What I have lost … and what I have gained.
On Pet Gain
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So long Twitter, and thanks for all the fish
The single most disappointing aspect of my experience using Twitter was wanting to discuss ideas with folks and realizing nothing short of a kick-ass dog pic or a shot of their unboxed book would yield acknowledgement.
On F$&king Up Careers
Can anyone guess the best way to derail a career in journalism?
Wait until after your pick up your English degree (minoring in Mass Communications ‘cause you were at the best damn journalism school one could hope for after all and just not showing up to class Freshman year at Georgia Tech, and initializing your collegiate transcript with a whopping 0.18 GPA, shouldn’t keep you out of Grady entirely)
Where was I … oh yeah … wait until after you graduate (the first time) to be diagnosed with dysthymia and ADHD.
I mean, come on… without him, I’d be where?
The wilting has started
Side note: I remember Master Choi. He got a kick out of me catching the guy in the nose that was testing me for my first degree black belt and drawing first blood. The image on Wikipedia is probably some thirty years after that happened.
When your brain’s all
throw error(prdx)every time you consider the magnitude of all that you might have createded in what you’ll conservatively call two decades followed by the question of would you even be where you believe yourself to be had you successfully created anything at all up until now.When you wonder whether your three-week attention span is actually the amphetamine salts at work after having it dawn on you that the only other time you felt like drawing you stopped eight days later.
Trying to audibly share yesterday’s trilogy post highlighted how much connective tissue I still tend to omit (like it actually being a tetralogy).
When you’re about a f$&k shy from cracking open the Fitness app and tracking how your heart rate just fluctuated ten minutes either side of the previous posting.
Remind me why I’ve kept myself grounded for fourty-fuckall years. I thought we, every one of us, wished we could fucking fly.
Body photography is awkward. I gone and snapped a shot ‘cause dropping 38 lbs over the last two years (and acquiring a muscle set can pop Kota up on my shoulder to play parakeet) feels neurodivergently documentable. Documentable because I stopped working out. I stopped leaving the house entirely.
Takeaways from a 2008ish Career Psychology Assessment
The confidence to ask to visit a psychiatrist about feeling depressed since the assessment suggested a state of depression. My intelligence quotient is really hard to measure because I won’t provide two incorrect answers in succession. Dual brains are real, requiring twice the maintenance of the standard issue left or right brain. The world (as represented by a very nice, intelligent gentleman performing the assessment) would two-bird this fucker by having me write instruction manuals. It is weird to end up having so much to write about and wonder if you will ever actually write anything at all.
When you realize your ability to rationalize to get what you want is exactly how you are performing your own calculated modifications.
I want to release my hold on our den as my home base. ∴ j’ai besoin une nouvelle … er … home base. There is a book-shaped thing in my head that tracks the construction of the crutches I’ve been using to brace myself, mustering mindfulness in the face of isolationism. I constructed my crutches out of composite materials… mostly weed, fur and anime. Any new base, ∴, would currently require access to these three things. You could swing the monitor around just to watch anime (don’t act like this was not by design)… but… (filling in this blank is beyond the scope of this particular post).
But, then again, aren’t you meant to draw from the corner like you have from the couch?
And, haven’t you always kinda wanted to use the second monitor option for a full image view while drawing?
Your need to defend yourself is stopping you from achieving that which you set yourself out to achieve, bro.
If Andy Warhol selectively spliced Basquiat, Wittgenstein, and Henry Rollins together with a tinkering technical writer.
When you realize that in order for the dog to relax you must relax and in order for you to relax the dog must relax.
Murphy had so much color in her life.
There is something discomforting about invisible👣 when you’re alone in your journey.
I’ve found myself leaning frequently on negative proofs to gain mindfulness. Take any anxiety inducing, pending outcome. Picture the outcome that worries you. Imagine the worrisome outcome is actually your greatest desire… how hard will it be to make that shit happen. If it would be hard, why worry.
When you’re being pressured to finish moving in so you can move out
Some Shit I Just Texted
That seems like a lot when the healthiest way to work through this would be to disassemble our undesirable triggers by mutually assisting each other in the following way: We are non-reactive towards the triggered individual until we get an accepted invitation to a calm conversation. You would think this is the tough job, it isn’t. When we are triggered, we acknowledge and accept the invitation from the asshole trying to tell us were triggered falsely, calming ourselves down in preparation for the conversation. If we were face to face, here is how it would go:
- I see you not understanding what I have said (all while blessed with the knowledge that my abstractions are fucking tough to grok)
- You see me seeing you not understanding a split moment before I ask whether you know what I mean.
- The tandem trap of piercing pressure plus unplaceable appearance forces your admission.
- I happily rephrase my abstraction in the form of an open source README, driven by both the lightning in a bottle (your interest in my idea) and the discovery that comes being forced to flesh iht something heretofore raw.
Nobody has asked me what happened; but, here’s my answer anyway. If you have trouble grokking my response don’t feel deflated. The language I’ve used here in crafting my answer was constrained to the discrete set of paintings I printed before I stopped wanting to paint anymore.
When you realize “I suppose I could hold the sale of the house hostage pending her agreement to both see her own psychiatrist and acquire her own couch counselor” are just thoughts you have now, in passing, ∑ background noise
Schrodinger’s cat: I want to bask in the knowledge the fucker may still be fine and put off having to check on him indefinitely. You want to freak the fuck out about how the cat is obviously already fucking dead and no we can’t check on him right this second but any goddamn moment now we’ll be obligated to unbox the lifeless husk of our very dear friend so you better fucking brace yourself.
Well, I guess if you never have inventory run out, you’re never forced to go cold turkey and realize on day three that you were definitely on more Mydayis than your body wants you on.
When your tunnel light turned out to be the after image been burnt into your retina, and it dawns on you that you won’t be able to trust your eyes while they’re adjusting to this sudden darkness.