good whiskey names

There’s a rapidly-emptying bottle of whiskey next to this laptop called Fighting Cock. It is, like most things, produced by Heaven Hill, but this is unimportant. That’s a hell of a whiskey name. Good branding. Got me to buy the bottle, anyway. It is slightly more expensive, by volume, than my usual, the stalwart almighty, Evan Williams Black Label… also produced by Heaven Hill.

Anyway, we’re here to workshop whiskey names.

Dead Dawg / Dead Dog

Vulture’s Beak


Mucho Importante

Caius Coriolanus

Pissin’ Sentry


Ol’ Shit


Mountain Dew

Celiac Sprue

I used to moderate a forum dedicated to the band from Arkansas called Evanescence

at the time, I was very into it. I was 13, and they understood me, swallowed up in the sound of my screaming, not ceasing, for fear of silent nights. Oh, how I longed for the deep sleep dreaming—the Goddess of imaginary light.

The record that they cut before we ever could’ve heard of them—Origin—was dope. I still listen to it, sometimes.

I have a lot of memories around the album they called Fallen

and once in seventh grade, a teacher asked our favorite songs, & I said this:

w/e—you don’t know me

scenes from the upcoming feature “Star War—Ep 7: the Force is Up” (3)


The captive rebel fighter POSEPH DAMERON kneels in a dark room. He is exhausted, battered, looking beaten—but there is fire yet behind his eyes.

The doors open with a shooomp. It is KYLE REN, the dark vader.

I’ll never talk. Don’t even try—you’ll only waste your breath.

Word. I just wanted to show you something.

Poseph looks up, expectant. Kyle lurches forward… and grabs Poseph’s head between his hands. Poseph SCREAMS…

…and sees a vision.

We see the REBEL HOMEWORLD, ripped with winds that seem unnatural, impossible, destructive beyond our wildest imaginations. The clouds are RUST RED, and an ominous HUM bears down from somewhere beyond the atmosphere. The trees are swept up into DUST. Towers crumble in cacophony. There is a chorus of TEN BILLION SCREAMS


And then SILENCE.

Poseph SNAPS OUT OF IT. He is sweating. It takes a beat for him to register, in front of him, the standing form of Kyle Ren, CLOAK SPREAD WIDE…

What do you think?

I, um—

Kyle Ren shuffles uncomfortably. Viewed from behind, we see the barest hint of MILKY THIGH FLESH.

…I don’t understand the crossguards.

goal was not reached

this site is awesome. it’s a website that shows archived kickstarter projects that received no. freaking. money and it’s an awesome boneyard full of other losers’ failure that is pleasant to behold and hem and chortle at. the site is called kickended.

i am sure that taking great satisfaction in the raw failures of others is a universal human delight and not just some perversion of my own psyche—yes—yes i am quite comfortable that this is just a goofy thing we all enjoy and not feeling like this is utterly revealing of anything misanthropic or revolting about me as a person in the world even a little bit at all

Vagabond Rapscallion

I came home and found the front door barricaded. Silly girl—forgot I did that. Wedged in easily enough. It’s my second day alone in this apartment. The captain has gone overboard and the crew has taken over the ship. Crew from the lower decks. The vagabond rapscallions.

Every room is now being used for its opposite purpose, because I’m ENFP. The Myers-Briggs type that’s all like haa da-da da-da. They know how to relax—boy, do I relax good—but also exhibit “wild bursts of enthusiastic energy that can surprise even their closest friends.” They also have poor practical skills.

Look at the pictures they chose to represent that personality type. What gives, guys? Hurf, meet Durf. Not inaccurate, though. In fact? Accurate.

Take the test, dork. I hope you’re not as unenthusiastic about the results as my mother was. “This test is stupid.” And then we were all like, “ohhhh myyyy goooooodd that’s exactly what the test said you’d say!!!!!

I like Myers-Briggs types more than Zodiac signs for personality divining bullshit because Myers-Briggs types feel like video game shit. Role-playing games. I’m forty/forty extroversion, and my lockpick skill is 39.

Approximately thirty-eight new objects have been nailed into the drywall since my roommate left, and they’re all staying up there, whatever they are. That poster. This picture. Two French fries, intertwined. A wallet photo of my dad.

I will sink this fucking ship before I call an end to mutiny

regular-ass rabbit hole: Please enjoy the internet k-hole, a superlative place on the internet.

scenes from the upcoming feature “Star War—Ep 7: the Force is Up” (2)


Gliding across the barren landscape we see REY ORGANA-CALRISSIAN, adopted daughter of Han Solo and reluctant Jedi, leaned back casually yet resolute, driving her COOL JET FLOATCRUISER. We linger on the cylinder in her lap, a modest-sized CUP FROM A GAS STATION, full of limited-edition PEPSI STAR WAR (BLUE FLAVOR). A straw protrudes, and Rey SIPS.

The soda FIZZES and GLISTENS, catching the rays of the distant TWIN SUNS, refracting them majestically, with sparkles, and lens flare.

BB-8 (O.S.)
*squawks adorably*

Aw, who’s the cutest little robot?

Rey pets the droid wedged at her side in the narrow pilot’s seat of the floatcruiser. BB-8 meets her gaze. The droid’s eyes are remarkably soulful—we are all reminded very pointedly of WALL-E.

You’re the cutest little robot.


The cutest widdle wobot in the whole wide fweakin’ gawaxy.


Rey bends the straw of her soda toward the reach of BB-8, who slurps eagerly.

Weeble-wobble blahp bloop, blorp! [Subtitles onscreen read “PEPSI PEPSI PEPSI.”]




KYLE REN, the dark vader, stands on the bridge with his mask and cape on, sulking. In his hand he holds an unopened bottle of PEPSI STAR WAR (RED FLAVOR). At his side is the legendary CAPTAIN PHAZER, fully chrome.

Captain Phazer…
Um, could you?

Kyle Ren hands the PEPSI bottle to his cohort, gesturing for help opening it. She cracks the seal after the slightest struggle. The resulting hiss of air is emphasized.

Thank you, Phazer. I was feeling very parched. This is just what I needed to refresh myself.

He sips, passes the opened bottle back to Phazer.

How goes the hunt for Jedi scum?

Phazer takes a long quaff of the PEPSI.

Excellently, my lord Kyle.

deviations from the norm and how

Roommate is gone for the weekend. A moneyed prince of capitalism called him hither, he went thither, now he’s thurr. Selah.

The first thing that I did was re-arrange the furniture. I’ve never lived alone before, and from the first clack of the front door closing when I got back this evening, my hair dryer, ohmigod—exactly where I left it, on the couch, next to my breakfast—I was thrilled, electrically. It felt different from that first step in. Like the tomb of fuckin’ Tutankhamen.

It’s probably a truism, a personal truism, or at least a self-fulfilling prophecy that it is hard to work from home. All your stuff is at home. Dirty stuff. All your baggage is at home. Sad baggage. Stress sacks. To-do lists and laundry and unfinished projects that are all but dead but somehow still not thrown away, tacked up like headless warning totems on the pathways you traverse at own peril, leading you into enemy lands. You sit down, open your laptop, and holy shit!

It’s a story you abandoned, riddled with holes!

It’s an essay, an article, an assignment with three completed lines: your name, the title, TKTK, and maybe, maybe perhaps, a lede—”So there I was, drunk.” Some such. And it’s useless! You interviewed a dentist. You cannot become the story, here.

It’s a book you haven’t finished reading yet, because it sucks, but maybe it ends well—you could find out if you’d do it. If only you’d just do it to it.

And then there’s Twitter, which you’re constantly in the middle of. And all these disorganized folders… A starving dog yelps hopefully. Stray kittens claw infectious dirt into your shins. Sarah, clean the dishes. You swear to god, Netflix must’ve turned itself on… and then this beer leapt down your throat. Fuck, I thought you were gonna work on something, dawg!


It’s tomorrow already—you gotta get up and move! Shut your laptop! Pick this up when you get home!

So then you come home. It’s been another day, and now you’re home, only to realize, as if you’d ever truly forgotten, that it is hard to work from home. All your stuff is at home. Dirty stuff. All your baggage is at home. Sad baggage. Stress sacks. To-do lists, and laundry, and unfinished projects.

Etc. You dig?

Anyway. I choose with this, as with all things, to place all blame with the roommate. He should gladly carry it. What he’s up to is his business, but his business is being out-of-state, on a dope-ass vacation, long weekend, out of nowhere, for, like, no good reason.

Cheers, roommate. You do you. If you never come back, I’ll mail the cat to NYC.

Deviations from normal are good things, almost inherently. Chaos is the root of life. Remember, always—there is no limit to the number of things that you can blame for piss-poor productivity, so you should never, under any circumstances, blame yourself.

with my weekend living solo I will write the song that saves the world

youtube rabbit hole: 540-WAKE

I quite sincerely don’t get it

there’s something about the phrase “everyday carry” that makes my heart pause functioning, and my eyes get hot. Everyday carry? Who the fuck are you, and what video game is this? Everyday carry? We share a nation, right? We’re walking, like, the same pavement, right? Everyday carry? What the fuck, are there monsters where you live?

Are there monsters?

What the hell, man? Does this really make people feel good, carrying around a personal killfuck death machine on their hip, every single day? Jesus. How often do I run into you? Holy shit. Do you just balance your sidearm on the toilet paper holder when you’re out on the town and you gotta go? I’ve found weirder things left on top of those, sure—but not many. But I doubt you’d leave that shit behind. After all, you have it with you every day.

Look, man—I am a certified pussy, idiot, fuckhead, anti-American, whiny, do-nothing bitch. Okay? I am. I’m also whatever else insulting there could be to say about me. I am. It’s cool. My strategy for fights, if half-remembered judo doesn’t come to me, theoretically, in time, is to run. So, whatever. I choose to run. I like it. Other people seem to like carrying fucking cannons on their hip, just in case they need to kill somebody while they’re shopping for broccoli and pre-packaged hummus.

I ADVERTISE myself as a fucking absolute idiot, so I’m not really frightened of the kinds of things that people would call me when I say that I’d pretty much rather risk getting killed—pretty much rather be killed—than compromise my carefree hippy reality by carrying around a murderblasting fuckoff rack ’em, bust ’em, get ’em cannon up my jacket sleeve at literally all times. I say this as somebody who is quite often misguided in their faith in the kindness of strangers. Believe me. I am very optimistic, and I am very naive—I fit the definition of an idiot. And I say this, stress this, only to ask: if I’m an idiot for just generally hoping that no one in my world just tries to up and kill me, willing to basically except the consequences as an inevitability if they do, then what the hell do you call the people who walk around at all times ready for the opportunity to kill the other motherfucker first?


…Like… “really, really misguided”?

aaaah. AAAAAH.

“The way the world is going, you should probably have a gun.” Really, dawg? REALLY? Really? Sounds kickass. Wow wow wow. Fuck a constitution, man—you sound insane.

I don’t want enemies, I don’t want trouble, I don’t particularly want to kill anybody, and I’m pretty sure I don’t want to die, so I should probably go and get myself a machine that begs for that shit, invites it, and has no other use.

Ohhhhh I could shoot cans, I guess. Or hunt. Or just keep a gun under my bed until I come across a lousy day and have the mildest inclination to blow my head off. Means, fleeting motive, opportunity… I’ve got everything I need right here!

Also: homeowners associations.

I don’t understand the people who are into that shit, either.

scenes from the upcoming feature “Star War—Ep 7: The Force is Up”


Stormtrooper Captain Phazer walks onto the populated bridge in a full rigout, with a smokin’ hot BFG from Doom slung over her shoulder. We linger on her kickass chrome armor. She looks sick. But also sick with purpose. She walks up and hands a glowy hologram data ball ORB THING to a HOODED FIGURE. It is Kyle Ren, the dark vader.

“Sir, many Bothans died to bring you these deets.”

“Oh, word?”

Kyle Ren calls for a moment of silence.