Here’s a list of the names I use on my collection of fake passports, along with a rundown of their attendant disguises, should ever the need arise to ghost. Unconcerned about security, I offer this list to inspire.
1. Mateo Badoula. (Waxed mustache, skull cap, and round sunglasses)
2. Gigi Corazon. (pretty much just looks like me)
3. Shandra Morley-Tuppence (shaved head, 40 pound reduction in weight, ghastly pallor)
4. Lacuna Darkrime (LOUD makeup and a similarly-bogus ID from the Israeli military)
5. Goku Charles (Goku gi, wig)
6. Shane Bagget (welder’s mask and coveralls)
7. Sara Szabp (this was my first fake passport, which I keep around for good luck despite myriad mechanical deficiencies)
8. 💯 (IOS 9.3)
Real talk mania.
Mania sucks, man. You get the inclination to master everything, to learn and experience everything—which is not necessarily an unhealthy drive, not really. But it’s very frustrating to feel it all at once. It’s like being pulled in many different directions at once—it’s dizzying. So the inclination is to stay still—but if you do that long enough…
The mind and the mood are a seesaw, man. Which is to say, you can’t learn to dance with the oven on. You can’t, uh, digest the whole library at once. Learn to make gifs, speak Spanish, do glitch art and math. Each thing at once. CALM DOWN. Save your money. I wonder who made that picture. It’s pretty good. Selah.
see above. Got it?
1. Word. with Sarah Szabo
2. The Witching Hour
3. The Bitchin’ Hour (note: not necessarily one hour in length)
5. Twitter After Dark
MY BOSS: Sarah I am extremely glad you used your vacation from the land of vice to redouble your dedication to writing & get all of your work turned in early. Not only is this the fourth, and best, distinct draft of the assignment you’ve written, it’s perfectly proofread, requiring only minor formatting changes. You are truly on top of your game and deserve accolades in addition to the money, which I have decided of my own accord to pay you twicefold.
ME: I didn’t do any of that
MY BOSS: What the fuck
ME: Hear me out. I’m not going to lie to you. I was struck with a burst of TMT. *pulls out phone* Too Much Tweeting.
MY BOSS: Out!!!
I’ve been reading this shit right here—
I like it. It’s good
Today is my fourth day of not drinking.
Wait, no, my third.
…I’ve lost count already. I’m unmoored. This is undoubtedly a good thing I am doing, as much as it sucks. There is such a continuity to things, now.
I am going to attempt to quit drinking for 30 straight days. There’s no specific reason. I’ve never done that before, and I would like to try. This is day two. By my calculations this trial will end on the 13th of March—the day the sun returns to us, and daylight saving time begins.
I don’t really know what to do with this information, but here’s a sentence that I read today about a true thing that happened, buried deep down in a very good Atlantic article about prisons, moms, injustice, and drugs. Y’know, pet issues. Real flashpoints in the tragedy of our modern condition. This sentence has nothing to do with those issues, but it’s still rather tra—y’know what, here it is, you’ll see what I mean.
In 1996, a postal worker named Brenda Drummond inserted a pellet rifle into her vagina and fired.
KABLAMMO!!! Aaaaaaaaaaa, what the fuck.