The machines understand, even if you don't.

Nintendo hard, Nintendo deep.
I bet you’re so into that.
Small text reads: – NINTENDO QUIT SCREEN MESSAGE (EXCERPT FROM THE END GAMES BY T. MICHAEL MARTIN). Picture was found here: http://tmblr.co/Zts3_v15dNDXu

Sometimes I get sad and stare at something for a while.
Pick a thing. Sad. Stare at it. Sad.
Sometimes for hours. Sometimes it just feels that way.
Sometimes, it isn’t sad. It just is what it is and I’m staring at it being what it is, being who I am. The emptiness of it holds me there. Somehow.

Silence. Everything. Nothing. Staring. Endless.

This is one of those things.


Found a poem I made

about someone whose father I saw in the street not long ago.

It made me think about the fact that I won’t snob someone just because I had beef with one of their loved ones, and how lucky I feel when that sentiment is returned. I don’t know about his son, but I know he’s a good guy and I’m genuinely interested in his life.

I recall him looking sunburned-as-lobster-dick as he told me about a fishing trip he’s back from, and how his son was “stupid to lose you, but at least it’s not a loss for you”. As much as I wanted to tell him off for talking shit about his kid (sorry, I’m sure I meant “adult offspring”) when he’s not around to defend himself, I just couldn’t be bothered. And I see that he doesn’t really mean his son’s a loser, he just wanted to show me some empathy or something to that effect. Whatever it was, I’m sure it came from a place of love and concern.

And that feeling reminded me of how it felt to dump his son, eight years ago. Nine? Hmm…

You know when someone’s just issued you an ultimatum you can’t stop laughing at because they’ve already left you a million times?

When you realise maybe someone’s threat could possibly be as hollow as their skull?

When you feel like saying, “You can’t fire me, I quit! Not that you were ever boss. Actually, fuck you. I’m tired.” ?

Then you cry, because this person was your favourite human, then changed into something else in front of you. And all you could do was watch. Then you kick the shit out of his family’s letterbox (all paid and apologised for, as of a month after the incident) because you don’t like crying, and yet, here you are, on the pavement, looking like bad voodoo in pigtails. And you’re just so damned tired.

And then you go home and write about it in your journal that you’ll find when you move house, at age twenty-six.

Know that feeling? Excellent! Well, then.

Lost the blame game.
This horse is lame.
Get your gun
And meet me in the yard.
I don’t feel your shame,
And if it’s all the same,
I’m stunned
You’re taking this so hard.

Formes Frustes – Clutching at the Last Straw (2006-ish)