I got a Steel Reserve at the store on my way home from work tonight, wondering if I’d need it to get the juices flowing. But I don’t need it, apparently. Who would ever want to be that asshole? That drunk cliche in front of a typewriter and a cat and a dead plant, no good. Now that I’m thinking about it, however, and the sweet jams are lowering my inhibitions… well, it might be nice to loosen up with a cold, post-work malt liquor, right? RIGHT.

Okay, so I just deleted a meandering passage of poorly chosen words all about my relationship with jazz. I deleted it because it was shit. And no one cares. But, hey, I’ve got an idea. Here’s a link to what I’m listening to RIGHT NOW, so you can see how you feel about it, and maybe guess at how I feel about it:

By the way, shout out to WordPress for making it way easy to put up youtube links. I’m super rusty at this blogging shit, and it’s becoming clear that things are easier now than they were when I used to write this blog and have readers.

Well. Guess what. Today, I was waiting for a bus and my phone wasn’t charged so I had nothing to listen to besides the soothing sounds of two old white men talking about Donald Trump and how they think he’s the only candidate capable of bringing real change. One of them suggested that, “Hey, look at Israel. They have a wall around them, and a great military around the wall, and that is one of the safest countries in the world.” I shit you not. This is very solid paraphrasing on my part. I just silently laughed at them because I was on my way to work, and because they were both walking with canes and some motherfuckers keep swords in their canes, and also because I was pretty high and I genuinely found it funny. I know that’s not okay, but if I don’t stay very stoned and laughy, I have a hard time bussing through the madness that is downtown. Mind you, I’m a semi-introverted, urban misanthrope… Which brings me to my topic of the day:

Millennials are pretty cool, and they’re pretty much saving the world at the moment. I’ll make it brief today, for several reasons. It’s almost 3am, and I didn’t sleep enough last night. This millennial thing will probably be a theme here, as I regather myself, because it’s relevant and important. Young people are growing up, and the course of mass social discussion is changing like crazy, and people are coming up with amazing solutions to our problems every day. It’s wild. I feel like an old guy who’s just trying to keep up, but it all feels really positive and exciting.

For all the shit people talk about how young people are too sensitive, and spend too much time hunting for pokemon, you’d probably never hear a couple of 20-something talking about how great it would be if we became some completely inaccurate version of a safe/happy Israel.

Dude. Listen, I said I was going to write, I didn’t say it was all going to be good. I’m out of practice. Bear with me. I’m tired. But I’ll talk more about this tomorrow. You should trust me. There is a point. A method to the mania. I promise.

Here’s more good Jazz to keep you calm:

What they don’t tell you about The Boy Who Cried Wolf is that he survived and was forced to keep living. Forever. Living with the knowledge that his transgressions had ostracized him. Blah Blah Blah, point is, fuck it. I’m back, and it’s cool if you don’t believe me now, but let’s talk about it later on down the road after you’ve recovered from being pummeled by the typhoon of my self-righteous bullshit writing again. Sound good? Okay, good. Good!

So, anyway. Cops. Listen up, cops!

I know you’re getting a lot of shit in the media these days. I’m here to help you. I just want to state that I’m not prejudiced at all: some of my best friends are cops, and I even donated $10 to the Police Benefit Association’s Pee-Wee Baseball League once. So, I mean, clearly, I’m on YOUR SIDE, okay? This is a safe space for you here.

Now, listen:

You and your cop friends need to stop killing Black people. I know it’s tempting, extremely tempting, as we all know that most cops were severely bullied or endured horrific new heights of domestic violence as young men. Not to mention, the scientific research has been done, the facts have been sorted, and we can finally open a dialogue about most policemen having small penises, and how carrying a gun helps quell the subsequent anxieties associated with having a tiny little baby dick. It’s okay! We understand! But I’m here to offer you fellas some new solutions to the age old problem: “How the hell am I supposed to go home and love my wife when I haven’t gunned down an innocent brown man in the street this week?”

It’s gonna be okay, little buddy.

I know, the question itself is daunting. Perplexing, even. Well, old pal, we’ve got the solutions you need!

1. Buy a penis pump, and get to work!

In the modern era, it’s been well-established that penis pumps really do work! And you’d be surprised, one of my best cop friends reduced his hate crime output rate by 65%, simply by pumping up and growing his penis just ONE HALF INCH! Imagine how easy it would be to leave innocent black citizens alone if you were able to keep up with all the guys you’ve sweatily watched in your “Oh no! There’s A Negro In My Daughter!” DVD collection. I recommend the Hydromax Bathmate Series of pumps; we sell them at my work, and they’re very popular among police and gamers.

2. Become a Mall Cop instead.

Shopping malls are the Heart & Soul of the U.S. of A. It’s where we Americans go to find bargains with which to fill the terrifying void of existence. It’s where we fill ourselves with food court 2-entree meals with sides of greasy lo mein and steamed broccoli, so that our hard-working brains can power on through another round of Zombie-walking at Macy’s. If EVER there were a place that needed to be “protected and served,” it’s the motherfucking mall. May I also remind you, you’ll still have plenty of opportunity to practice and perfect your racial profiling skills. You’ll probably even be issued a taser! It’s probably not going to be quite as thrilling as cold-blooded, hated-fueled murder… but it’s something, right?

3. Go back to school!

Believe it or not, there are much easier ways to destroy Black lives than outright murder. Think about it. Most cops can only murder one or two Black people before the left-wing media gets involved and the officer responsible has to keep a low profile for a while. And then come the real headaches: mandatory psych evaluations, paid administrative leave,  or even unpaid suspensions! Sheesh, can’t a cop catch a break? NO WORRIES, OFFICER FRIENDLY, just go back to school! You could learn how to fuck Black people in a virtually unlimited number of ways! You could be a loan officer, a public defender, an insurance risk-assessor, a journalist, a social worker… the possibilities for fucking Black people are nearly infinite these days.

4. Turn your hatred inward.

Seriously. Quit the force. Move back home to rural Vermont/Kentucky/Iowa/wherethefuckever. Listen only to Morrisey or The Smiths. Stop bathing. Talk your mom into spending her retirement checks on your drinking problem. Text your high school girlfriend to passive-aggressively ask how her husband (stupid Bobby Flaherty, used to have chemistry with that asshole, can’t believe he stole my girl, that fuck) is doing. Watch every single Adam Sandler movie. Don’t ever come back to civilization ever again.

5. Kill a white guy!

Finally, if all else fails because you’re weak and useless, try killing your own people for a change! Look, I KNOW it’s not going to be quite as satisfying, okay? White guys are generally lighter in skin color, so it might feel a little weird at first. But, with some practice, you’ll barely notice. It might take some time for the media to catch on, too, but there are just as many valid excuses for killing white guys as there are for killing Black people… including meth, Florida, crimes of passion, Juggalos… need I say more, guys?

Jesus Christ. I just wrote all of that, and then immediately felt weird about it. I’m well aware that I’m a white American with a penis, and it’s a lot safer for me to make absurdist satire about police. I’m sorry if this is an inadvertent abuse of my privilege, but I’m trying to vent an extreme amount of impotent frustration. Simply fucking put, Black Lives Matter. And I’m so incredibly sick of my demographic (white, thirty-something, American) acting as fucking angels of death, which is actually a really vile representation of me. We have used and stolen and whitewashed every aspect of Black culture for our own enjoyment/amusement/convenience, from our music and dance, to our fashion trends, to our language– we incorporate Black culture into the very basics of how we communicate and live together in a society. Yet, still, we can’t be bothered to understand that Black Culture comes from Black People. LIVING PEOPLE. HUMANS THAT ARE ACTUALLY ALIVE. As relentlessly shitty or as surprisingly wonderful as any individual may be, we all deserve at least a uniform level of basic respect just for being alive together on this massive, spinning chunk of carbon and shit.

Anywho… I guess this is good enough for a “welcome back” post. I’m so fucking mad at white people, though, so there’s gonna probably be a lot more of this. That said, I am very excited to be alive right now. Despite all the gnarly shit going on, I think a lot of people are on the right track. We may, potentially, all be okay. Maybe.

And, now, you probably need something to help shake off the icky feelings you get when you think about reality, yeah? Here’s something you can dance to:

When I was a kid, as in… before age 8? Anyway, back then my best friend was a girl. She was named Courtney. She has grown up to be exactly like she was as a kid: A wonderful loudmouthed brat who doesn’t have time for your bullshit. I liked that about her. I am more subtle and brooding. But the latter, I think, the “doesn’t have time for your bullshit” part, is something either she gave to me or I gave to her, or maybe we both had it all along and that’s part of what connected us, nobody knows. Today, I thought about playing with her when we were tiny stupid humans (see also: children). At my house, we played with my GI Joes and a few of her Barbies that she’d bring over. And Vice versa at her house. We’d also improvise a lot. A tennis racket was a guitar. A broom was a microphone. A rope was a snake. Or, I guess, sometimes a rope was just a rope. Whatever. We both had toy boxes. Maybe that was a thing back then. Maybe it still is, toy boxes? Do kids still have them today? I remember this part today: How frustrated I used to get because Courtney never put her toys away. Her mom and my aunt would be drinking in the kitchen but they’d always know. And they’d always yell. PUT THE TOYS AWAY!! I learned pretty early on that it was less of a hassle to just put my toys away. But she, Courtney, never caught on… or simply just did not give a shit. Don’t get me wrong, we were both incorrigible and rebellious from day one, but I found sense in putting toys away. It was almost peaceful for me. I don’t know why, but that’s just the kind of kid I was.

This image belongs to Little Tikes, not me. They make awesome toys, and toy boxes.

So, yeah, while you’re yawning your way through this post, I am having profound realizations about myself and the world around me. Remember that post where I talked ’bout this blog being for me, in place of an overpriced and incompetent therapist? So yeah, not my fault you were dumb enough to be waiting for “the point” while reading this horseshit.

Pretty cool how I ducked out being held accountable for your loss of time, huh? Yeah… I thought so.

I saw a message on facebook yesterday. It said “Are you the guy from The Love Campaign?” The message was dated February of 2012. So. Of course I wrote back.

I said “Just got your message from over a year ago. Weird. But yes. That’s me. Hello.”

The other party wrote back 10 minutes later and said “Wow! ….Mercury is definitely in retrograde.”

Basically, what this post is, is to acknowledge the fact that I used to be a bit of an astrology nerd but I know nothing about transits and retrograde stuff. But I want to learn.

Maybe if you’re reading this, you’ll put something insightful in the comments for me to read later? Teach me, teacher!

Worrrrrrrrd up.

See, I was all wrong. I was getting obsessed with “growing up” and whatnot. Turning 30 is hard to do when you spend your whole life thinking you’d never make it past “twenty-something,” you know? HARD TIMES, DUDE. But. Fuck. Shit. I did it. I got old. Now what? Should I “grow up” and find a reasonable way to make an honest buck, so I can someday support a family and blah blah blah blah blah? Even just wondering about these issues puts me to fucking bed. So. Then. What now?

There’s a really good chance that I am too smart to ever be happy. I mean, my brain never stops. I have this job, which I kind of hate. I go in every day and wait for something terrible to happen. I wait for confrontation. Heroin addicts. Meth heads. Arrogant, entitled, homeless people. My manager, who is a total bitch, by the way. Just thinking about the way his mouth curls when he speaks…. it makes me want to take a shit and watch Urkle’s greatest hits and cut myself all at the same time. My last job wasn’t much better. Neither was the job before that, and the job before that, and so on. OKAY. IT’S STARTING TO ADD UP.

Working. The concept of doing something I don’t want to do, for several hours at a time, on a regular basis, in exchange for green papers which I have very little interest in anyway. Yep, that’s working. And I don’t wanna do it.

I found myself thinking the other night, smoking on my balcony and staring at the half-moon, I was thinking this: “If everything is so small here, so entirely inconsequential, then what the fuck is the point in living? To help make the world better than it was before you got here.” Don’t worry, I’m not going to become a politician anytime soon, I promise. But that’s the thing, isn’t it? We are probably fucking pointless, unless we find a way to make a larger impact.

For me, that’s not an easy idea to sit with. I am 31 years old. Weird looking. Broke. Never went to college. Not as good at art as I wish I was. Not as good at math or science or languages, either. I don’t even speak Klingon, for fuck’s sake! So, sadly, I have no idea what to do. To make the world better. Not yet, anyway.

And then tonight I watched an old movie, a favorite from my childhood. Pump Up The Volume. Maybe you’ve seen it, hopefully? Here’s a clip, to refresh your memory, or perhaps to inspire you:

Anyway, I’m feeling inspired again. I started a new blog (again), for the purpose of being able to write secretly, privately, never having to worry about friends and family and lovers finding my blog and executing me for being a huge dickbag. But that was weeks ago, and I made 2 posts there. And then, tonight after the movie, I realised something very important. I don’t want to have some anonymous blog, even though it might be easier in the long run. Truth is, I want… no. I NEEEEEEED some motherfucking Stir-Fried Dinosaur in my life. I love this blog. It’s a semi-permanent testament, proof that I once did something constantly and consistently, for a pretty long while, and I was even kind of good at it.

So, in the meantime, even though I’m working a shitty job and having social problems and all of the other shit I get to eat every day, I’m going to do at least one thing I love to do. Maybe it’s not an immediate solution to my own futility, but maybe someday it will be. And even if not, I know this for sure: If you do something you really love, and then you share it for free with anyone who’s interested, that can’t be too bad a thing.

Next level. Next level. Next level. Next level. Next level. Next level. Next level. Next level.

Of course it’s been a year since my last post. And it was a long time before that one, too. I have not stuck with this, even though I promised a few people I would. But, you know, fuck you. Consider yourself alienated. I don’t do anything for you. I’m here because I’m crazy as batshit, and I can’t afford (and/or don’t trust) a therapist. I trust myself almost as much as I touch myself. So. Believe what ye want, while sucking on my ass, even. Because this:

I’M BAAAAAAAACK, FUCKERS!! Let’s party!