When you’re being pressured to finish moving in so you can move out

Micro worldview realignment process installation failed. Nobody fucking said worldview realignment was fucking easy. If the alignment is too distant, realities are unshareable. On a micro level, you end up sellling a house you love after living there for six months for the second fucking time in your life. On a macro level, you end up enlisting for the second civil war (all enlistees incur four year furlough). You fuckers won’t put aside the dopamine drips long enough to unarse your own heads.

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If we were face to face, here is how it would go:

1. I see you not understanding what I have said (all while blessed with the knowledge that my abstractions are fucking tough to grok)
2. You see me seeing you not understanding a split moment before I ask whether you know what I mean.
3. The tandem trap of piercing pressure plus unplaceable appearance forces your admission.
4. 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.

For fucks sake, it isn’t the first thing you hear that woke you up. You were fucking 💤

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.

Also, a soft shout out to @odd for single handedly invalidating my boasts of invisibility for some time now. I oughta pencil in an asterisk:

*** 𝑊𝑜𝑟𝑙𝑑 = ∑ 𝐻𝑢𝑚𝑎𝑛𝑖𝑡𝑦 - 𝑜𝑑𝑑

I’m old enough to remember when double digit scores where the norm for both sides in an NBA matchup because men mixed it up in the paint instead of tossing grenades at each other all evening.

Each day y’all don’t reach out and that I spend with her as my sole source of real human contact (she’s just now interrupting me for tapping my phone screen too hard) my faith in humanity slips a little.

Either I’ve shaken all followers from my Micro.blog account or @manton oughta consider reading my blog posts from this year like a diary and then pondering whether the social model for his platform **out-of-words**. As the author of the blog posts, I honestly would not know.

When, having become utterly smitten by the duality of the phrase “nothing is better than something,” the other half of your own dual brain quietly ponders, “I wonder if humanity’s ability to hold two mutually exclusive posits as equally true might dovetail with the theory of quantum computing.”

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

#NostalgicNuggs

Middle School ☾𐂂

They shackled their minds that they left on the cross
When ignorance reigns, life is lost

#NostalgicNuggs

High School ☾𐂂

I will stand gen x music up against any and all other challengers

I wish I could speak with Henry Rollins

#NostalgicNuggs

Middle School ☾𐂂

And here is the YouTube video link since getting any of my content into the MB timeline is f$&king futility personified

Perhaps I ought erect an anti-paywall since paying Plausible Analytics each month to track how many folks visit moondeer.blog from help.micro.blog as a residual from my brief Hugo theme and plugin cycle is chronic low key deflation in summary email form.

I would need some copy along the lines of something like:

You’ll be redirected to the requested README after a brief message from the despondent soul responsible

and then I’d corner all you little fuckers with some of my self proclaimed genius level shite before passing you through to the working example I’d mistaken for a public journal.

When your yum won’t stop getting in the fucking way of her yuck and goddammit she won’t have any of it

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.

Blink and you might miss the yellow wave of privileged, bleeding hearts abandoning those preyed upon by the best propagandic tool since the advent of print, the bleeders not privileged enough to ride along, and, here’s the kicker, the very folks for whom their hearts have supposedly bled (I can only imagine feeling hopelessly abandoned) just when they most need a promise to mean something.

Wait, if bed-wetters shit the bed, does that constitute irony?