That’s also all, the Nazi salute motherfucker. He can spin it whatever way he wants; he’s still a bigoted, fascist piece of human flotsam.
Target: 1000 words
Written: 9100 words, short story: Forest Edge
Read: The Oracle Year, Charles Soule
Comics: Pitt 9-11, 0.5
Music: I Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For, U2 (I'm also reasonably sure that I don't actually know what I'm looking for, but I guess that's a less catchy single)That is all.
Target: 1000 words
Written: 5184 words, short stories: Forest Edge
Read: The Oracle Year, Charles Soule
Comics: Pitt 5-8
Music: I Should Coco, SupergrassWhat is it about men that seems to engender entitlement when it comes to women?
Is it a cultural thing? If so, it’s permeated almost every culture since recorded history, regardless of their proximity to one another. Is it biological?
Why do we, as men, feel so entitled to women? Why would those of us who have nothing to offer feel entitled to women who offer the most?
Why does every pathetic, loser, “but I’m a nice guy”, fucking incel feel like they have the rights to every woman’s body?
I mean, come on. I’m overweight, average looking, I don’t possess any superhuman sex skills or attributions other than an open mind and an enthusiasm for the sport.
Why would I think that I’ve got any right to a woman that I haven’t earned? Why should the supermodels of the world be mine to do with as I please?
Why would they?
I mean, come on. You have to earn it. Get in shape. Take care of yourself. Make yourself interesting as a person.
No one’s entitled to shit.
You want to fuck beautiful people? Well, fat, lazy slob in the basement with cheeto dust on his chin ain’t going to cut it.
Ducky ain’t it.
Personally, I blame John Hughes.
Target: 1000 words
Written: 1117 words, short story: Forest Edge
Read: The Oracle Year, Charles Soule
Comics: Pitt 1-4
Music: I Scream Sunday, Johnny CashThere’s been a recurring theme in my work, mostly because as a plot device, it’s evil, but it’s always the same. I know, I know. It happens the world over, but maybe I’m utilizing it too much.
Men and women have always been a complicated thing, but the reality is that it’s not actually that complicated.
It’s the same as anything, really. Be good to each other, and things will be fine.
Unfortunately, it’s far too easy (especially these days), to be shitty to one another.
And as has always been, no matter the race, creed or culture, women take the worst end of it. It doesn’t matter what you are, if you’re a woman, it’s worse for you.
And that’s bullshit.
I mean, I lucked out, technically; I’m a straight, white male. According to most of what I see these days, I should not be allowed to comment anything on these matters, but Yes, Ma’am. I agree.
While that might sound like complaining, it’s not. I do agree, for the most part. I don’t want to mansplain shit to anyone.
I do want to demonstrate that I understood the lesson.
I’m just starting to wonder about how things seem to go in my stories, if I’ve actually taken the lesson to heart.
It wasn’t part of The Mungk (except for maybe the hints of shrewishness in Diana), but it played a big role in Get Back Again, and in my recently written, but not yet published Western Cradle series, and here it is again, in Forest Edge.
Am I really learning?
Something to think about, going forward.
Target: 1000 words
Written: 343 words, short story: Forest Edge
Read: The Oracle Year, Charles Soule
Comics: Preacher 64-66
Music: I Palindrome I, They Might Be GiantsI think there’s a significant portion of us that would love to drive off down the highway in a fast convertible, beautiful woman beside us, no cares, flaunting social norms, cranking tunes, mooning and flashing the passersby, outrunning the cops, and then pulling over on an out of the way back road to fuck on the hood about every couple of hours.
It’s a young person’s game, of course, and if you’ve ever paid any attention to one of these stories, they’re always freeing, but they all end in tragedy.
Because there’s no such thing as freedom without responsibility, and while I think we should all feel free to flash our tits down Main St, or eat a pussy in the grass, carefree can also be careless.
Every high has its hangover.
At some point, reality comes crashing in, and we have a choice. Figure out how to live the adventure while taking care of business, or how to go out in a blaze of glory.
Viable choices, all.
Target: 1000 words
Written: 374 words, short story: Forest Edge
Read: Tropic Of Kansas, Christopher Brown
Comics: Preacher 60-63
Music: I Might Be Wrong: Live Recordings, RadioheadI’m thinking a lot about what’s evil and what is not.
I’ve just written a four issue comic series, a western based on revenge, which begins typically enough for the kind of spaghetti western I’m basing it on, but takes a wild turn at the end of the first issue (unrevealed future plot twist).
I’m a little worried it pushes me into territory I’m not comfortable representing.
That is, like Get Back Again, I’m concerned some right wing fuck is going to take it and construe it as pro-bigotry or worse, in this case, pro-life.
But that’s not what it’s about (and I’m very pro-choice); it’s similar to The Mungk in that it’s about trauma, and how it can shape us for the worse, until the evil that’s been done to us becomes us abusing ourselves, and maybe others, in ways we never would otherwise.
It’s also about whether evil can be used for good, sometimes?
It’s about guilt and remorse and self-hatred.
Because listen, I know more than a few women who’ve been through it, and despite what the right wing would have you think, most of them did not behave as though they were tossing a used Kleenex.
Most of them were genuinely distressed, upset, even traumatized by it. Not one of them didn’t have strong feelings about it, even if they didn’t want to say it out loud. It was clearly visible on their face and in their eyes.
The other thing that I know about it is that not one of them has ever said they would make a different choice. They don’t regret the choice, even if there’s still remorse.
Like putting down a terminally ill pet; it sucks, you hate it, it makes you weep for days, but even years later, if asked, you’ll say it was the right thing to do.
Anyway, thoughts and feelings on this day; I can’t imagine what the poor women go through.
Even if this case, it’s a little more… extreme.
Target: 1000 words
Written: 720 words, comic: Western Cradle #4
Read: Tropic Of Kansas, Christopher Brown
Comics: Preacher 57-59, Preacher: Tall In The Saddle 1
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Did I mention no time?
Target: 1000 words
Written: 607 words, comic: Western Cradle #4
Read: Tropic Of Kansas, Christopher Brown
Comics: Preacher 53-56
Music: I Just Can't Stop It, The English BeatWell, that was a run. Very little time today, but I managed a rough draft of the conclusion of Western Cradle.
I like it a lot, minus the obvious criticism of first draft and the last few lines being maybe meaningful, but meaning I need to expand on that a lot more during the first three issues.
Well, fuck.
Target: 1000 words
Written: 2011 words, comic: Western Cradle #4
Read: Tropic Of Kansas, Christopher Brown
Comics: Preacher 49-52
Music: I Heard They Suck Live, NOFXIt’s been five weeks since I was there, and it still sucks.
Man, do I ever prefer my cozy home office. One can practically feel the stress melting away when I think of it. Plus, I can get more done on breaks and lunches; I don’t have to try and jam it all in before I leave for work or after I get home. It’s like gaining an hour a day.
My writing only takes roughly that; it’s a great time to do laundry or dishes or prep a meal.
Why anyone would ever want to be in an office in this day and age, if they didn’t absolutely have to…
Fucking ridiculous.
(Plus, I’m actually more productive at home; I’ve too much social anxiety to like sitting in a crowd all day).
Target: 1000 words
Written: 370 words, comic: Western Cradle #4
Read: Tropic Of Kansas, Christopher Brown
Comics: Preacher 45-48
Music: I Have A Pony, Steven WrightThe Christmas party of my former place of employment, which drove me to the brink, out of my mind, and into crippling debt in trying to think there was a way out of it all.
My wife still works there. It’s still awful.
On the plus side, they fired a bunch of people, so it looks like they’re paring down to sell.
So, maybe ten years of this annual reminder of workplace PTSD can be fucking done.
But not yet.
Target: 1000 words
Written: 242 words, comic: Western Cradle #4
Read: Tropic Of Kansas, Christopher Brown
Comics: Preacher 41-44
Music: I Fought The Law, Green Day