Creed of the patriarchy, I figure. Lifestyle to some and deviancy to others. It’s something I’m researching.

Read “Where Are You Going, Where Have You Been?” by Oates.

I’m awful tired. Been working long hours testing one shitty video game and one awesome video game. The awesome one reminds of the reason I’m in this business. Story is it, man. Story, characters, writing. Keeping score bores me. I haven’t done laundry and my jeep’s full of things I need to take to the garage. I want a massage but have zero interest in company that doesn’t just do what I want to do. I’d pay for such company if I wasn’t paying down credit card debt.

We make sacrifices in the name of stability and harmony. Is harmony not just everyone agreeing to do the same thing?

I see stories that I don’t want to read. About shitty men like me, mostly. No one deserves abuse is what I’m tired of seeing. I know, I want to say. Your point is made.

Apologizing for a gender makes me scoff. It’s cute.

The future holds nothing close to what it once contained. That future that was emptied into the sea. In six months I’ll be somewhere I don’t know where. God’ll still be there, I think. No running from that guy. In sitting here—writing on a phone in a motel—I am closer to death than most other times. Jacob died from a fall off a cliff. Gary’s pop killed himself on easter. This IPA makes me want to vomit.

It takes eight months to get to 300 pounds of human. The fresh stretch marks zip in among the hair that falls and piles up along the seams. That much fat makes it so that my cock is only visible in the mirror and when it’s hard.

I carry someone with me in every sense.

I see stories that I don’t want to read. About shitty men like me, mostly. No one deserves abuse is what I’m tired of seeing. I know, I want to say. Your point is made.

Apologizing for a gender makes me scoff. It’s cute.

The future holds nothing close to what it once contained. That future that was emptied into the sea. In six months I’ll be somewhere I don’t know where. God’ll still be there, I think. No running from that guy. In sitting here—writing on a phone in a motel—I am closer to death than most other times. Jacob died from a fall off a cliff. Gary’s pop killed himself on easter. This IPA makes me want to vomit.

It takes eight months to get to 300 pounds of human. The fresh stretch marks zip in among the hair that falls and piles up along the seams. That much fat makes it so that my cock is only visible in the mirror and when it’s hard.

I carry someone with me in every sense.

… or my own unforgivable actions. Easy to block that.

I got a good review of one of my stories yesterday, by which I mean it was ripped apart. Constructively, you know. Too many voices, no differentiation in tone, etc. I got some good notes out of it.

Criticism is exhilarating. I’d rather be told where to improve than hear about how great I am. I already know that.

… or my own unforgivable actions. Easy to block that.

I got a good review of one of my stories yesterday, by which I mean it was ripped apart. Constructively, you know. Too many voices, no differentiation in tone, etc. I got some good notes out of it.

Criticism is exhilarating. I’d rather be told where to improve than hear about how great I am. I already know that.

Pet names are weird. You can’t force them. They have to fit in with someone’s character and personality or it’s pointless. Sometimes you can turn someone’s mind around on a name they claim not to like. “Darlin” is that, for me. I always use it. Get used to it.

I’m fond of using “darlin’”, but not “darling.” And because I slip into spanish when I’m feeling amorous, “mi reyna,” and because I slip into spanish during sex, “mi puta.”

Calling me “papi” gets under my skin in a good way. “Thank you, Papi” has a nice ring to it.

What you call someone–their name, their role, a nickname–it’s a mark. A light scratch. A scar for life.

Pet names are weird. You can’t force them. They have to fit in with someone’s character and personality or it’s pointless. Sometimes you can turn someone’s mind around on a name they claim not to like. “Darlin” is that, for me. I always use it. Get used to it.

I’m fond of using “darlin’”, but not “darling.” And because I slip into spanish when I’m feeling amorous, “mi reyna,” and because I slip into spanish during sex, “mi puta.”

Calling me “papi” gets under my skin in a good way. “Thank you, Papi” has a nice ring to it.

What you call someone–their name, their role, a nickname–it’s a mark. A light scratch. A scar for life.