All in Peter Kremidas

What Change Looks Like, I Suppose

But seriously, folks, out of all the diverse and vast array of human coping mechanisms, from just refusing to talk about it, to addiction, and all the way to suicide, making jokes seems like one of the better ones to have, don't you think? I would choose that every time, if I had a choice. Which, oh yeah, I don't. I'm sorry, would you like to kiss my plump egg satchel?

...fucking Mark

Later, Mark asked me what I thought of his DJ set. This was long past me being fed up, so I told him the truth as delicately as one can tell someone that they were awful. Mark told me he had a gun, then threatened to kill me for “talking shit.” He was serious. I told him, I shit thee not, that he’d have to fucking aim at me first. That was not a nice thing to say, nor smart. But I did.

No I am not afraid of him reading this.

It's too long.

A Comprehensive Open Letter To My Fellow Depressives

I’ve picked up a few truths, I think that’s what they are at least.

I would never presume to be smart enough to have access to the truth. These are just mine right now.

Just some stuff that’s helped me, and I throw this out there into the void of the internet with the hopes that it’ll hit someone who needs it.

And if only one person is given a lift here, I hope that person is you.

Hi, I am from the Future, Everything will be Fine (A Free Novella)

Alright, shut up. Stop freaking out. You’re all—hey! Shh. You’re all freaking out because you think everything is going to hell. I get it. It looks bad out there. But it’s not that bad. Really. I’m from the future and I’m about to tell you what’s going to happen. It’ll be fine.

Okay, I’m sorry for not being more gentle. In the future we just say shut up. So... there there. Calm calm. Shut—uh, listen here. Now. Yeah. Okay. Here we go. Just as a reminder, I am from the future.


Hours later I’m at my apartment. One arm is holding a bag of frozen peas over my contused eye, the other sits across from me on the ottoman as crossed as it can be, half, in defiance.

“Arm... why did you punch Tina Fey?”

“Oh, I’m sorry. Is there a problem? Did you hear what she said?”

“I know, I know. You already told me. It’s just that...”

“Yeah, well. Saying that we should just sit down and not fight him at all is offensive.”

“I think it was a joke?”

“Well, it was not funny.”

The Jason Chin Model For Socio-Political Revolution

If you knew him, and a lot of people did, ahead of time fair warning; This isn’t a story about Jason Chin specifically. He’s a guy I and a lot of people remember fondly, and he’s an important part of the story, but I don’t want you to feel baited and switched on like this essay’s title was the trailer for Across The Universe. Great trailer, by the way. Trailer.

Anyways, he’s a small character in a larger but still itself small story. If you indulge me with your patience I think you’ll see that there is a point to that. Also, among the stories I could have told to illustrate same point I chose this one because A) I’ve never told it before, and B) I think his part in it is illustrative of one of the really important and cool things about him and C) I think he would have liked it.

So there’s that. Let’s start with getting the specificity of our scene out.

An Open Private Letter From Don Jr. To Don the First

Dear Father,

Salutations. You will be pleased to know my subversionary tactics are still keeping that dastardly free press hot on their smugly clicked heels. Why father, my namesake, I hope you are sitting down, because that is surely the safest and most controlled place to shit yourself out of excitement from. Standing leaves a trail, and upside down is impractical. So sit, then afterward walk bow legged to the kitchen to take off of your pants and have the help scoop it into the nearest receptacle just like you taught me on my 14th birthday when you told me my pool house was getting an escalator to my pool table.

Are you ready? Okay.

Sometime in the past several years I had most of both my romantic and artistic afflatus sucked out of me by not so much the soundtrack of rejections the life of a concurrent actor and undersized male post collegiate dater expectedly, perhaps necessarily, entails, but rather by the cumulative power of just a few harsh ones. Oh sure, they don’t help, but a your opponent’s hundreds of little jabs only make you tired, it’s the big punches that put you on the floor.