I've been trying to come to terms for the last couple of weeks with this whole part of my life being a permanent change and not just a temporary diversion. This term-coming has sort of been nudged along by inevitable voyeurism (but c'mon, barely voyeuristic....it's a goddamned newsfeed).

In short, it hasn't been good. I'll be driving to or from work and have a left-field feeling that perfectly mirrors my being lost in Target when I was a kid. A really striking desperation and a complete lack of hope. This is the price of oblivion (?)

Oh also the concept of futility has been hanging around a lot. And hey, fuck it, right? Isn't it shitty being duped into thinking that life *isn't* lived completely alone. And then being pie-faced with the self-discovery that--Hey, it is too! What, did you think two souls converge and float to the sky, now one soul eternal? That's silly. And kind of boring. Oh yeah, and the main problem....what soul?

I can't wait until these spelling suggestions and red-underlines-indicating-either-you-fucked-up-a-word-or-the-name-you're-typing-isn't-popular-enough-to-warrant-inclusion that are now omnipresent turn into things like "bad choice of words" or "a little cliched, don't you think?" or "shit, i can't believe you even thought that, let alone typed it" and eventually systems will just delete stuff for us, and eventually computers will just revise things themselves. and then next logical step: robot dominion. And what good am i in a robot revolution? 85 words a minute. THAT'S what good.

I finally developed a habit that I think is kind of cool and that is tugging on the end of my mustache. Unfortunately it's sort of a faux-stache as I'm incapable of growing anything of note south of nose. Also, I don't know if you heard about this, but I'm losing my hair, like an asshole. It's pretty great. You know those mindless landscape prints of cottages and boring-as-hell waterfalls that are mislabeled "art" and dumped wholesale into suburban living rooms? That's the top of my head! An unnoticeable variation on an unspectacular and wholly depressing theme. If I had left any crumbs of hope that there is such thing as a specialness in humanity (which crumbs didn't, I think, exist by the way), they blew away when I saw the top of my head in a mirror, and cwouldn't have been able to tell it apart from any 36-47 year-old guy anywhere.

I'm going to an Angels game. That's code for a baseballe game. The code is "Angels" because that's the name of the sports team. Owned of course by billionaire Moreno. Man, how great is that to buy a team of people who have gotten together to collectively be good at a sport? And to buy it from Disney! I bet he feels awesome at night. And I"m gonna see them play. The Red Sox. Owned of course by three other rich-as-fuck fucks. I want to be able to own something spellt wrong and still be badass. That would rock. And watch baseball games and think "They are kind-of literally, mine" But of course that doesn't mean the teams *have* to do things for them, like build them shoes, chew their food, or go to war for them. Still. I can't wait to watch baseball from an awesome plastic seat. Or something. I don't really know what it's going to be like. That's how few baseball games I've been to in my life. Slightly more football games, and slightly less than that hockey games. But really to shorten it, you can say that regardless of what the people were doing, I collected with a very large group of people to surround a smaller group, and while my large group didn't really have much required of us (other than to generally face the middle of our collective circle), the smaller group in the middle had more specific and important jobs: to move around and take action which, in itself figuratively revolved around a small object. So really, my large group was physically surrounding this smaller group which figuratively surrounded this object. ANd in two-out-of-three cases, the name of the event came from the object. And for the record, I could get into a sport called puck, but I guess it wasn't to be.

Oh yeah, and that's on Easter Sunday. On which, until this year, I had done something very different. I wonder if all of this would have fit inside of a tweet. I knew the answer to that before I typed it.

So it probably goes without say-typing that I'm going to try and let loose my thought-bowels into this toilet-page, and flush-publish it, releasing it into the internet-sewer, more often than I used to (which was either twice a year, once every two years, or less). I don't know what represents my asshole in that last long analogy. I guess my brain. No, probably my fingers. My brain would be more my intestines. It gets complicated when you literarily change something with a hole into something with no actual hole. You have to be clever. Let's just say my fingers are my asshole.

richard.