Currently on chrome and firefox on both windows on my work PC and chrome on my personal chromebook this blog's blogrolls and feeds are broken and disordered and in a strange font and clicking on a site brings up nothing but code so (fuck me) all the links in the grid of anger are at least a day old, fine metaphors abound, enshittification-wise, today's mood the same as yesterday's the same as tomorrow's:
I'm trying to be cold but too-hot wins. Work bloweth now also, my busiest hardest month of the year, the month when my two core responsibilities peak, and here, as in everywhere, the assholiest people are assholier than ever. You know, shitlords are tuning us to be meaner angrier, more selfish, less kind, it's part of their extermination plan for us, to make us so busy being angry and assholes to each other so we are less assholes to them while they openly endeavor to kill us. It works: look at my grids of anger. You do know that shitlords think you are capable of enjoyable evil equal to them? It's their magic power. I was briefly saved yesterday when I heard this song on Daniel's show, I love Lon Fin Killie but I love Bows more and the song below the grid and this song especially
Everyone's trying to figure out where to go next. California was good until some of it was swept into a furnace, the rest suspended next to a target over a carnival dunk tank. Nothing is good forever, not even a thing of beauty, no matter what Keats said about joy in that really long poem I could never finish. Chocolate was good, especially dark, now they've found cadmium and lead. Eggs were cheap, then pricey, then astronomical, as in probably cheaper on Mars where no one wants to go except one megarich clodpole. New Orleans was good but then it snowed in New Orleans and those levees won't last forever, either. Today the White House announced reality was canceled once again, maybe to be reinstated when the Styx freezes over. I spent the day alone in my friend's house in the Arizona desert. Wandering from room to room, asking the mountains, Are you my mother? I wonder where she went after hospice care, if she joined the few souls flitting from that armless saguaro to the dying mesquite tree by my friend's pretty pool she never swims in, fluffing their wings as they settle and coo. Detroit is supposed to be good in fifty years but I'll be dead then and if I lived there now, I might want to be dead. Everyone wants to breathe but it's getting more difficult, all those boots crushing everyone's tracheas, all those trolls under the bridges trying to devour us as we bleat our alarm. Baaa! I'm bleating now. The mountains reassure me but the sun's going down. Soon I'll be left with nothing but stars, some of them fake, space filling with satellites while the blazing bodies drift farther away and the moon trails hopelessly after them, crying for love.
I am pleased to reaffirm I'm not the drooling fanboy I hope I never will be so I'm disappointed but not surprised I'm underwhelmed by the new Lambchop, as good as it is it hasn't saved me, I wanted it to, you can vouch, my fault for wanting another Bible. < (listen gratis once)> Punching the Clown gets better with each listen to the songs I didn't hear until last Friday but my favorite songs had already been pre-released. Unslayed, me, that's my complaint. Only me can save fucking me. Fine metaphors abound
AT FIRST I THOUGHT I WOULDN'T SAY ANYTHING ABOUT IT
but then I thought keeping quiet about it might appear even ruder. At first I thought I had died and gone to heaven but that scapegrace the unruly sun informed me otherwise.
I am in my heavyset pants and find this occupation of beekeeping charming though I have yet to meet my first bee. We don't know if I get to keep the hat and veil.
"Too hot," he said: "Too hot for everything!" He so caring, so mundane. "...to have you on board." Bulgarian choirs everywhere stood up and sang the song of the rent. It was lovely. Now I shall take a short vacation, proof that I am needed here. Nobody wants my two cents
anymore, I believe. To some it was like skating in summer. A small turret perched over the lake. It exploded. That's the way I feel about people taking me out to some nice repast, and afterwards you go home and go over everything that was stated. I prefer flowers and breathing.
Not reactivating My Sillyass Deserted Island Five Game beyond elevating Lampchop, who may already have a permanent seat, who remembers? from one of the permanent rotating members to an irrevocable permanent seat, Lambchop, the only drug that eases my bouts of dark despair at my dearth of hope for my daughter's life in the clusterfucked world I leave her (and I find myself wishing often for an on/off switch I could flip so I won't be a geriatric burden while she navigates the constantly worsening gruesomeness of the United States of Assholes). How's that for a Blog Days of Summer in a dying Stringtown, Blegsylvania post for you?
Gets better, me, every time I listen to that song. When my daughter is my age it will be 2059, the earth will still be here, will the world? The blog is getting more bot pings than ever, I told a friend, and what's truly weird now is that the latest mass sweep is not coming from the giant AI-shitlord bot farms but from seemingly private citizens on their home's local internet providers
each looking at an archived old post, is creepy, and my friend said, you know every fascist overlord and their shock troops are documenting and hording every nasty thing you say about them and I said yes, I'm counting on it, it's the only on/off switch I can contemplate enabling now even if I'm not the one that will throw *that* switch. More damning evidence of my treasonous opinions in grid below, but first
Too many people do not understand that Dump's Army is double-dipping with immigrants, it thrills the bass and just as importantly trains and gives ICE live target practice for when they're coming at you after the imminent coup
My compulsive response to the deadest Blog Days of Summer ever, exponentially deader than the deadest ever before (I'd like to take credit for here's decline but it's deader and getting deader everywhere), is of course to post an exceptionally self-indulgent autoblogographical bleggalgaze on a Friday, the deadest day of the week every week, and as many angry apocalyptic doomlinks I could collect since the last grid before pushing PUBLISH
I used to burn off my extra-manic impulses by pruning the blogrolls of the dying and dead and planting them in one of the two mortuary blogrolls but I've reached peak Fuck That though I assure you it has everynothing to do with the endlessly terminal ghost-towning of this particular Stringtown - it's not just here shit be dying, everynothing be dying everynowhere- and now I'd just rather bleat and bray, bleat and bray the name of my next band, here's the first album cover
Reminder: each post is a poem and each painting a headshot. In good news for me if not for you, L gave me a bag of acrylic paint tubes, this the first headshot using it (the red background), I can now go completely opaque (one can only get so opaque with gouache no matter how thick it's applied). You are warned. Hey, there's a new Water Damage album coming in October, they just released one song off it
Moderate Democrats are not afraid a leftist candidate will lose to a magachoad candidate in 2028 but that a leftist candidate will trounce a magachoad candidate in 2028
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