Latest | Conundrum
I never know whether or not to like those Instagram posts that declare someone famous has died. Because it’s like, am I showing support for the person, or their death? Can we all agree on what this means please. Would like to publicly show my grieving for the people I love — or my hatred for those who can rot in hell.
Thank You?
What is it about someone commenting on the beauty of something you own that makes you strongly suspect they’re soon going to steal it?
You’re Literally A Piece of Toast
YouTube is becoming a space where really jacked guys react to how much protein other really jacked guys think is good for you.
Huge Entities Arriving Presently
Why do most modern musicians release their art with threats? — “I told you I wasn’t fucking finished yet. You’re not ready for this shit. Want this to stop? It won’t. Ever!”
From Fun To Fuck Sake
People who review sandwiches online and open it up to show you the fillings inside are cretins. Don’t open it up. That’s like when someone shows you their bare ass and then decides to part the cheeks. It goes from fun to fuck sake real fast.
Large Fading Penises on Brick Walls
Is graffiti still a thing or is it all left over from like seven years ago?
Digital Burgers
On some clear-skied Summer evenings when the Earth’s purple dome starts to gather a crop of distant stars, I’ll sit back and think, how many videos of burgers being made have I actually watched? And why is the answer probably more than a hundred? Is this an illness of some kind? I mean, every video is the exact same. It’s a burger like…
The Birth of Consciousness
You know that whole thing about the brain naming itself? Why didn’t it go for something like Chad Broadhammer, Stone Lightning Bolt, Mercy Largecock? I mean — Brain? Come on. It just looks like you misspelt Brian.
Happy Halloween, Man. Sincerely.
Halloween has become scary again. As I write this, I take refuge on my living room floor with every single light in my house turned off, listening to the swarms of over-hyped children slam their tiny bodies into my front door and windows. They’re trying to crack the glass with their bare fists, I know it. They’re screaming, crying, whining, my dog is going absolutely fucking mental as fireworks explode overhead and the doorbell is held pressed to produce one unbroken alarm until my sister has to run out in her pyjamas, pleading for peace. We had clamped the gate of our house shut with a bike lock. This did not stop them. They chewed through the rubber. They are here for blood.
Don’t Skip This Ad. If You Just Give Me Five —
Swear to God, if YouTube tells me one more time to “Build wealth by trading with 212” or that my workouts are ineffective because I don’t know what body type I am, I’m going to go insane, or worse, pay for premium.
Junk
Love how that email folder is called Junk. They didn’t go for something like ‘Less Important’ or ‘Other.’ Just Junk. Like as if my computer reads some of my incoming emails and thinks to itself, “Yeah, this is fucking junk.”
I like the idea of an invisible and extremely prejudiced bouncer standing at the door to my inbox. Some huge bald A.I. saying “Sorry random brunch spot visited once five years ago when access to free wifi was needed, looks like tonight’s just not your night,” or maybe, “You should go grab a coffee platform unsubscribed to seven years ago but whom still sends me weekly newsletters, you’re in no state to enter this man’s inbox.”
Note to self: The Junk Folder is an excellent name for a club/bar. Although in truth, my junk folder would be the saddest club to ever exist. I mean, just imagine it, a very clinical white space playing no music, serving no drinks, and filled only with conversations about job application rejections, thesis extension requests, and detailed information about every 4am Uber I’ve ever taken. Not sure what the opposite of a rave is, but this sounds about right.
Overheard Viking Splash Tour Guide:
“When I die I want to go peacefully in my sleep.”
Hope
I have never been the person who says “Well, cheers everyone!” Nor do I want to be. That person has never known true pain.
Live Amateur Theatre
It’s pitch-black. The thin foldable seat holding up my ass is a whole new world of uncomfortable. I cross my left leg over the right to try and achieve some level sense of comfort. In the act I kick the back of the seat in front of me and whisper Shit sorry. The person next to me glances over. I stare dead-straight ahead like I don’t even exist. The person behind me coughs twice. Once because they have to and then again to clear the remaining goop and nonsense. I feel or imagine I feel the cough hit the back of my neck. I shift my body forward and ever so slightly turn my head as if to say ‘That’s fucking horrible. You’re fucking horrible.’ A draft of dry ice floods the air. I really really like the smell for some reason so I inhale deeply. This causes me to cough twice, once because I have to and then again to clear the sweet chemical fog from my lungs. The person in front of me shifts their body forwards and turns their head slightly to look back. Fuck him, I think. I can’t help it. The lights come up. A few paces away there’s a person lying across the stage wearing a bedsheet tied in the shape of a toga. I wonder if he’s supposed to be dead. His chest is clearly moving up and down. But I’m pretty sure he’s meant to be dead. My contact lens shifts to one side of my eye. I jab my finger into the socket and try to reposition it. My vision blurs for a moment before the world racks back into focus. It’s now that I realise I am far too close to the action which is about to unfold. I am in the second row. And it’s also now that I realise the stage isn’t a stage at all, it’s the ground, the same level as us, the audience. I un-cross my legs and firmly plant my feet on the floor. In the act I kick the back of the seat in front of me and whisper Shit sorry. The person on the stage-like area sits up and begins to speak. They do not have a microphone. Their voice sounds weak and distant. I’ve already been taken out of the fiction. The actor paces from one side of the stage to the other becoming increasingly sweaty. He pauses, letting what he’s just said hang in the air. I can hear a thousand mouths breathing around me. A tear rolls down the actor’s cheek. A text alert rings out from the back of theatre and someone in my row sneezes. The actor, still crying silently, looks to me. I wonder if there’s an issue with something or if this is all part of it. I stare at the actor’s feet to avoid making eye-contact. I’ve got to piss so fucking badly. Another person coughs.