I’m Calling You Out Ricky Gervais

I’m sick of hearing about your sentimental giraffe-loving bullshit. Get off your goddamn vegetarian high-horse because I can’t stand how fucking high and mighty you think you are for not killing a giraffe (or other animals) for food or sport. Like you’re fucking Jesus Christ because you don’t hunt and you think that it’s wrong.

Look, maybe you’re right. Maybe it is wrong to murder animals. It is in my opinion probably not a big deal, because I don’t think most animals have the capacity for societal remorse like we as humans do. I do also think that we should at least try not to let species go extinct for the sake of diversity and balance of the food chain, and maybe we will all eventually come to realize that it’s cold-blooded and wrong to hunt any living thing.

We don’t, though, so get the fuck over yourself.

P.S. On a lighter note, don’t knock it ’till you try it. You can get a smaller rifle (like a .22) and find somebody with a farm. They’ll most likely have a problem with rodents like gophers eating their produce and might just invite you to come out and shoot them. Trust me, these small animals won’t really understand or care when you gun down their families.

[UPDATE (4/24/15 1:15 AM) – Editor’s Addition: “The only fucking reason he gives a shit about goddamn giraffes is because they have long necks!”
-a quote from Monsieur Van Lobster]

[UPDATE (4/24/15 10:21 PM) – Editor’s Addition: So a little before 3:36 AM, Gervais shunted out a tweet that seemed a little, I dunno, directed at our smarmy asses. I shared it with my cohorts and we chortled amongst ourselves. Then he deleted it. The tweet read as follows: “People eat things. I get it. Some killing can be kind. I get that too [sic]. The thing I don’t get with TROPHY hunting is the inane morbid glee.” I was able to salvage that from the link description I shared. Want proof? I got it. Check these screencaps, yo:

he read it, i swear he read it

Ricky’s just jealous because he hasn’t experienced the thrill of the hunt under the Blood Moon, nor has he been graced by the blessings of the Great Ones.]

The Fragile Art Of Speaking Too Soon

When I first began writing this, the intention was to cover the second half of my meth-dealing journey into the Pacific Northwest. However, I’ve just experienced a momentary change of heart (you can thank my recently – and finally – diagnosed Bipolar disorder for this) and will be getting the narcotics-laced adventure to you on a later date.

See, a newfound surge of emotion has been approaching me over the past couple of weeks, no doubt in correlation with the imminent “New Year.” Now, this is odd because I usually write these things off as unimportant; it’s not that I don’t appreciate the holidays, but annually updated numbers usually do little more to stir me than the sorry sight of my own flaccid genitalia.

Of course, in these moments of anxiety, my mind begins to scatter in search of answers. Maybe it’s that I’ll be twenty-one, soon? Or perhaps something related to my current (and potentially permanent) withdrawal from college? No, neither of these seem right. And what about my insecurities regarding romance? Dying alone? Seeing old faces over the holidays that I’d rather not encounter? The sheer amount of booze that these holidays bring, and the social and mental pressure that my tiny Irish brain will confront in its wake? Eh, not really. At least not any more than usual.

No, this is something different (potentially new) that entering “adulthood” has awoken within me. And even as I pitifully shit these sentences into a pirated word-processor, I cannot grasp an adequate way to communicate them to you.

You see, whenever I attempt to convey these emotions to others, the situation ultimately devolves into one of two scenarios: me jerking off all over myself in attempts to appear sympathetic (And deep! Don’t forget about seeming deep!), or me clamming up and remaining awkwardly quiet for the remainder of the day (this can really kill a party). Either way, one singular conclusion is always reached – a grand finale of silence and proverbial shrugging – and I spite both myself and the uncomfortable companion for never reacting with enough extremity. There are no explosive tears, screams of love and/or terror, theatrics that make me feel more important than I truly am.

In my greatest  fantasies, I weep harder than Christ at a late funeral, my compatriot hurling their shaking frame to my feet in a fit of weeping, dragging me down to the floor and running quivering fingers through my greasy mess of hair (fuck it, maybe they give me a hand-job as well). My nasty little heart is massaged and the weird issues that I have with affection are soothed and mitigated (see: adoption).

But this obviously never happens and so I continue to flop around uselessly, coldly and unpleasantly wading in the fecal waters of self-directed remorse, soaking up every minute of life that passes un-seized and un-utilized.

Stress headaches leads to the couch – the couch leads to rest – rest leads to sleeping – sleeping leads to five o’clock in the afternoon (and but a single hour of consciousness spent in the earth’s natural daylight). And, at the end of this disgraceful chain of first-world misery and hopeless bitching, we arrive at the end of another day, another month, another year (in this case, 2015). One’s feelings swell up like an elderly prostate and the proverbial urethra of their mind closes up, the figurative piss-stream of their once rushing thoughts and passion stagnating inside the urethral canal of their right hemisphere (or left, if you’re a technical sort of fellow).

It’s sort of like making a mix-tape (mix-CD?) for a friend whom you haven’t encountered for a very long time, where every song ends up sounding like the end-credits track of a really terrible indie film. You can’t order them right, because they all sound like you’re about to walk off-stage, draw the curtain, announce it’s “the end.” But everything is happening always, and the show is never “over,” even if you kick the bucket. You get all whiny and confused and fucked-up and existential and write blog posts that span over a thousand words, filling them up with your uncomfortably personal bullshit that nobody else really wants to read.

Oftentimes, I blame my parents’ chaotic divorce for my inability to properly connect with other human beings (and while I’m at it, the rest of my life’s problems, as well). There was yelling, thing-breaking, and even a bit of law-enforcement intervention. But of course this is really just a scapegoat (and a crumby one, at that), whipped up so that I don’t have to address my own shortcomings as a human being.

And mostly, it works.

I get to be the trouble-child, the victim, the “poor baby.” I get to sleep on the sofa until mid-to-late afternoon, mentally wading through a delicate fog of memories and inventions as my brain composes and compartmentalizes, tenderly cradling and carrying me into the following year, before I even have the chance to scream.

Happy New Year.

Babies Don’t Care

I recently read a blog post by a genderqueer individual. I went into the essay with a large amount of skepticism (I mean, come on, the title was “Forced Femininity Saved My Life: One Genderqueer on Male Privilege“), but it ended up being pretty awesome. It was about the individual (born a girl) identifying heavily with men and taking on the male roles in society (both good and bad), but having an abusive, insecure, mentally ill, cheating father as their primary role model. They took on all the father’s traits, and believed that they had to overpower the women in the family, and be a huge douche bag like daddy. Once the person’s father left the family for another woman, and once the author hit puberty (thus being “forced into femininity,”) they came to realized the shitty, shitty human being they would have been (and how they would have probably been arrested and/or institutionalized for their behavior) if they had been born male, after all, and if their father had stuck around. The article becomes an important message about how disadvantaged men are in society, from how emotionless they are supposed to be to how they are charged/prosecuted for domestic abuse in comparison to women.

However, my skepticism was rewarded in the beginning. Title aside, the introduction nearly completely turned me off the post:

“One hot July day in New York City, 1990, I was born a child. I was pulled from my mother’s womb and I was examined. I was determined to have a vagina. It was declared on my certificate that my mother, woman, and my father, man, had given birth to a baby girl. That was the first experience of the life-determining effects of American society’s gender binary, swaddled in pink, not blue, certainly not purple or some other, more ambiguous color. Pink. Moments out of the womb and before even receiving my name, I was being wrapped in gender.”

Everything about it made me shudder. “Determined to have a vagina,” specifically, really got me going. It’s a completely unnecessary, self-absorbed way to say that the person was born with a whispering eye. While a technically correct statement, it doesn’t take a whole lot of research or observation to see if a babbs has a dick, a cunt, or both.

While I’m nitpicking, being born with a vagina wasn’t the “first experience of the life-determining effects of American society’s gender binary.” The person doesn’t remember being born; nobody does. The first experience sounds like it should have been hitting puberty, because their entire life up until that point, the person had been raised like a man by the father, and didn’t give a single care about gender.

As a whole, one of my largest gripes is that babies don’t give a shit about blankey color or what’s tucked between their legs. That isn’t what they’re screaming their heads off about. What upsets them is the fact that they were just evicted from their cozy cave, the lights are way too bright, and they don’t have the words to express how startled they are.

The color is for the parents to have something to go off of. Now, of course, “It’s the parents’ problem for forcing the child to conform to the sex they were born with!” But what in the hell are parents supposed to do? Read the child’s mind? Know instinctively from the get-go that their child, while born a female, identifies more with men? Purposefully give them an androgynous name so the child may determine in several YEARS which gender they are?

I don’t harbor a disgust for folks who don’t feel comfortable in their own bodies. I sympathize; that has to fucking suck. Living your life feeling like a stranger to your downstairs must be confusing, itchy, humiliating, and more. It takes a lot of self-reflection to figure out who you really are, and being genderqueer doesn’t help with that. But there is a point where the self-reflection becomes self-inflating, and the author of the article crosses that line, even if just by a hair in comparison to the folks on, say, Tumblr.

After the intro, the author suddenly gets it together. The article becomes a worthy read. They even go on to say, “I was born a normal, healthy girl.” Was that so bad?

The Night I Slit My Wrists, We Ate Lasagna

I hate to start on a grim note, but context means the world with these things, so bear with me.

About one year ago, I attempted to kill myself.

Due to shock and blood loss, the initial event has become somewhat obscured in my mind, but some fragments of memory still remain. There were the bleached sheets, the jug of hot piss under my arm, the nurse who threw towelettes onto my chest. But that doesn’t matter so much.

It’s after the hospital discharged me that things begin to clear up.

I remember sitting on the bathroom rug beside the toilet, cross-legged with gauze wrapped tightly about my limp forearms. On the tiled floor before me, a mobile phone had been laid ceremoniously atop a pile of bloody clothing, low-resolution images of naked bodies flickering over the tiny screen. The lights were off and my penis hung flaccid in my hairy fist. Smudges of maroon speckled my fingers, my stomach, and my thighs. When I reached over to obtain some toilet paper, the bandaging snapped loose and unraveled into the urine-laden waters below (in an hour of darkness, flushing becomes suddenly irrelevant). I could hear my friends laughing about something in the other room. I started laughing because my lacerations smelled like human waste.

After ultimately abandoning the notion of masturbation, I returned to the living room, immediately met with the sullen gazes of my father and college compatriots. The younger men had seated themselves upon the surrounding couches and chairs, their speech severed by the return of my greasy presence. In the center of the room, my father stood as though perched upon a stage before them. Words caught in his throat as he attempted to curb his discerned tone, but they soon came sliding from his seemingly unmoving mouth. “We’ve got lasagna,” he said.

For the remainder of the night, the collective group watched samurai films and ate said slabs of questionable Italian meat. It was as though nothing serious had transpired in the prior hours, as though things had returned to normal and would remain so forever. Little did I know the bizarre cascade of shit that would soon envelope the apathetic lump of being that had become my life.

Yeah, I know.

Fuck it, I had to start somewhere.

(Next: Bags Of Flesh, Bottles Of Urine)

The following morning in the snow - February 4th, 2014

The following morning in the snow – February 4th, 2014