Two nineteen ā em

Somewhere, on the open road, there is a big, burly truck driver trying to keep awake. To him, I recommend flu-powered fits of coughing. It works, I know.

Have you ever received a text message with the word “gipsters” in it before? If you do, the proper course of action is imagine several Ronald Reagans in tight jeans and deep v-necks. And laugh, and laugh, and laugh, and be horrified.

They were against walls before it was cool—or whatever joke we’re running into the ground these days.

Cultural significance aside, I managed to bust a hole in my own wall with Groucho Marx glasses. I’m going to go try not to lose sleep over it.

Life is still great

Subtitle: The most rambling of the ramble rambles.

Life is still great. Still. Can we talk about that for a minute?

It was when the cute girl at school laughed in your face in 8th grade (or grade 8, you lovable Canadians), and still is just now as you go about waging an ugly Black Friday war on sensibility. Your artillery is a sharp elbow jab and you’re dropping them precisely betwixt the ribs of an inept forty-something father because—damn it all—you’re getting that robot dog. It’s $10 off and it’s for George. You don’t really like George, but you got up at 4 AM, damn it, and you’re going to save on all of your robot dog purchases today.

But, even in the ugly, life is still great.

I’m not trying to soapbox all of you about first-world problems and how, despite economic collapse, we live in a society able to self-medicate with overindulgence. Or how we should be so lucky to have access to clean water. Or how we’re in the top 10% of the world’s something-something by the mere fact that you’re reading—and I’m writing—this on some computer-y, internet-y device that costs 30 lifetimes of work for some farmer in a country you’ve never heard of.

You know all of this, so I wouldn’t dare remind you of it.

What I will wax about is the of greatness of you all, the people that I know. Yeah, you kids are pretty grand. I’ve curated with skill beyond any algorithm, my real-life social network. A real-life friend, five stars, two thumbs up, a thousand likes and stars, and an infinite diggity-duggs for each of you.

Let’s be clear, a whole bunch of shitty things have happened to humanity since the beginning of ever, but since the time we formed a complex consciousness we’ve used it to get ourselves down about the relatively mundane (along with the objectively not-so-mundane things very worth getting worked up over). But, I’ll say this, my own experiences of traversing the the crap so eventual and unavoidable these past few years have been pretty alright because of the people I’ve seemingly always known, and the people I’ve met during, and even the people I’ve never met on this computer-y, internet-y device.

You’re all pretty spectacular, sharp elbows and all.

And, can I just say that Patrick Reust has boxes of my books at his apartment? They’ve been there for over a year and a half. They’re not even good books. That man rocks a patience something awesome. So stoic, so bearded.