A sociologist is someone who, when a beautiful women enters the room and everybody look at her, looks at everybody.

Unknown (via sociolab)


If your experience is that your water comes from the tap and that your food comes from the grocery store, then you are going to defend to the death the system that brings those to you because your life depends on them; if your experience is that your water comes from a river and that your food comes from a land base then you will defend those to the death because your life depends on them. So part of the problem is that we have become so dependent upon this system that is killing and exploiting us, it has become almost impossible for us to imagine living outside of it and it’s very difficult physically for us to live outside of it.

An Interview with Derrick Jensen  (via cultureofresistance)

Whatever It Takes


                                                        Unblocked by Citrus Tree Designs

“All the effort in the world won’t matter if you’re not inspired.”
― Chuck Palahniuk, Diary

I have discovered that I need coffee to write.

This is common among writers, we all have crutches, muses found at the bottom of amber bottles, pills swallowed or powders snorted (rarely is the crutch as innocuous as a cup of coffee, but I’ve always erred on the side of the grandma. Remember my last police encounter?).

Fun Fact: coffee acts like a diuretic ( it makes you pee, alcohol has the same effect) and it wastes electrolytes – particularly magnesium. This is why you get hangovers with the headaches and the pain and the lethargy.

Guys, THAT IS MY LIFE . ERRRYDAY. My life is one big hangover without the funny stories from the night before. (Don’t cry for me Argentina)

But I don’t need coffee to waste electrolytes, I already waste magnesium all by myself without any assistance of caffeine or alcohol.  I’m chronically deficient, my memory is non existent, my hands cramp, my body betrays me (cue violin).

But when I sit down to write with a cup of hot water, or even tea, my words stutter. My brain stalls, I sit here tapping my fingers, lazily trolling through the news, trying to find something to write about. I start to write ten, fifteen times, erase the words over and over. I can’t follow a thought to see where it ends up, I can’t find the right cadence.

After a coffee, however, my mind races, I can’t type fast enough to keep up with the the thoughts hurtling past (which is why my posts so often miss entire words, they just get skipped over as I struggle to keep up) . I blast out a post in half an hour, it’s thick and involved and sometimes funny. It just comes.

But as innocuous as coffee seems, it’s not harmless for me. This is what I’ve had to get used to with the kidney disease; that normal things like one drink with friends, or a bag of black licorice, or even sweating in summer heat, don’t do normal things to me. (The upside? Unlimited salt. Also unlimited complaining. SCORE!)

During the summer when I was on my iced coffee kick, my writing got better and better but physically I began to feel worse and worse. My heart would race for hours after I finished a cup. When my blood tests kept showing decreasing electrolyte levels and I needed to start taking more medication to keep up, it seemed ridiculous.

I gave up coffee, my writing slowed. I began to post more pictures. My words became more forced, my days slower. It was sad to be able to stand back and observe it, notice that loss.

Through this process I have learned something very interesting about myself, I’ve learned just how much I will sacrifice to see the right combination of words on a page, to feel the hit of churning out a single perfect sentence, that rush of accomplishment.

It’s very surprising to me what I will give up in order to feel this kick. It’s surprising to me that I would knowingly compromise my health to get this result.

I’m drinking coffee again SWEET LAWD! It’s so good. But I feel so shitty.

I just finished Diary by Chuck Palahniuk. As I said yesterday, holy fuck what a writer. He’s savage and unrepentant and tears into his characters with his teeth. It’s inconceivable that we are writing in the same language, I feel incompetent trying to describe him; like an inept juggler, constantly dropping the ball while gazing skyward at a master who tosses language around so effortlessly, twists and molds it to his own devices while I sit here stilted and stunted, issuing feeble orders.

In Diary his main character ends up imprisoned in an attic, force fed mercury to inspire madness, insanity and the dearth of artistic talent that results.

Poor Misty Marie, blindfolded and hobbled, slave to the insatiable need to create, chemical muse poisoning her from within.

In seemed like insanity while I was reading it. I’ve always had trouble understanding addiction, why people would give up so much in pursuit of a sensation, the ghost of feeling.

But hey, here I am, a watered down version of sweet dumb Misty Marie, sitting in my own little room, drinking my sweet mercury and waiting for that kick, that rush of inspiration. Sacrificing for my own crutch, my chemical muse, suffering the consequences.

It’s surprising to me. I would have never predicted how much I would give up, how willing I was to feel listless and debilitated the rest of the day just to feel this, here, now. Fingers racing and tapping out these thoughts, and without any promise of reward, recognition. Just sending these words into the wilderness, givin’ it away for free, day after day.

And how many others like me? Ignoring sunny days, life outside, choosing instead to bow down daily before this unforgiving altar, striving for greatness, pouring their selves into these small tight words, trying to stretch them to fit around the grandness of the vision, to somehow ask them to hold in their meaning the expansiveness of this life.

“We all die. The goal isn’t to live forever, the goal is to create something that will.”
Chuck Palahniuk, Diary  

Is There Anything You Can’t Do?


I have harboured a deep and abiding love for Rob Delaney ever since I discovered his filthy tweets shortly after figuring out what a twitter was.

Him threatening to sue Kim Kardashian if she doesn’t stay married only makes me love him even more:

I’ve been married for five years. To the same woman. I’ve wanted to divorce her at times. She’s wanted to divorce me at times. But one great thing about marriage, when it’s entered by regular folks, in good faith, is that it’s hard to exit. It costs money. You have to talk to lawyers during business hours except whoops—you have a job that you need to earn money to buy food and pants—so when are you going to both take the time to do that? By the time you’d have gotten around to it, you’ve forgiven each other and maybe even reached a new appreciation for each other as you worked through whatever seemingly insurmountable problem made you hate each other for 20 minutes while you sat in your shitty car outside a CVS yelling at each other and crying. Because guess what, Kim? That’s a huge ingredient in a SUCCESSFUL marriage. Sometimes it sucks. And I don’t mean lower-case “s” sucks. I mean it SUCKS so fucking hard you’re POSITIVE you’ll give yourself stomach cancer or an embolism as you try to make your spouse explode through telekinesis. When you relax, however, and remember that you’re a bigger asshole than they are, with enough neuroses and calcified bad habits to warrant their own card catalog, you realize that they’re struggling through life’s shit storm just like you. Then you take a shower together and fuck while laughing.

           – I Am Suing Kim Kardashian, by Rob Delaney via Vice