Jim Morrison's birthday was recently. As per usual, the hipsters who have gradually seeped into my facebook over the years have filled my home page with happy birthday wishes, statements of "Oh I miss you" and "you were the best". Etc. etc.

This bothers me for a plethora of reasons.

You did not know Jim Morrison personally. You are literally close to half a century to late for that. Thusly, who are you to say what kind of guy he was? For all we know, he was a massive plagiaristic prick.

Similarly, there is some excellent evidence (not to mention a shocking lack of evidence to the contrary) showing that Jim Morrison isn't dead, and there's a decent chance he faked his death to get away from - and get this - hipsters who pretended to know him.

Don't post pictures of yourselves or your buddies in Paris at Morrison's grave. Yes, it is cool that you went to Paris. It's neat that you found a grave with his name on it. Unfortunately, you look stupid, as, provided he is dead, it's pretty common knowledge that he's buried elsewhere in an unmarked hole.

I think I'm more just rankled about hipsters in general. In the case of the majority of the ones I know, I can't help but cringe and think "Gee, you're like 25 now. Shouldn't you have outgrown this?".

It's like when you see a guy in his mid 30s trying to maintain the goth look that worked for him ten years ago. It's nothing more than a vile stagnation of personal development, an attempt to seem all different and cool. When you are young, it works because everyone around you is also acting like a putz and doing essentially the same thing in different ways. When you are older, I feel like you are supposed to realize that yes, everyone is fundamentally different and cool in their own ways, and that the whole hipster/emo/goth "lifestyle" is a pretty ridiculous, forced, and immature way of representing that difference.

Quite honestly, I am finding myself more and more irritated by those who try and show how non-conformist they are. If it's not being done in a fashion that ironically conforms to what everyone around them is doing, then usually it's done in a fashion that represents you as incredibly ignorant.

Take my friend "Bob", for instance. Bob is female, for the record, though it's pretty irrelevant to this story. Bob comes from a nice, upper-class background. Bob is also an "no-government anarchist", and on her last visit to DC, I noticed she was wearing a Chairman Mao pin.

I asked about this, implying slightly that she should be clever enough to see the horrible satire of an "anarchist" wearing a Mao pin, and was told that she liked Mao because he built China up from nothing, into a modern state.

Now, ignoring all the other stuff that's not maybe quite right with that statement, there are two obvious things that anyone remotely familiar with this topic should be able to point out:

1. Mao initially set China back by at least a decade, as well as starving a huge chunk of his population to death during the "Great Leap Forward". It turns out peasants are wayyy better a tricking idiot Chairmen than they are at becoming factory workers. At least until they starve to death, in which case they become equally bad at both. And then you get to the Cultural Revolution (same idea as the Great Leap Forward - wheras the great leap was all about melting down tools and other essentials to make the world think China was an industrial state, the cultural revolution was all about destroying anything culturally significant in order to.. well... I'm really not sure what the point here was. It's been theorized - quite seriously and by a surprising amount of people who were involved - that Mao had his feelings hurt a bit and had to purge something to feel better), where even more people get to die and long, poorly written sentences begin to show up. In fact, many authors (Matthew White being the most entertaining that comes to mind) have asked the question - did Mao kill so many of his people because he was comic book villain mean, or because he was just a horrifically incompetent leader that hung around for a tragically long time?

2. A "no-government anarchist" is in theory espousing no government, or at least that's what my assumption would be - Bob (yes, we're getting back to the OP and Bob now) doesn't seem too clear on what exactly anarchism is beyond there being "anarchy" all over the place. Really, to hear her tell it, anarchy is some type of condiment that makes everything better and can indeed be spread all over anything - kinda like cheese.

Bah, now I am thinking of cheese, and I've lost my train of thought in the rambling and self-indulgent writing. Something about hipsters being stupid, I think. Anyway, Bob's a hypocrite who eats out of dumpsters "because jobs are for conformists", and while I can no longer connect that with Jim Morrison and The History of Failed State Capitalism, it seems like there really should be a good story or something in there.

I have a flu and thus have trouble gathering my thoughts. I'm also out of drugs. Which sucks. And because my girlfriend is "out" doing whatever horrors "girlfriend stuff" consists of, I do not have access to a phone, and thusly a cab, drugs, food, and so forth. Tis a shame.

I find myself wanting to write more, but know these writings will ramble to the extent of positing as to why the Seleucid empire fell apart (always an edge-of-your-seat line of thought), down to how someone with a basic knowledge of chemistry (un)lucky enough to get sent back a couple thousand years could probably build a much cooler and more successful religious institution that anything that phony from Nazareth and his minions cooked up, or perhaps delve into the oddity of language. But regardless of the topic, it would all be a frightful mess (just like this post). So let's leave it there.

I had a rather long post done up on how I'd just noticed how pointless my facebook is for the purpose it is designed to fulfill, but I couldn't quite figure out how to end it. Essentially, I've talked to like four of the people on there in the last year, two of whom I live with.

I've been blogging for an awfully long time. Sometimes I wonder what the guts of my filing cabinet would look like had I stuck to paper. Paper is nice because you can draw on it. Reading back through stuff I wrote as a kid, I think the doodles are more telling than the words.

I bought a house. It is a little box, on a hillside. I'm pretty sure it's not made of ticky-tacky, but ideally it will be full of weed? It was incredibly cheap and is virtually brand new. It's also only half a block from where I am now, which makes moving easy, and is about a block and a half from work. Two bedrooms, full bath and laundry, a whole 720 square feet for myself (and the cats, and Lisa). As I say, little box indeed. But with a great deck! I am still uncertain about having Lisa on the deed, as it's my money that paid for this place, but that can be dealt with if it should ever be a problem.

Close to work is nice. I am still walking. Until I go to rehab. For the one type of addiction I really don't feel will ever be a problem again. All because of a broom. Horrific irony.

I was sitting next to the crazy guy in DQ the other day whilst eating lunch. He was talking about having asked God for nice weather and getting it, then asking that it snow to punish people that were mean to him. As I'm the only person I ever see walking around in -30 late at night, I'm kinda wondering what I did to him.

Anyway, I am wrote out for now, dear blogger-y.

Outside my cell, deputies creep. But in this cell, all I do is sleep.

I never know how to make the time pass anymore. Writing moves it along I guess, but it's a solitary activity and I live in a social household. Games and conversations and the great outdoors are good stuff as well, but nothing new or stimulating.

I think that is the big issue - a lack of stimulation. There is no way to say it without sounding like a whiney hipster, but things seem a little "passé". I hungry like Tantalus, but for something new and exciting, to the point where I would rather drown in the water than have my sip taken away yet again.

Boredom and ennui raise all sorts of uncomfortable questions about free will, predestination, and the point of life. Boredom makes me think.

Here is something that I don't think you know about addicts, dear Lindsay, and maybe it will make some things clear to you about other aspects of your life: Thinking is the greatest enemy to us. Thinking raises questions, and makes you unhappy in the long run. It is better to blank your mind, and simplify yourself, than it is to really ponder as to why you are who you are and where you are.

Especially when you already know the answers to most of whatever questions you can come up with. I cannot claim to know you or anyone else that well, but some things are predictable and easy, and when you know yourself well, everything becomes unexciting.

True addiction sets in when the normal dose does not stop the thinking. For me, at least, this is sad and disappointing but not really harmful, as I am capable of a high level of function. While I may not be able to have "just one" of nearly anything anymore, I am good at not having even one when really required.

Sometimes I wonder if I am gifted or damaged. I may be mental, or I may be brilliant. I may be both. I guess it is pretty irrelevant as different is different, and while it has both faults and appeals, it what it is.

As Herr Rocco would say "Oh well!". Herr Rocco is my old german friend, and he is a master of "oh well" zen. He does not look ahead, and does not look back. I think there are a few reasons for that. His upbringing in East Germany, his general good spirits, and the fact that at the end of the day, Herr Rocco is a 40 year old kid. There is wonder and dreams for him everywhere. He is a lucky fool, really. I love him for it.

I've been talking to Eris a lot lately. It's funny how something that started as a joke can grow to influence so many lives. Man did create God, it would seem, or it would seem plausible. I have no objection to wearing the mark of a Deity that I know can't actually be real. But I talk and she listens, and sometimes in my dreams, she answers my questions, and though it seems crazy, I get what I ask for from her, as long as I make nice with the other kids and am patient. I am unsure how to put my thoughts on this into words, but suffice it to say, I am a firm believer that even a man-made Goddess can hold sway over your life when you truly believe.

Logan wants to go shoot things, and I have drained most of my willpower in writing this. See you, maybe.

Sometimes my dreams feel more like reality than reality does. Sometimes they seem to be more important, too.

I don't like the sober, quiet moments. They are distant memories that haven't happened yet. They feel like a washy early morning T.V. show, something that is completely unrelateable and only vaguely interesting but really the only thing on. I don't like the speeds my thoughts bounce around at inside my head, or the constant alertness. Or really the subject matter playing out in the theater of my brain. I get over whatever sickness there is to have, and then things seem to slide sideways.

I did a bunch of stupid things in the last few years.

My friend Skylar once told me I seem to have good self-awareness. I think this is true, as I'm pretty aware of many of my qualities and faults, and tend to know how I will react to a foreseen inevitability well before it comes up. I think the big reason I have no claims to enlightenment or some sort of zen-buddah type shit is that I am either too apathetic or lazy to really change anything.

I haven't really figured that one out yet. Sometimes, I will very much so want to do something, but then I will realize it doesn't really matter, given how irrelevant it is in the grand scheme of things and not bother. Other times, I don't bother to do something, then realize that it didn't really matter, given how irrelevant it was in the grand scheme of things.

Sometimes passiveness is a good strategy. Doing things can cause trouble, and once again, in the grand scheme, it is fairly unlikely to matter too much. Conversely, while not doing much of anything is a pretty safe strategy, it tends to cause problems for everyone around you on a regular basis. But you're usually pretty good.

Anyway. It doesn't really matter much.

I am having a strange night. I have had quite a few sober nights lately, and like some type of fairytale full moon curse, this always seems to culminate in a series of very surreal days.

The nice people are all angry. The angry people are all nice.

My job description is "AJ", who was the guy I replaced. The person I trained is now "Steve". Our purchasing manager was recently transferred to receiving, while the shipping lady is on health leave till she can get over the fact that we did not make her sick, and she should die, quit, or simply be nicer and stop taking her myriad myriads of health problems out on us. He is starting to look a little sickly and has been a little bitchy lately. Much to his chagrin, he is now "Debby". Our jobs defining our personalities is an interesting concept, but has apparently worked well for the business.

My friends are all having affairs and falling apart and getting into identical messes. My basement has the potential to fill up with transient pals and co-workers. I plan to invest in Japanese sleeping tubes.

My McDonalds is crawling with bugs. They are not of the same species and none of them seem as though they would be native to lettuce, processed cheese, or all-beef patties. I suspect box contamination. This is supported by the fact that the june bugs in my fries are rarely deep fried and salted to perfection.

A former girlfriend keeps walking into my house, hammered and shoeless, forgetting she has not lived here in a year. I do not sleep as I must stay up to steer her away from the stairs and my bedroom, where my present girlfriend sleeps, and back out on to the street where she may eventually find her way across the lot to her townhouse.

Related, my locks do not seem to function as intended, as virtually everyone in a three mile radius has a key except my roommate, who enjoys staying out till the wee hours of the morning with an east Indian dude who says he is a Korean millionaire from England. He acts as a life coach to my roommate, who arguably can already do a better fake accent.

There are things living in the walls and the vents. They get in through the basement vent on our deck, which is essentially just a hole cut in the wall with a disintegrating screen across it. I have never seen them, and rarely hear them unless I pay close attention. They are skittery, climbing things that remind me of a Lovecraft story I once read. Or perhaps they are the house waiting to collapse on itself. Or perhaps they are synapses in my brain slowly reconnecting as my system clears out.

My roommate is unable to find a job, and the rest of us have been paying for his existence for nearly four months. He quit his last job to go to Saskatchewan with the KorEngDian for three days. As this was the third or fourth time he did this, he was not rehired on his returned. In retrospect, his inability to find work may not be surprising to people other than himself.

I don't really know what to make of life anymore. It is both drab and vibrant, and I do not understand it very well. I am losing my desire to. Trainwrecks, looking away, and all that. I guess.

Oh well. This is fun:



Well, I guess that's about it for now.

Honestly, I've never felt so unwanted in my life. I'm putting this here instead of in a letter because I know you'll just get all defensive and mad and so on, but it really feels like you don't want anything to do with me, and that I'm completely wasting my time here. So I'll put it all in your court. And when I don't hear back from you, then I'll get on with just doing all this for myself, and stop worrying about someone who only seems to want me around to resent me. Seems fair to me.

So here's where it stands. I'm doing ok I suppose. Work is unpleasant occasionally, but good most of the time. I get tired of picking up people's slack, and even more tired of when that results in something being done improperly and me catching shit for simply trying to do something someone else should be doing in the first place. It's a good enough job, but I'd rather get paid less to do something boring in a place where everyone at least respects eachother than work in a place dealing with my interests for a great wage where it's every man for himself. Lisa and I are pretty officially over. She's flipflopped between wanting to be with me and wanting me to fuck off for a long while. A few days back she made it pretty obvious that things were done, so I've decided to fuck off pretty permanently. I bear her no ill will, but I have no desire to be around her anymore. Hope things work out for her. I'm presently dating a wonderful, loving girl who I don't really want to be with. She puts a ton of effort into our relationship, is stupidly in love with me, and has no concept of how to date someone. On one hand, it could be something good, but on the other hand, I just don't want to date right now. I'd really be alot happier just being alone. Besides, big amounts of effort usually imply a depression or some other issue, and I can see that peeking out already. I really don't know what to do about anything involving this stuff right now. It just makes me depressed and emo. So I simply go to work and pretend that things are cool on this front. My van still runs ok. It's kinda falling apart because it's a piece of junk, but it gets me around and I've taken it places no van should ever go. Hell, I've taken it places I'd be scared to get a quad into. Not much else is really new. Life is pretty unexciting and mostly a swirl of vodka and sleep deprivation. It works ok, but leaves me with few interesting stories.

None needed

I don't have a computer anymore. Lost it in the divorice, so to speak. Been sick lately. Sucks. Coughing up blood-filled green shit is not a hobby I enjoy. If this is what dying feels like... well, actually, it's not that bad and I guess it's a good way to go. my chest doesn't even hurt anymore. Most likely, I have torn my esophogus via hard coughing, and that's where the blood comes from. In theory, this could be very dangerous as it could rupture. But that said, I have puked, pissed, and sneezed blood, so a little cough blood in the ol' lung butter is just something to round it all out nicely. And that said too, if it does turn out I'm seriously ill and die in my sleep, I'm really sorry for doing it in this other person's bed. I notice you still read this, so yeah, sorry. Hope your cats don't eat me.