A Completely Unorganized, Gangly, and Only Slightly Edited List of Things I’m Into Lately, Because I’m Kind of Depressed

Note that I am not into these things because I’m depressed (I think), but rather, because I’m depressed, the only content I can think of to create right now is a list of other, better content that I’m voraciously devouring lately.

Don’t worry about it, though. This sort of thing happens all the time.

1. Memes, but only good ones. The dankest. Stupid memes depress me. I hate this baby, for instance. I wish nothing but all the bad things in the world on that baby. He’s probably fifteen now. I sort of hate that even more.

2. Tweets

3. The engrossing psychodrama of Showtime Network’s The Affair. (No spoilers! I just finished season 1! And I love it! These fools fucked their lives up fast!)

4. The fact that this painful infection on the corner of my thumb seems to be going away on its own. (It’s true, I’m into this, the fact that it’s going away. It’s on my hand. You become hyper-aware of even the most minor injuries when they’re on your freaking hand. You need hands for almost everything. The fact that I still have two of them is a solid comfort.)

5. Vigilante confrontations with child predators in Canada. (What? Something’s got to hold me over until this shit starts. This kind of awful, awesome thing is my bread and butter—and when you’re depressed, you tend to want some carbs.)

6. Stories about sports cheaters. Come to find out, when I’m depressed, I tend to get really attracted to other people getting their shit wrecked. Cool. That’s healthy.

7. My mom. She’s cool. You can’t have her.

8. That’s kind of it, unless you count staring into the middle distance while sitting in complete silence and going to bed at 6 pm. That’s a pretty privileged existence, really.

Happy Friday. See you soon.

Extremely Good Reasons to Vote for Me in 2016

You may have read on the front page of several major newspapers today that I am, officially, running for the office of President of the United States. In keeping with the forgotten tradition of former Emperor Norton, I also pledge, with my candidacy, to protect Mexico.

Here are myriad other reasons to make time on Election Day to vote for me to be the President of the United States.

1. I am, insanely, cool.

2. I am insanely kind of heart.

3. I don’t take shit from anybody.

4. I am an—insanely—good listener.

5. I am a tender lover.

6. I have been President before.

7. I am just as likely to destroy the world, violently and insanely, with nuclear weapons and rocket launchers, as any other asshole. In fact, I might be less likely to do that.

8. But I would if I had to.

9. I would do all of the cool radical shit that the people seem to want. I would grow weed on the White House lawn. I would ban Jesus. I actually would take all of the guns. I probably shouldn’t say any of this! But I will, insanely, do it.

10. There’s a part in the Divine Right of Kings doctrine that’s about me. I’m included. I count.

11. I’ve served this country for many years as a sitting judge for the Ninth Circuit Court of Appeals, with an exemplary record as a seasonal member of the Summer Court. We deal with the craziest and most insane cases.

12. I have three times in three separate municipalities been elected King of Spring Break.

13. I hate McDonald’s hamburgers. I would destroy them!!!

14. I am unmarried. The world would enjoy the swinging lifestyle of me, the Bachelor President, pansexual nightmare.

15. People will mostly be able to get away with almost anything, except the banks!!!


17. I am seventeen years old and in high school.

18. I am ridiculously smart for my age.

19. I’m smarter than every president combined!!!

20. I don’t do any dumb embarrassing shit.

21. I’m the kind of guy that you could grab a beer with.

22. Do you like the Grateful Dead?

23. Why not ?

Drunk Monkeys Anthology Volume 3 On Sale Now

Ah! You know, I suppose it’d be prudent, wise and kind for me to pimp this.

So, Drunk Monkeys is an (I believe? Primarily?) California-based web blog lit journal film crit megalith of a writing thing that I have written for that is producing works of writing that I and many more would call exemplary. I love it like the dickens; I love it with my soul!

A few months back or maybe more, the editorial staff at Drunk Monkeys was so kind as to accept a story of mine that I’d submitted, called Awake, which you may have read or heard of, for which I won an Adult Creative Writing Contest award from the Tulsa City-County Library. (This award, which I am extremely proud of, ensured the enshrinement of my story, from the day of that award ceremony forward, and henceforth into time immemorial, into their tucked-away archives, paper-clipped together, typos and all, clapped up inside a very specific and—y’know, one would hope—bulletproof binder.) This was the story about the guy that cannot sleep to death. It’s very Stephen King-y, which should surprise not many—King’s a major inspiration. The way he welds Americana with its sick, tormented underworlds, and makes it look so effortless. Who cares if his endings suck? Even if they always suck? Except for, maybe, Hearts in Atlantis, if that counts, which it should, because that book is great. Stephen King wrote a story about the American dream blooming in the Vietnam season; I wrote a sad, sad one-off about a guy that fuckin’ died.

Anyway, that insomnia story’s in this book.

And so are a lot of other things, actually. Better things—the sort of thing you maybe haven’t read before. Like Christopher James’ sexotron story; that was pretty fuckin’ funny.  And a poem by Michael Passafiume that made me sorta wanna cry, that’s in there too.

Anyway, I got the thing for free. I read it in an afternoon. A cooler me would leak it, but, y’know, well, idk. A saner me prevails.

That said, the Drunk Monkeys Anthology Volume 3 paperback (which I would happily arrange to sign and slobber on for you, should that be your bag) is available here.

And the Kindle edition of the Anthology, which costs $2.99, is available here! Shit! I bet some of you fools can even figure out how to get that for free!

All jokes aside, thank you sincerely for supporting me in what I try and like to do. And thank you, incidentally, to the editorial staff of Drunk Monkeys for supporting it. If you all didn’t seem to like it, I wouldn’t be here. So all my best to you, friends, always. Selah.

Drunk Monkeys header courtesy drunkmonkeys.us

Disheveled-ass Depression Day Rigout Lvl.2

Wake up with a sound like this: “hoACK”

Brush hair into an angry ponytail. Very voluminous. Bangs lazily tucked behind the ears like little curlicues in what is rapidly becoming your Slugday Style. 

Wrinkled shirt from the floor. Pants from the top of the clothes pile, worn twice previously. 

City looks the same as yesterday, no smiling faces in the streets. No one around this corner, really.

No breakfast. Mouth still tastes like candy.

The sky is gray; your head is dull and aching. It feels like someone’s trying to talk to you. 

Who, from where? Can’t dwell on it. 

You dreamed, again, of being chased. Trying to escape. The fear of being caught, a charge of fraud, or framed for worse. Don’t wanna dwell on any of that. These are the indicators of fear.

Have four of these pills, and leave the rest here, in your closet, under something, somewhere hidden. You hopefully will not need them.

This week has been so weird. Tomorrow, you’ll know exactly why. 

I’ve spent half of it musing, smiling and shining on all the good things, feeling lightweight, carefree, free. Now my mind is at the other side, toes peeking over the cliff’s edge, eyes angling down every inch of the one hundred and something foot drop.

That’s what it feels like. That’s right. 

Lurch forward with dread. Lace up the boots you need to polish, with the shoestrings so long-frayed. 

Put on your big thick jacket, coil up into the carapace. You cannot find me here

Anyway. Fuckin’ Mondays, right?

the smoking man’s in this one

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.

Well what do *you* think, Sarah?

Uhmmmmm support unions, legalize prostitution, abolish highway speed limits, decriminalize all drug use/possession/sale/trafficking, criminalize private prisons, welcome all immigrants and refugees, support robust public housing, build a dynamic poverty aid program, begin enacting staggered and incentivized gun-forfeiture programs, never enact staggered Internet access, supertax the super rich and abolish the electoral college. Macklemore should both stop and apologize. Smoke weed every day. What? Excuse me? Who the fuck was asking?

The Clarity Chamber of Calamity Jane

sorry about the pictures. I’m remarkably sexy, but I know that’s not how I typically do.

This is a center for words. This is a place for great discourse, where words are weaved together into complex semiotics, symbologies. It’s a syncretistic menage of metonym, curved darkly at the punctum pockmark pieced out piecemeal pour the avaricious heart. Slay the slaw O’Shaughnessy, watch as he hops to the top de la pops. Pip, pip, have a whiff, a whip, a whit, a snort. Put it in your schnozzle hole, slink into a body bag. Funny tricks.

Score sought some said sixty-sixty or somesuch by the second session on the pitch in play but ooh nos. THWACK go the cracks in the bat backbreaking swing, slow slung onto ground and down. Score is over, where’d’e go? The song is done.

Trace the contours of the hyperreal and let the foreign film slide subcutaneous and disperse in heat, in goo, in the flue of you incorporated. Welcome to name of the city, free and the home of the brave.

Be not scared of scaled serpententacles lurching, searching out the grimoire in the scullery, between the heavy bounds, behind the brassy lock. Tis a good book, long and lean, with a crackling spine. Selah.

youtube rabbit hole: stunts & tricks imagineered

It’s a Good Idea to Rehearse Your Victory Speech Every Day

Every single day, practicing that victory speech. It keeps your muscles calibrated. Your eyes stay on the prize, as do your lips, ears, and of course you can taste it. What’s that? Victory. I’m talking about success. You need to give it voice, and often, like an incantation. Drink plenty of water, and use Throat Coat.

One day, you’re going to win, and you can’t be caught unawares. Mumble your victory speech while you’re washing your hands, using the sound of rushing water to muffle your voice, so no one can hear what you’re saying and steal it.

This is about you.

I can’t wait to hear your victory speech, just like you can’t wait to hear mine. Fuck. I can’t wait until we’re all winners. We all will win, together, but me first, because fuck you, and thanks mom, this one’s for the midwest.

And then I lick the trophy. I lick it so long it’s uncomfortable. Memes for days. My victory. Me.

All my best, forever. You make sense of it. Selah.

When You Think Your Neighbor is Running an Elaborate Methamphetamine Operation

First of all, don’t panic. Go over.

Watch a Thunder game on their big ass flat screen. Enjoy Salt & Vinegar potato chips—your favorite. It’s 4:00 in the afternoon on a weekday, and you ain’t got shit to do.

In the dining room there is a pool table. Play a game. Play two. Because you are already drunk—it is, in fact, why you knocked on the door—accept the offer of a drink.

“Here’s the trick,” your host says. “Here’s the secret.” He taps a tube of Crystal Light 10-calorie grape flavor powder into a rocks glass of vodka. He hands it to you. Drink it, you psycho. Drink two.

Maybe you mention the great hamburger you had the other day on lunch, at work, from a nearby local  business. You mostly love the onion rings, but you don’t mention this detail. By now,  you’re hearing from your neighbor how we run that place, we own it, that’s one of our places, we got a rent house out there. And you whiff your shot and drink your drink.

After pool, he offers to show you the basement—so you go into the basement, if only to confirm that there is no obvious meth lab here. Maybe it’s at the hamburger place, if it exists at all. Maybe they don’t make meth.

So you sort of allude back to the hamburger place on an unrelated basis as you leave the basement, alive. And then you hear how one week prior this boy’s uncle there who ran the place at the hamburger joint got shot. Shot at work, shot to death. That place has good onion rings. That place’s boss was shot to death. But you’ve been there, since. Postmortem. Didn’t catch a single hint. But damn if that place doesn’t still have some good onion rings.

Pickup trucks come by day and night. There are interlawn collusions with the neighbor one door over.

“My neighbor, I own his house,” you’ve heard, you recall. “He lives there because of me. He owes me.”

There’s a pause for stink-eye.

“Big time.”

When you think your neighbor is running an elaborate methamphetamine operation, say nothing. Do nothing. Inquire about and involve yourself in nothing. When the time comes, shriek “I knew it!!”

And then go steal that flat screen. Put the billiards table on a truck.

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

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.

in which $25 is withdrawn from savings to ensure that nachos can be bought indefinitely

see title.


I’m kind of slumming it right now. This is pretty much the state of things.

you ever sit and listen to police radio all day? They tend never to broadcast how things end. So you just end up with a lot of crazy setups, premises, actions and visuals that theoretically, in your imagination, never get resolved.

do it for like eight hours, one day. It’s kind of weird, cool and good.

As one must walk the streets to know their city, one must also listen with a curious ear to the buzzing of its lively hive &c.

Gimme a 28-day weekend.

Show me a hero, and I’ll write you a tragedy. Show me a tragedy, and I’ll write you a joke.

Anyway. You heard that new Carly Rae Jepsen album yet? Past due, friend, you’re past due…