Here's Tom With The Weather
About
Jumping Jesus on a Pogo Stick. Everybody knows the burrow owl lives. In a hole. In the ground. Why the hell do you think they call it a burrow owl, anyway?
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Jackie, you are a gentleman and a scholar.
virtiol
He could smell her before he saw her, an industrial take on something floral - a corporate view of feminine, in synthetic materials.
He could tell, for looking at her, that she woke up before everyone else in her home. Silently, she slid between the sheets, the skin of her feet meeting the cold wood of her bedroom floor without protest, caressing the carpet in the hallway lovingly before flicking a light to the bathroom and, with one motion, disappearing behind a thick wooden door. She worked in silence, reappearing in a chemical cloud. To look at the unnatural straight, slickness of her long hair, it only caused him to avert his eyes. It was only when he imagined jaggedly cutting into the straight line of her bangs, only when he turned the long, rigid strands into loose ringlets that he could see the beauty that lie in her face beneath the powder and stain she had so carefully reapplied.
Not long ago, on these shores, woman poisoned themselves every morning to attain the fair skin of those had never seen a day of long work under the sun. Still, they toiled away, trying to achieve effortlessness. They need only sigh to tug at their binds, and men would fall to their knees. They need only to pretend to be above piss and shit and wrongdoing to be adored, endlessly. Above aging and the imperfection of a truly tender heart. Beneath elbow-length gloves, fingers freshly scrubbed of callouses. Reassigned elsewhere.
“Sorry, eh-sir. We can’t take no more customers - coffee machine ate it, not a minute before you walked in that door. And what’s breakfast without coffee?”
His expression didn’t change. She was wearing layers of fabric, cinched tight around her waist. The nearer to the sun and particular layer might be, the less conservative it was. Her highheels clicked across the stained, clean linoleum as she walked, precise steps set in front of eachother, one heel ground down just a little shorter than the other to add some interest to her walk. He knew this without looking at her.
“Tea, uh — ma’am?” he asked, dark eyes finally meeting her dark eyes - hers more brown than gray, his the opposite.
Her eyes were milky, moving with underwater resistance. Swimming in the tides of her face. The back of the pin in her hand tapped plastic pinned to her chest. /Dora./ Disinterested motions of someone else, as her eyes washed over the bag at his feet.
A Merman, pop! A merman.
(Source: tried-to-save-myself)
just off the key of reason: everything i wish i had said to that fucking Mcdonald's employee
“Would you prefer a girl’s toy or a boy’s toy?”
Well actually, I’d prefer a restaurant that didn’t base my toy collection
on the genitals that I fuck with
but apparently, that restaurant isn’t being built anytime soon
because this one was built on pretty solid ground.I’d…
Working at McDonald’s is a SHITTY FUCKING JOB. You get shitty fucking hours, and people treat you like shit. Assholes come from near and far to treat you like shit, and eat shit food - and I can guarantee you that that person you spoke to doesn’t work there for fun while their financing their night-classes for gender studies. They didn’t say ‘do you have a boy or a girl?’ They said ‘Do you want a boy toy, or a girl toy?’
They divided the two toys into categories that can easily be understood by the general public in a matter of seconds. Who do you know that wants to spend more than two seconds in the drive through, let alone wants to answer one god-damned question from them.
Shitty jobs suck. Shitty customers suck. There’s a million and one valid reasons to be angry, but this is just wasting your time and your energy.
He didn’t say do you have a dick or tits. He didn’t say it would be horrible if you gave your boy a ‘girl’ toy. He just asked you what damned toy you wanted.
Vitriol
“Did you know, that if you go back long enough, that word they use all over the radio means ‘revelation.’” No one really bothered to enforce the rule anymore, unless they already decided they wanted to pull you over, and even then, you could do everything perfect and you wouldn’t have a prayer. He reaches over his shoulder and fits the clunky, metal buckle shut anyway, the click metal /chink/ sounding off by his right hip. Cars like this - most of them had been junked a long time ago. They made him feel comfortable and uneasy at the same time, in his head and in his stomach. He could feel it now. “That thing they call an apocalypse, what it really means is ‘the lifting of the veil.’” He worked the crank that brought the window down - a simple motion that sent the wind pooling, caressing, smoothing his face. Wind he had been lucky to escape only months ago. He was grateful it wasn’t more advanced, not one of the newer models, where everything you wanted from your car was only a button press away - for the bold, only a whisper away. For the purists. For the rich.
The other man wasn’t listening. It was just as well. “Damn thing is on the fritz again.” There was some sort of degraded American accent there, something stained by a permanent drunken slur - alcohol that would taint his mannerisms, his words, his thoughts, even when stone sober. Even when convulsing on the floor because his body couldn’t take clean blood. He growled under his breath, continuing to fiddle with anything he could reach, fruitlessly, the sound not very discernible from his speaking voice. A gravely, grinding growl. Not so much a way of communicating as a means of attack and intimidation.
The hiss was a familiar sound to the car’s passenger, her eyes quickly averting from the dash, the radio, the speakers, the vents pumping the outside air inside after coating it to the driver’s specifications, watching the scenery pass by. He never knew if he was happier to be here, watching a blur, than he would be hoofing it on the ground, experiencing things in realtime. Recent events left him tired. These last few years left him tired. He sunk as far as he could into his coat without relaxing his grip on the ripped and patched backpack in his lap, his eyes slowly fluttering shut - opening - shut again. The cold feeling of glass against his forehead.
“God damn mechanic.” He was a scary dispassionate monster, it occurred to the man in the passenger’s seat. This driver, his face sunk into itself, spewing out wrinkles, spiderwebbing down his face, sinking and collecting where it shouldn’t - hard to look at without touching your own face. Every word stated with a clear and familiar hatred that came off as entirely typical - something flowing through his veins, burning him up, something he wasn’t prepared to do a thing about.
His eyes, they wouldn’t stay open, watching the man as best as he could from the side mirror outside his window, pretending to watch the skeletons of trees pass by. Not moments ago everything had been green. This was the city’s parting salute, and somewhere in the back of his head it made him sad to think he might never see it again. He admits nothing.
Vitriol
Even before all this happened, no one warned him about the hole they were sliding him into. No one sent up and flares or had any come-to-Jesus talks. How, in those movies they used to pump out years ago, those jobs the characters would gripe about, those stories of them sitting in the sun and finding themselves - those jobs wouldn’t ever reveal themselves to him. To get anywhere, you had to have one thing or the other - experience or connections. And to get one of those boxed-in Hell-on-Earth cushy pencil-pushing jobs all those movies of our youthful Daytime Tv pursuits promised us, you had to have both. All those teaches that would tell him how clever he was, how wise beyond his years - what a joy he was to teach, to speak to, to send into the world. All those sculptors, molding him into something hollow, waving the future coyly in his face. With his intelligence, with his common sense, it was guaranteed to him. An inevitability. They imagined a future better than their own for him, something they had helped to give him - they inflated into part-time parents, sweeping any ugliness in the corner. This, he realized, the thin cushioning of his Converse sliding across ice all those years ago, was all a gilded lie. He was paying for the bad decisions of his parents, who were probably still paying for the bad decisions of their parents. Graduation come and gone, and here he was following Joe from place to place, job to job, snow to snow.
What they didn’t tell him was how, in the low paying jobs - those you put your time in so you can get somewhere better - they won’t hire you if you’re too well spoken. When your spelling is immaculate. When you capitalize your sentences and put punctuation at the end. Why employ someone who will just move on to something better, why train someone who might some day become their competition? Why hire that kid who was the kid in school who made them feel bad about themselves when report cards came out. That do-gooder. That brown-noser. That B average student.
And forget those jobs that require a cover sheet. Forget spending your time typing and formatting one up. Because if your mom doesn’t play tennis with his wife, and you can’t even get a job cooking fries, who says you’re fit to sort his mail? Who says your fit to take her calls? To pick out birthday presents for their children. Those 2.5 blonde-haired, blue-eyed angels of perfect breeding and expensive education. Pills that make them behave. How could you ever compare, no matter how well you pretend to speak in his presence? No matter how much time you spent ironing your nicest shirt. At the end of the day, your blood still smells poor to him. Your skin reeks of coupons. Your hair cut by a budget corporate branch set up so that those kids who barely squeaked past beauty school could pretend to be employed and consume, consume, consume.
I think
Erotic fantasy is usually boring and poorly written.
However -
I do think ‘albeit with a substantial erection’ should be added randomly to every story you ever tell to people you don’t think are paying attention.
The-Church-of-CyberPunk: differences
infighting hurts movements. we are all different and have our own views and opinions. WE ALL WANT TO BE TREATED FAIRLY AND HUMANELY. people all over the world are suffering and being killed as we debate vegan vs vegetarian, anarcho-this vs anarcho-that, punk vs hippie, gender vs other-gendered,…
(Source: churchofindustry)
Unsolicited Advice
Sometimes you hear the story of someone’s life, and you think about that little dark secret in your closet - that thing you dust off and look at when you want to feel tragic, and you think about how, despite continued, sporadic effort, you haven’t been able to vanquish it. This monster in your story, it looks like a lot of things, but it doesn’t look like anything next to this other person’s monster. You think - how did they get over that? How could they get over that? How could any one person deal with something like that all alone. Because, you know, at the end of the day - we can get some help from our friends, but at the end of the day - we’re all really alone.
There’s a secret, and you’re not supposed to know it - and you respect that, on some level that’s hard to communicate with. People, they try and sell you books - they try and get you to watch their shows. To call their radio stations. To listen to them, and what they have to say, and affirm their existence for them. They want you to give up something in yourself, and they’ll tell you - the majick word you say, drug you take, ritual you perform - at the end of the day, when you’re staring your monster in the eyes, and you’re thinking - it could be bigger, that could be me, if things were just different.
How would I handle that.
They give you this kind of knowing look, and you try and decode it, and if you did you would know it told a story of just getting the fuck over it. That’s all there is to do. It’s your only real option. You can put it off, but at the end of the day, all the attention in the world won’t fix you. People can judge you for what wounds you - they can say that your skin is too thin, that you have no right - they could put it into perspective a million times over.
There’s always someone worse off, after all. There’s always someone who had it worse.
What hurts you doesn’t matter. What you’ve allowed into your space with you, to cool your bed on lonely nights, to fuel those erratic thoughts you have about yourself - those unfair events that sit with you still. Let them go.
