why this is a lie:
if you had something “important” to tell me, you could have put it into a sentence. For example, “X died. Funeral soon. will be driving, will send times when i have them.” and i’d be all, “well, good for X. I’m more than a little jealous, but there’s no fucking way in hell i’m gonna sit around and listen to X’s ‘friends’ and ‘family’ saying crap that’s all weepy and sad. Boo fucking hoo.” Then, I’d type back, “no, but thanks for the information and offer. love, t”
instead we have to have this big charade. you like the phone because it’s how you impose your authoritarian/bullying/judgmental/small-mindedness on others. oh, and you waste their time, too. phone calls are for emergencies. if you have a question that can wait 30 fucking seconds longer, text it, 5 minutes to half a day, e-mail it.
This is difficult, also, because it forces people to strip out all that drama shit from their communications. funny thing is, with my family, there’s nothing left. zero communication. hate and jealousy and fear and disappointment and shit from tv and other corporations. yes, that’s highly relevant, and your carbon footprint is despicable.
my back still hurts. slouched in this desk chair is one of the least painful ways to rest, however. too bad for you. means i’m typing. means, i’m typing.
i’m gonna go get a snack. 10:40 PM.
i had a cheese quesadilla. i went to the store and bought cheese, eggs, and flour tortillas today. i should have made tortillas. lazy. i didn’t really have the $8 either. i wanted some kind of treat today. i’ve been eating beans and rice for most meals, and having some tortillas around reminded me how much fun those are for breads.
my back hurts, i suspect, because of my tweet. the matador one. relative to y’alls stupid old standards, i’m a defective person. i can’t change this. i’m being as up front with you as i know how about how fucking crazy i am and what will work with me. i know it’s beyond what anyone cares, but maybe someone is looking for that kind of thing. maybe they can help. i’ve never asked for help from anyone. i’ve never gotten a recommendation, other than as required by applications. you say it’s because i never asked. i say it’s because i’m worthless. utterly. fuck you.
pain. constant, mind-encompassing pain. this physical kind is perhaps worse than the existential kind i face daily, but it makes dancing hurt even more. no good. fucky ow.
i’m gonna go lie down for a while. 11:09 pm.
12:41. hibernating the ‘puter, still hurting like a motherfucker. hope you’re sleeping better than i am.
so, it’s now the next day, i slept like shit, my back still hurts, and it’s 11:49 am. Dictator tells us we’re biking today. big surprise. chronic pain can put me in a foul mood something quick. headphones. that’s how i survive.
i got coffee, walked about 2.5 blocks to a coffee shop that closes between 2:30 and 4:30 every day, and then probably closes at like 6. on the way, before crossing main street, i saw a recumbent 2-person bike. what are those called? oh, this nerve damage has got me incapacitated. brain’s not working either. language brain broke. to the googles!
i met three people, other than the two bikers, on my little excursion. one was the owner of the shop, one was his likely high-school-aged employee (possibly even daughter?), and one was a regular, who they sell coffee to “by the gallon.” You don’t even want to know what my dirty brain thought of all of this. This is why I don’t go out in public. it just shows me more attractive people. then i go into this extra-blissful state and it freaks people out because they’re used to a daily “living hell” let alone “happiness,” and my alien bliss makes them grasp for some explanation of the unknown, and all they can find, being trusting, organic, yet tv-fed and gmo-poisoned, they land on strange, freaky, and eventually creepy or even violent. that makes me laugh. y’all are so sports, even saying hello is taken as a competitive gesture. that is war. you are in a constant state of war. i’m gonna go build my energy generating home now.
how are we gonna do the temperature regulation on the solar kitchen? the hot water is covered, so we burn woodgas? isn’t there a solar stove-top or solar oven to incorporate? yeah, oven shouldn’t be much of a problem. insulated compartment, tilting reflectors. the stove-top poses more of a challenge. remember mirrors and Fresnel lenses. reflect magnified beam from below to heat a black stone element? how do you regulate temperature with that? sensors and shade. run water through the heatsink to cool it, if you need that. or heat it, i suppose. you’re going to have steam to work with, so use that. like a vegetable steamer that just used available steam? that could totally happen. kewl.
that black stone (and/or some type of concrete, more likely) could also serve as your cold weather passive solar heatsink. you’re prepping this bad-boy for sub-zero climates, also, are we not? yes, that’s true. would the box truck make more sense for this? the Grumman would be beautiful as this. find a speedy V6 to put underneath her? i thought we were going electric. yes, we are. but can you imagine that aluminum box as a souped up race-truck? you’d have to put a wing on the back, retractable side stabilizer bars. pretty. yes, this design can pretty much migrate to any vehicle frame we could choose for it. you know, maybe it would make more sense to hire a recent grad as a public relation rep to speak from now on. everything you say makes people continue to hate you. must we re-hash this? that’s why i stay away. invite only. zero invites means everyone’s doing fine and we serve no purpose.
dude, doesn’t anyone need a kato these days? no, like kato kaelin, oj’s bag man, err, pool boy, whatever that guy was. complex eye candy? fifty, yo! i bet he needs someone to go into the bad neighborhoods for him who won’t get shot. that’s legal recompense in an industry that exists without protection from the state. there was a speech about that in a movie, 8mm, i think it was. fucked up movie, but the speech about honest dealing on the “black market” was a jewel. full disclosure. this is the opposite of capitalism.
capitalism functions on an information-differential structure. it claims otherwise, but it’s a psychopath. the system has invented the term “need to know” and all other kinds of military terminology infiltrate business dealings because war is our industry. it’s the only one. smash grab steal resources in order to maintain “our” highly wasteful way of life while simultaneously assuring “our” own helplessness, pain, discontent, and aggression. we could tell you, but then we’d have to kill you. well, you best fucking kill me now, because by withholding that information, you’ve stood in direct opposition to my survival, which legally gives me the right to kill you. it says to “the man” who has always been holding many guns to all our heads. department of redundancy. this is old an annoying. why are we rehashing global politics? because this is the shit people still don’t fucking understand. on any level. they’re still on the feed. holy fuck, your whining gets annoying. this ain’t Socratic, you know. Tavyatic? oh, that.
while on a bike ride, the other day (how often do my stories start like that? can we move things along here? uhh, yup, sorry.), i though of another use of my cashes. i get a lawyer. i change my name, dropping everything except two characters. t and t. i have too many names now. my passport says “Tyler Tavy Kelm Mertes” and has a picture of me fully bearded and wearing baggy orange and black. the picture’s on facebook, friendlies. profile pics, prolly. most commenters here have friended me there. we’re inter-connected all over this place. the phone number’s publicly available multiple places, but we rarely answer. immediate transactions with those who require its use.
don’t assume i hate my family because i never speak to them. i never speak to my friends either. i do speak to them, anyway. i post on fb all the time, and despite the fact that that isn’t the same thing, i make communication happen. i share my life, most aspects of it, actually. except in person.
this is by far one of my finest tweets. there’s something very sexy about cutting hair. hell yeah we should shave each other’s junk. i’m comfortable enough with my ballsack mole and hemorrhoidal polyps to share them with you. we ask that you stay away from there until we get that fixed up. health insurance? no, when a doctor joins the coop.
$10 hourly, and materials at cost. we will pay off your student loans, but don’t expect your position as coop doctor to get you any special privileges beyond the standard all-inclusive peaceful lifestyle. being intelligent and capable and educated means you ought be putting that to good use. there’s no way to use medical training for good within the confines of a for-profit business. same with a law degree. same with everything. the purpose matters, more than anything else.
clippering my ass hairs always makes for a few days of oddness. farts don’t disperse, and instead sorta roll up my asscrack. it’s not bad, it’s just different, so it’s a relatively novel experience. i’ve been putting on some fat deposits living here in old-people-and-high-schoolers-town. lazy fuck can’t find work. nobody wants anything to change. they like their lawns and lawnmowers and payments to the electric company and “food” store and bank and water utility. people will stop being slaves when they stop loving their enslavement.
if text is on there, why isn’t phone or letters or periodicals or tv? fucking compartmentalization.
i’m off to eat. later.