ROOTLESS TOOTH

ruthless truth

Challenge.

Get a small notebook. Maybe a moleskine so you feel extra special.

You will need, probably, to dedicate several pages, if not entire notebooks to this.

Anyway…

Every time you give a fuck about a celebrity (level of fame is irrelevant.), make a mark in the notebook. Deaths don’t count because deaths *should* cause some kind of emotional response in you. You are, despite your best efforts, a human.

At the end of the week, count up every mark. Then, write an original story with as many words as there are marks. 

Exceptions:
-Celebrity is related to you. 
-Celebrity is revealed to be an actual deity/angel/alien/hyper-intelligent hive of symbiotic bacteria operating as one being. 
-Celebrity publicly admits that they are a figment of your specific imagination.
-Celebrity is famous because of politics. Unfortunately, those ones tend to have a pretty significant effect on your existence.
 

Garage (gradge)

Today at work a woman told me she would like to come back and model costumes for me when her husband isn’t with her.

.

Typically, I would politely brush away an advance like this, but I had just spent a solid 25 minutes helping this considerably older couple select costumes. In that time, an air of dejected misery hung thick over all three of our heads. It became too clear that the joy in their lives together was drained long ago. 

.

.

.

.


"That would be lovely."

http://thelightisalivingspirit.tumblr.com/post/95264952940/myth-there-are-good-cops-and-there-are-bad

thelightisalivingspirit:

Myth: there are good cops and there are bad cops.

Truth: anyone who would choose to join the police in 21st century America is criminally insane, willfully ignorant, and profoundly selfish.

Police: you are the bad guys in the movie. You are the soldiers who sided with King John over Robin Hood….

TEE HEE

pee.

poo.

peepoo.

Go spit on some copssssssss

CK

Blog posts don’t lob bricks at cop’s skulls.

Petitions don’t turn the nightstick back at their throats.

You do.

groves

My dad was a writer. He had countless notebooks full of ideas that ranged from very simple poems for children, to a profoundly dark, magical-realist sci-fi. Over the years, he submitted pretty much everything he wrote to pretty much every single publisher in existence. Occasionally, a lit magazine or quarterly of some sort would run something he wrote, but nothing ever caught. 

I still have two binders filled, cover to cover, top to bottom, with rejection letters. He saved all of them. As my mom tells it, it was as a reminder that failure is essential. Apparently, every time he got a rejection letter he would write more. Even after my sister was born, he wrote. Even after I was born, he wrote. He wrote and wrote and wrote. 

I think I can remember him and/or my mom reading some of his kid-friendly work to me. Specifically, the bubble gum contest. A bunch of school kids have a contest to see who can blow the biggest bubble, and one girl, who dresses like an old west sheriff blows a bubble so big, she floats away and goes on an adventure. 

Obviously, the little sheriff girl won the contest. 


hero

Odds are; you’ll never do anything
as noble or demanding 
as setting yourself
on fire. 

No matter how many marathons
you run
you will always be lazier
than the inner workings
of a gun.

Every degree you earn
will make you no more independent 
than a slaughterhouse cow. 


A

It’s great to see so many sex-positive people…






ONLY ON TUMBLR AND NEVER IN REAL LIFE COME ONNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNUH.

Grady

keep your head on
until you explode
explode

when you come home
if you even come home
who knows?

and I found
all around…

we’ll keep her here
until…
she disappears into…

with him when he’s missing
when he’s not she’s anywhere but
in his arms and blood and body soft
and everyone’s aware of all the
extra points of entry gray and blue and black and dead
the fucking, throbbing, tension feels a crack in every bend 
around a finger pull it up and push it in and
close your eye and whisper it’s the best it always is or
ever was and close your eyes and whimper like a baby 
fucking dog until your hair is in your eyes and
you two finally get along…


-said at same time-
(she’s who you’ve been missing
and you can’t go anywhere but
it’s the spoon and blood and body, soft
but fully unaware of all the 
extra pounds of poison gray and black and blue and dead
the fucking throbbing pound of evil starts to crack and burn and bend
around a finger deep into your elbow it’ll go
close your eye and whisper it’s the last but we both know
you lied and close your eyes and whimper like a baby 
fucking dog until your blood is in your eyes
and you two finally get along…)

and I found
needles
all around…

we’ll keep her here
until
she disappears into
the night…

we’ll both explode
we both let go

and now there’s no way home
so don’t forget your coat….

And come on down…

Quixotic.

Key-ho-tic, or Quick-zotic? I’ve heard both.


Still awake. 

____ ____ Began recording our first album today and it is already very exciting. Funny. Sort of rekindled my love for the usual gang of cohorts. 

I don’t remember if I wrote the last post before or after that happened.

I legitimately have no idea what today’s timeline was. I can recall all the events, but in no particular order. This is actually a little exciting. 

Sleep deprivation has its positive effects. 



I am, though, going to try to sleep. Kelly brought me coffee because she is a champion. Now she’s moving in with us because we’re all champions. I can’t express how excited this makes me. The only word for it is “Very”.

I am, though, going to try to sleep. Kelly brought me coffee because she is a champion. Coffee has allowed me to sort of reset, and for the first time in (my estimate is) a month, I’m tired. So, that should be really cool. 



A few months ago I landed a job that changed my life. It was hilarious, because I thought it would change my life by giving me a lot of money. A LOT. Started me at $17/hr full time. Twelve hours a day, six days a week. For the viewers at home, that’s almost 5,000 a month. That is almost more money than I’ve seen, cumulative, in probably eight years-Maybe that’s hyperbole-in one month.

Anyway…




(pause for tension. go get a glass of water. pee. call your best friend and tell them you hate them and you can’t live without them.)






I quit after one day.

The job absolutely did change my life.

It allowed me to realize that there is no point to making that much money if I have no time or people to spend it on. 

More than that, it made me realized that I just do not want a  lot of money. No. My hot commodity is time. Time to film and write and sing my life out until it’s dry and withered and punctuated 

Get it?

ANYWAY(s)

The big fancy union position with an absurd salary, paid vacations, paid holidays, full coverage insurance, and high levels of nobility with actual potential to become heavily involved in politics…

Also meant that I would have one day a week to: See Grace. See my friends/family/loved ones/cat. Make art.

Fuck. That.

The job changed my life because it made me realize I’m fortunate enough to not have any major financial responsibilities beyond paying rent and keeping my self fed. So, the job changed my life in making me realize that I am absolutely not for want, and that I am REALLY FUCKING lucky for that. 

Sure, I will be hungry..but I will eat. Sure, I will get restless…but I will sleep.

What matters is that I can create. Create on my own and create with you, dear reader. And share it. And maybe those creations will make you, and others feel something. 

And that is much more satisfying than a television could ever be.




















Especially because there’s always Netflix. 




Exhale.