I Believe… [Cosplayer is an Identity, Too]

…that identity may be a kind of expertise but it is only an expertise in being oneself. The desire to tribe up and gain power through identifiers is a strong one but using your culture, skin color, gender, sex, or political leanings is absolutely no different than identifying as a cosplayer, a foodie, or a sports fan.

The World Is Now Your Therapist, So Have a Cheeseburger

Have you seen the new Emo Burger King ad?

I do not love the idea that in an age where nuance, humor, and snark are taken so literally that the perpetual class of whiners will take this as yet another permission to unload their emotional trash on the streets for all to see. Yes, it’s important to avoid stuffing your bad feels down under the sofa like dogshit you can smell but can’t find, but there’s a reason therapy is usually done one-on-one in a private office.

Book Club Made Me Read It | The Changeling

And holy shit if this book had ended right there, I’d be writing a very different review right now. The vibrancy of their early relationship with each other, the slow creep of horror as things become more and more wrong in the Kagwa-Valentine household, the awful question of whether Emma might actually be right, the visceral brutality of the final scenes… It works. It’s good.

look there instead

look here, they say,
but no; i want to look there,
my focus firmly fixed upon things
not so crowd-gazed. 

look there with me —
glistening, intricate mosaics
painstakingly crafted
in the arches of the museum stairwell,
unnoticed in the upward or downward rush
to view the expected. 

When Facts Dispute Ideology, What Do You Do?

When facts dispute your ideology, please — PLEASE — access that one or two brain cells that control your ability for self reflection and understand that those facts mean your failed solution doesn’t need another shot. You need to come up with a different solution, dumbass.

A Venice Tale

Los Angeles. The sun - kissed taste of sandy freedom, smoggy alleyways and city tenements, stars, the heart of plastic grandeur, an American Dream personified.

I was holed up in a pad on Venice beach in between jobs. I had no furniture. It was after a break-up.