to be honest / jan 26

do you see it too?

TO BE HONEST, nobody has time for a sick sucker with no self-confidence.

I certainly don’t. I’m the last sad sack crying a river for the dork who, because of her labour, sees herself as out of place, unable to contribute to her community. Both living her best life and succumbing to completely monotony. To be frank, it wasn’t better when I was trying to split myself open, but, dear lover, the quantity of my haters has me making quick jokes to entertain the court. No, I’ve already done my time. I’ve read that headline, I’ve seen all that was said in that court case. I’ve heard that song twice too many times. I’m perfectly able to contribute to a creative practice, as the words fall into place. I’m gonna try my hardest to set this up, and keep it up. I’m going to tell a lot of lies in my life, no matter how long or short I live. I won’t lie to you here. That doesn’t mean a lot of things, one of which is that I’m not going to make it easy for you to decipher the truth. This is a mechanism for which I can defend myself. Arms up, keep the eyes open, stay on the fight. To be honest - whatever that means. The trick is having fun, as you can obviously tell from the peripheral materials. 

        It’s running through my lymph nodes and I’m back to that packmate thinking. I’m not the wolf, I’m not the dog, i’m the life, i’m the liver. I’m as poised as you’d expect, i’m as poisoned as you’d expect, i’m positioned how i want to be, i’m smiling how you want me to be. You love me, you love what i’m saying, you hate what i’m writing, you know i’m good for it, you think i’m good at it? I’m trying, i’m a tryer, i’m not your dog, i’m nothing to worry about. While you’ve been attending to your fresh facsimiled routines, I've been kissing photos and looking good while doing it. There’s something in the materials, of two digital things overlapping. I’ve been interfacing with the immaculate and asking who’s it for. I’ve been guarding the gate, and for as long as I can remember, i’ve been telling two lies for every truth. Those who walk the roads hate to see me stand sentry, doing my godly duty. Do you know how easy it is to hate yourself whenever your prime vocalisation is obsessed with this rhythm? It’s like a dance but every attendee’s the worst dancer in the room. I can’t be the only one who’s worn out by this constant awareness that one individual will be the best or worst at something in a room. There will be the best writer, the best dancer, the worst kisser, is it me, the worst lover, the strangest body. Who gets to be the thing with the darkest and welcomemost thoughts?

        I’m jacked on the adrenaline of something going right. I’m cycling about a good bit, though the lock is being exceptionally frustrating. I’m not hearing its polite reminders for oiling. In a move that I'm running good on, i’ve abandoned youtube, twitter and instagram. I can still watch videos via duckduckgo, but i’m forbidden from opening youtube dot com. This has, so far, improved my ability to start doing my work. I could do anything I ever wanted for five to ten minutes. A start. I’m allowed to watch twitch vods. I’m listening to a wrangling of podcasts to keep me stimulated when making or consuming. I’m still stuck on the Count of Monte Christo. The French elite socialising stirs very little attentiveness from me. It doesn’t help that the book is a weapon to carry in my bag. My bookmark is The Unchained Soul of Anguish. I’m on page 470 or so. I started reading Giovanni’s Room today and was immediately enthralled. Some sick thought of relief took to the back of my neck - at least it’s no attention span issue.

        
        It’s been a month of shit like this. The work laptop died in fantastic fashion, a sort of self-execution I thought I would never get to be witness to. And I should write something about it. To the full public spectacle of week one on a university campus, surrounded by employers and potential supervisors, I’m Sorry You Had To See And Hear All That. I Did Not Know It Was Going To Make That Noise. I Did Not Know Its Memory Error Would Be So Loud. While you were all enjoying your little lunches, I was living off an empty stomach, watching my laptop screen light but show no image in the needlessly bright January sun. Yeah. That’s right. While you were partying and communing with the beautiful, I was searching for answers on a dying device. I was riding high on single digits. At least I still have the bike.

ah.

it gets to a point, you know?

The bike’s fucked. both legs of the horse looking rotten with gout. She’s still smiling, long rusted teeth, but still smiling like summer’s right around the way. The man gives me a ring to say the back wheel’s perished. 24 for used or 32 for new yeah 24 for used. Perished, returning to natural order, or so undeniably killed. I’ve perished, bro. I’m perishing, bro. Bro, I’ve got three or so months left on me until my replacement will no longer tolerate being denied. Sorry to say, but sniffling at it happening will not get the novel written. 

All of this is to say, fuck no i’ve got shit all written and sent out in january twenty twenty six. Zero submissions, zero rejections. A completely neutered lifestyle. Clean off, you say? Another month where i’m the woman with all the ideas and no output. Selling a lie, another lie of, i’m just depressed, it will go away but i’ll still be living after the fact. All motivation no output is such a sickly slog to work through. I’m a cat throwing up over all the furniture but lacking the courtesy to even clean it up. I’m not overthinking it - because when has anything ever been built by overthinking - but maybe overthinking would get more done than the net fucking nothing i’ve been on for the last far too long, too long to remember. Oh ho ho. A creative writer, you say? A creative writer, she calls herself? Updated her about page, but didn’t notice any of the numerous glaring errors, did she? 

Wrote about 15000 words for a version of The Novel, but dropped it once I realised I was exhausted, verbal riff raff, all chaff no vaseline, kept cool for no freezer, lukewarm milk in the body of a google doc. Wrote a good bit about a man who’s living the reclusive life. I want to send it to somebody I’ve published with before, after exchanging a good conversation three years ago. I’m sure it’s doable. It’s just a matter of transcribing and rounding up and about. That’ll take some effort in its own right. Still, I will give it a go. Just need to return to it. Like, really return to it. There are a few other goals for Feb. I want to get submissions in for two different conferences happening this year. Once of which, the product is ready to go. The other, I need to figure it out. Probably something to do with either Digimon or Mythic Bastionland. The trick is, I’m realising, is that you can make things and have fun with it. Teaching needs to involve that too, though the PGCHE isn’t making that any easier. Fuck, dude. Trust an acronym to make you feel like all you’ve ever wanted is for dorks in gummy relations.

my new placeholder laptop had a screen that said 'self healing bios startup' and my computer friendly guy had never seen the screen before. therefore, i think it's too precious to share to outwardly and loudly. obviously. 

     

   Can you help me choose something to write? help me on that phd application? i'm a coward, and you know it. i love myself because i'm made of these flaws and strengths. the word is multitudes and the girl is feeling sick. you wouldn't love me if i didn't have them. right? Please? I’ll get some good sleep then. when all applications are sent off, the gnarling woman will rest. Some freak living through memories and getting kicks in dark times.

THERE’S NO RHYME OR REASON FOR WHAT’S GOING ON HERE. THERE’S JUST NO EXCUSE.