Tag Archives: indignity

Shut your suck hole

I officially gots nothing. Mr. H said “well, don’t post until you have something.” But that defeats the entire purpose of the internet! My language and smartsing skills have painfully deteriorated. Know what’s in my head? A pastiche of OMG OMG, look at that dog, somebody feed me. Do I feel like a fraud when anyone thinks I do a good job at anything? Yes. Is it good to allow that out on a page unchecked? Hell, hell no. I once knew how to punctuate and write without run-on sentences. I still do, honestly, but the problem is that I’m lazy as crap. And the internet allows me to splatter unedited offal every which-a-way. I don’t even fucking spellcheck. This is bad, bad, bad. But then again, reading anything well-written on the internet annoys the crap out of me too, like the writer in question is just showing off. If I want sensitive and thoughtful, I’ll go get a damn Jonathan Lethem book and eat a damn scone at the bookstore while I am doing that.

I have this sense of impending doom like you wouldn’t believe. If the situation allowed, I would stay under the duvet all day and all night, only emerging for pasta and more of that $8 wine I like so much. Everything is post post post post everything else. McSweeney’s and the internet, I hate you so much. I hate you, cheeky advertising copy. Driving in the car is so bad. Going to the store is so bad. Requiring chemicals to think normal things are actually OK: so bad. I go back and forth on that one. Rationally, I know existentialism is sneaking back up on me because I cut the amount of happy chemicals in my body. And blah blah, a diabetic isn’t a bad person because he has to take insulin. A diabetic is a bad person because he cheats on his girlfriend! Or because he never finishes anything he starts and then complains about it. Shit, I am that diabetic. One day I will write a book called Lackluster Plans Started in Fits of Enthusiasm. OR NOT. Why’d Mom have to eat all that lead paint while gestating?

There’s a feeling I get when I look to the west

I’ve got “Stairway to Heaven” stuck in my head because some deviant was playing it on an acoustic guitar in the train station. Call me a Nazi (“Nazi!”), but people shouldn’t be allowed to play in public if they aren’t any good. There, I said it. It’s too bad there’s not a musical version of nanowrimo to keep those sorts otherwise occupied.

I also inadvertently confused the names of two ethnic characters in a thinger I was trying to code, which led to hijinks and me wondering why my shit didn’t work. Hi, my name is Hitler. Then my sister pointed out that I am terrible at recognizing people, just like she is. And it’s true: people frequently say things like “Hey, I saw you at blah blah (the cheese counter at Shaw’s, Starbucks) and you were blah blah (staring into space, trying on a bra), and I blah blah (batted my eyes, yelled at you) but you didn’t notice me.” I think it’s a symptom of late-onset autism.

(But really, if you were an art director, would you name your token ethnic characters incredibly similar names? Mary, John, Patty, Samir, and Samar? I think not!)

Heather mentioned the joys of being completely insane in her triumphant return post. These days, instead of skittering around worrying that the Hancock Tower is going to thwap down like a flyswatter and squash me, or goggling at how shiny the sidewalk is, I just stick with garden variety rage. I blame the MBTA, hormonal birth control, the downstairs neighbors, going to work, ill-fitting pants, the incredibly unexciting lunar eclipse, and solar flares for my rage. If I had managed to retain my propensity for ingesting random substances people hand me, things might be different. Curse you, aging process. And curse you, common sense.

But someday Lambchop and l will have to tell you about the time we huddled under a pool table for hours, only taking a break to watch Suddenly Susan and wrap duct tape around a computer monitor.


I, Melvin

Already today I have been provoked to the brink of madness. As I wandered into the train station at the start of my morning journey, I thought I heard the strains of “The Star Spangled Banner,” but in a manner so devoid of musical talent that I thought a wee child must be having his way with a recorder. As I descended the stairs, I saw that it was in fact a gentleman of competent mental age wielding a fife.

He gamely struck up an off-key attempt at “The Battle Hymn of the Republic.” I clenched my fist and rolled my eyes heavenward, debating what to do. Should I club him dead where he stood with my umbrella? Should I offer him money to stop playing until the train came? I feared that either approach would lead to an unpleasant discussion on the nature and quality of my patriotism, so I slunk away. I may indeed be a patriot, but I am no nationalist, and there is nothing inherent in the meaning of patriotism about suffering through the abuse of the Western musical scale. Just try telling this to the Ashcrofts among us.

Then he lurched into an utterly tuneless rendition of “Greensleeves,” followed by a dissonant take on Pachelbel’s Canon. All bets are off, I thought, I owe it to myself and the rest of the populus to strike him dead. The train was approaching at long last, and the hapless fool began to tweet his way through “When Johnny Comes Marching Home.” I lunged viciously, but was restrained at the last second by a burly buffoon wearing a fleece vest that read “Pro Player.”

And you sir, you are a professional at what endeavor? Balding? Overeating? The wearing of stone washed DENIM? I hissed and narrowed the pupils of my eyes like a lizard, and he released me from his grasp as if burned. I dove into a waiting car and stalked to a seat, only to be displaced by an immensely fat woman.

I sulked all the way to the terminus of my route. I wasn’t even able to delight myself with my favorite game of imagination, wherein I script little cards bearing grooming and sartorial advice to be handed to the other passengers.