The words I never want to hear are, ‘I give up.’ Not from anyone. Not from inside my head. They linger around like satellites. They are permitted because they sure as shit don’t obey.

Instructions are a tiresome type of blog post. They’re all tiresome, eventually.

A friend (filed under ‘blown opportunities’) wrote that she purchased a particular type of bikini. My first thought was an image of her lying on a oversized Star Wars towel, naked. I still remember her doubt and tearful way of handling the simplest problems. While engaged, she slept with a number of men. There was some sort of unhappiness that I will never understand, though it feels I ought to know it well. I comforted her once so we could get on with it. Her fiance was also a friend who possessed an annoying intuition. He pointed out my ways to me a number of times and I evaded answering him. I didn’t want to explain the sloppy sex I’d been having with prostitutes in my Jeep (since sold). The debt to which it led is embarrassing enough.

Reading books like The Talented Mr. Ripley and A Very Private Gentleman, I don’t sympathize. Nor do I care about notions of justice. Rather, I curse the bumbling officials who fail to shine the light of truth on them. You’re a liar, you’re a fucking liar. I simply want to see them exposed for their shitty ways. Secrets are not allowed anywhere but within my mind.

Comes time, I will decline to associate a Yahoo! (or some such) account with a Tumblr. account. It’s been all sides. Accounts everywhere, even after years of pruning and shaping a decentralized online identity. All of these consolidations and efficiencies. Tumblr.’s appeal back then as now is a relative anonymity. A reality that all which is written, said, or otherwise posted is confined to a drawer and inconsequential. A small corner of a database to which emotion can be relegated and forgotten during the day, when it is all feelery bullshit. A distraction.

Of course, even that loses its appeal.

I was asked if I am truly an ISTJ. I mostly am. I was somewhat offended by the implication that such a dude can’t write a certain way. The preconception nonsense turned around on me. Awareness of hypocrisy is a wet blanket on the soul.

It takes a drink, a gorilla grin, and some knee slapping just to get into a proper state of mind to write for these things. None of it good enough to turn around into fiction.

I’m just flustered. The effect of self-loathing. I consider travel more and more by the passing day and think, I just need a fuckin’ breather, Jesus. Atlanta. Flagstaff. Reno. Lake Tahoe. Redding. Needles. Eugene. Salt Lake City. Billings. It goes on and on.