An assortment of ramblings; some thoughtful, some thoughtless
Life Lessons
Don’t let your insecurity lead you to searching for imaginary slights when you’re already floating in a sea of my approval. I might begin to worry you don’t appreciate me, and that… will not go well for you.
Because I will boil that fucking sea away, little girl.
Your general stupidity soured me on the service, Elon… but silently killing the third-party Twitter client I’ve been using since 2010?
Fuck you, buddy.
Mastadon will do just fine, and will be more than fine once Tumblr turns on ActivityPub.
And as soon as hosting a Mastodon instance becomes more of a “ten clicks in AWS and some DNS fuckery” experience, I’ll spin up my own.
In the end, you’ll make the world a better place entirely by accident.
Also, again, lest the message be lost in all my flowery optimism… fuck you, buddy.
I watched the first ten seasons of So You Think You Can Dance religiously. Which means I saw the show discover first Allison and then Twitch… I saw them return as mentors and partners. I saw them fall in love and get married and have kids.
Jesus fucking Christ, Twitch. You were the coolest fucking kid… so incredibly goddamned charismatic and talented. And you elevated everyone around you.
Unfortunately, I have a pretty good idea of how Allison is feeling right now. Except that she has a couple pre-schoolers to care for while trying to process her own devastation.
I cannot express how much Badalamenti’s collaborations with David Lynch meant to me. I listened to the Twin Peaks soundtrack over and over for years, and I had a VHS copy of Industrial Symphony No. 5 that I treasured but ultimately lost.
He changed the way I thought about music in film, largely by making me think about it at all… despite the emphasis that people like John Carpenter and Francis Ford Coppola placed on music, nothing about the audio ever moved me in their films. But Badalamenti’s music was an invisible, omnipresent character in every scene, either lurking at the margins or defining the rhythms of the characters we could see.
It’s impossible to watch Audrey Horne sway or walk around without hearing Freshly Squeezed. It’s impossible to see Sheryl Lee’s face without hearing Laura Palmer’s Theme.
And of course, this is doubly sad because we also lost Julee Cruise a few months back. And, I mean… The Nightingale is everything.
Okay, universe… you can slow the fuck down now. This is too much for one week. Between my personal losses, Irene Cara, and now Christine McVie, I’ve had quite enough.
Needless to say, I’ll be playing some Fleetwood Mac on the next stream.
I’m old and thus don’t understand the broad appeal of things like Twitch, but I’ve got to admit, I actually enjoy watching expert Beat Saber players do their thing.
As far as playing it?
Dear god, get the words “hundred dolla bills!” out of my fucking head. Please.
Playing my way through Dance Monkey and Barbie Girl back-to-back resulted in Baby Talk Overload. A small part of my brain died. I had to immediately play Soundgarden’s Spoonman to resuscitate it.
Based on my willingness to play through them over and over in BS, it appears my two favorite songs of the last twenty years would be Seven Nation Army and Florence’s No Light. I could have guessed the former, but I’m mildly surprised by the latter.
I also appear to like This Is America a lot more than I initially believed.
And Tenacious D seemed a lot funnier in the ‘90s.
It is technically impossible to not look like some variety of dork with a giant plastic box strapped to your head and a cable tangled around your ankles, but BS occasionally makes you feel like a cross between Neil Peart and Syrio Farel, and that fleeting sensation is sublime.
A couple years later, I have figured out the Twitch thing.
But the rest stands as written.
Just Don’t
It’s not about you.
Someone might have to watch it. Someone might have to hear it. Someone will definitely have to find it. Someone will have to scream.
Someone will have to call 911. Someone will have to spend hours talking to the cops. Someone will have to watch their space invaded. Someone will never feel at home there again.
Someone will have to call in a scene cleaner, which costs thousands. Someone will have to call the funeral director, which costs thousands. Someone will have to figure out how to pay for it all.
Someone will have to do the paperwork. Someone will have to talk to the banks. Someone will have to cancel the subscriptions and return the rentals. Someone will have to think about this crass shit while their skin crawls.
Someone’s life will be thrown into disarray. Someone will have to put aside their plans and doubts and fears because of your refusal to deal with your own.
And someone will never truly know why any of this is happening to them.
Hey, folks. I thought I’d introduce you to this chick I know. Her name’s Cindy… she’s a foreign exchange student who came to live with me over Christmas.
I’m not exactly sure how old she is; somewhere around 15, I think. (Don’t worry, she’s legal.) Cindy’s pretty and soft, although she’s a little worn out in places, because, well… just between you and me, she had a girlfriend in high school who humped her hard and often. But other than that, she’s a sweet little virgin who’s never lived with a man before. I’m not sure she understands her situation, but she’s in for quite an adventure.
Don’t get me wrong: I’ve tried to be gentle with her. I store her in a box in my back room, just to keep her safe. No matter how often he asks, I don’t let the dog chew on her. I haven’t even made her touch my dick yet.
But sometimes?
I can’t help imagining what it would be like to a cut a hole in her and fuck her guts out.
Cindy’s still living here, for the record. She watches me when I’m doing the livestream, and I used her to prop up my broken hand last spring.
