that’s not my face, but its inside; this post’s voice. be patient.

So, now that I’m almost certain no one reads this blog but myself, and unyieldingly certain that no one but me is currently taking any substantial, thought-out, crush-depth sentiments from this picayune blog, I’m going to use it as a digital notebook. Nothing more, nothing less. You may see broad generalizations of incomprehensible abstractions, you may see dead amalgams of things around me, you may read short stories that may or may not have happened to me or someone You or I know, you may read dirty stories, you may read about BDSM meetings in Midtown post wrap party at the Lincoln Center, in an unnamed basement, new and incontinent to the circle of masqued men and women all undoubtedly starting at me.

You may see earnest letters of sympathy, or apology, or comedic mania circling around some lascivious paradox I can’t stop hearing in my mind.

While this so far does not exhaust what you will see and read and think and imagine because of this blog, I can supplement the lack with what I believe you won’t see here; you won’t see unselfconscious narcissism, or second-order narcissism, for that matter, you won’t see what most would call ego-trips or intellectual masturbation, or petty post hoc narratives explaining why this or that career or past girlfriend or lover didn’t *get* me, because the truth is I just don’t care if I don’t believe they want anything but my attention, dependency, or unconditional respect, because fuck you that’s why. You will see fowl language, yawps, curses and drunken semantics, but it won’t be unearned or otherwise inaccurate and imprecise.

you may see poetry. i duhnnuhh…

I will probably psychoanalyze everyone I’m stuck living//working with. I’m very stubborn about this. It’s my continence, and it works to the interests of everyone involved.

I have been told repeatedly that I am a pragmatist at heart, but this title has always felt too official and ideological for me.

So does my real name.

I have been called an asshole, a slimy lying sack of &*(P, a fuck-ass, perceptive, a good listener, that i have a good brain (on me), that I’m a genius, that I’m brilliant, a poet, a wordsmith, a philosopher, perfect, hopeless, haggard, stormy, schizophrenic, depressive, manic, scary, unreliable, responsible, repressed, insulated, lost, irresolute and edgy, and many other adjectives that only go together in an interpenetrating series of phalluses, speaking purely geometrically. I am surprised that WordPress’ spell check does not recognize the plural form of phallus. Or itself’s possessive case.

I am an actual, in-the-flesh writer, editor, magazine owner. I’m also a production assistant for a New York TV Channel. And I lived in Vietnam for two years. I believe in conjunctions.

but that’s enough for now. if you’re not me reading this, then welcome to a tour of the switchboard(s) of my life. I hope you’re insulated enough for protection, but not so much to preclude perspective, because without the former or with the latter none of this will make sense to you. Very little makes sense in those spaces. Go make dinner or tweet about millennials, if that’s where your upstairs is.


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