Fuck your excavator beeps. They aren’t warning anyone. What they are is two feet from my fence, thirty five feet from my studio, fifty feet from my couch, loud as fuck, with me all goddamn day, and unfucking capturable by Apple’s Airpods Pro Max noise cancellation

Reintroduce the word at to illuminate the hidden data within the event line or stop placing the home team’s name after vs. It fucking bugs me that you have to be familiar with how we used to speak in order to understand that the event’s location is coded into the listing.

Hah! Found the playbook.

1. Say something minorly incorrect but worth getting straight to avoid problems down the line.
2. As the person to whom you are speaking tries to stop you from disappearing down a rabbit hole, pretend they aren’t even speaking and quickly rattle off two or three more increasingly inaccurate factums that build upon the initial inaccuracy.
3. Act accosted as the person to whom you’ve been speaking becomes increasingly louder and more animated now that you’ve lit the gas.
4. Begin free form commentary of the utterly unacceptable (and irrational) behavior currently being exhibited by the person to whom you had been speaking.

I wonder how many days one can go without any feelings of accomplishment?

If I recorded my voice, would I hear what I said?

I suppose the role I’ve defined for myself has been wearing around her albatross collection in order to preserve her worldview (they abscond into my general visage with a spot of sin-eatting).

A brain cannot grow without changing its pattern.

I wonder what the odds were last March (there are only so many times you can hear this without repeating it), when I said out loud for the very first time in memory, “I’ll just kill myself,” (shocking even myself into pondering whether I really were suicidal (I wasn’t and turns out I never have been)) that the very next thing said to me would be, “Good, nobody wants you here.”

I’m like a horse, pulling gets us nowhere.

If this 💩 ain’t obvious by now, I suppose it never shall be.

48-48 ain’t tied… it’s an admission you don’t know where to stick the remaining 4%

I like that Stevie Nicks made me cry

The nerve on me to respond that the cat has been getting up and going downstairs regardless of whether I touch the top of her head and say good night to her as I get into bed. I totally deserve this for not saying what she wanted to hear. No, really. I do.

Under 30 days left and I just this morning heard y’all on two different programs asking the right question… the one I asked four years ago (and settled on a solution for three years ago). I guess we’ve slid from six months behind to four years behind.

That is a yes on the No Drama Lama

There’s a party all the time for them what choose

I bet step one is to let the adrenaline drain.

When you reach out to her sister.

The mental hurdles make my legs sore.

Not really sure why the fuck I’m still posting this shit.

We are sitting at something close to 53/47 as we near the home stretch. How quickly races are called next month, in combination with how representative the turnout, shall be the two violence modifiers in our equation (since y’all are no closer to diagnosing (and subsequently treating) our dual reality democracy than y’all were four years ago).

Philosophy is the calculus of unknowable sets.

Also… nowhere looks an awful lot like now here

The next nation to drop a nuclear bomb loses. Nowhere is far enough away anymore.