Category: relationships

fuck john hughes

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I mean it. I love Ferris Bueller, but this whole modern nice guy is entitled to the girl thing originated with him and convinced an entire generation of boys who didn’t have the qualities women wanted, or allowed themselves to be spineless doormats, that somehow, they were entitled to whatever girl they were into, without any regard for the girl’s own agency.

And if she doesn’t want him, then it’s always what a bitch. Or why does she always go for the asshole?

Well, maybe he’s not an asshole. Maybe he’s confident. Maybe he’s funny or intelligent or takes care of his physical appearance better than you. Maybe desperation isn’t a good look.

All I’m saying is John Hughes taught a generation of boys that it was not their fault that a woman wasn’t into them; that they were entitled to a woman’s body without putting in any of the effort to become the kind of person to whom that woman might be attracted.

And these same boys secretly held, whether consciously or subconsciously, the same misogynist beliefs that they claimed to abhor, by assuming that any woman was theirs by sole right of their maleness.

Pathetic, ain’t it. Fuck Ducky. Fuck Sixteen Candles. Fuck any of the spineless “nice guys” who think turning themselves into pathetic little bitches entitles them to a goddamn thing.

Fuck incels.

But not literally.

That’s kind of the point.

Target: 1000 words
Written: 1865 words, short story: Forest Edge

Read: Radical Acceptance, Tara Brach
Comics: Pitt: In The Blood 1, Pitt 12-13, Hulk/Pitt 1
Music: No Code, Pearl Jam

incel

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What 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 attributes 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? Guess what? Fat, lazy slob in the basement with cheeto dust on his chin ain’t going to cut it.

Personally, I blame John Hughes.

Ducky ain’t it.

Target: 1000 words
Written: 1117 words, short story: Forest Edge

Read: The Oracle Year, Charles Soule
Comics: Pitt 1-4
Music: Nirvana, Nirvana

starting to wonder

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There’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: Ninety-Nine-Double-Oh Demos, Local H (most underrated grunge band ever?)

ridin’ off into the sunset

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I 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: Nina Simone Essentials, Nina Simone (probably the only good thing that'll happen all day)

the need for vengeance

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I understand the impulse, from a fiction standpoint. Who doesn’t love a good revenge story?

John Wick isn’t what it is for nothing. (They killed his dog, so he spent four movies murdering everyone that’s ever been even tangentially related to the guy who did it. As a dog owner, I’ve never been more invested.)

The problem is that revenge seldom works out the way we want. The fantasy that plays in our head of getting that asshole boss in trouble with HR or having the perfect takedown of that bitchy girl in your friend group, more often than not, what happens is… nothing.

HR doesn’t care, because that asshole boss is so far up his asshole boss’ ass that HR finds him untouchable. That bitchy girl, she’s been insulting people so long, she rebuts with a brutal takedown of her own, and it has truth in it, and you’re cut to the quick. Your friends all titter, because they, too, are assholes.

Congratulations, you’ve just made your life worse.

All I’m saying is that as nice as the fantasy is, unless you’re some superheroic powered individual like John Wick, it probably won’t work out for you. Better to cut those influences without words, and move toward your happy, rather than your revenge.

Of course, some of us can’t, and that seething anger becomes all consuming, until we’re delusional about the whole damn thing.

Target: 1000 words
Written: 360 words, comic: Western Cradle #2

Read: The Autobiography Of Malcolm X, Malcolm X (and Alex Haley, I guess)
Comics: Preacher 9-12
Music: New Wave, Against Me!

happy fuckin’ new year

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I can’t complain. We had a good time last night. I stayed sober enough to drive, which was fun.

We played the Game of Death, which is always a good time. Nobody got radiAIDS this time, so I suppose that was a win.

(RadiAIDS = AIDS + radiation poisoning. I mean, come on. You have to laugh.)

I feel like I need to go into full retreat now that the holidays are ended.

New Year’s resolution? Sell a book, write a book.

Keep on keepin’ on.

Do better today than yesterday. Start cutting out the toxic bullshit.

No more evil in my life, by my action or another’s, sanctioned by my silence.

Write. Write more. Read. Read more.

Fuck. Fuck more.

Lose some goddamned weight.

You know, the usual.

Target: 1000 words
Written: 263 words, comic: Western Cradle #1

Read: The Autobiography Of Malcolm X, Malcolm X (like it would be written by anyone else)
Comics: Preacher 5-8
Music: New Times, Violent Femmes (indeed)

spoiled children

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Not the granddaughter, that’s for sure. She may be spoiled, but she’s not entitled (yet, thankfully). It’s more loved than spoiled. The fruits of being the only grandchild, I suppose.

Still, there are some individuals around here who behave like sullen teenagers forced to a relative’s house pouting on the couch. Spoiled, ungrateful, living in a fantasy land of projected (but untrue, or at least, delusioned) bad behaviour that ultimately allows them to claim the victim position, despite being almost entirely the offenders.

Man, am I ever sick of that pose.

Target: 1000 words
Written: 271 words, comic: Western Cradle #1

Read: The Art Of Asking, Amanda Palmer
Comics: Chu 5-8
Music: New Moon, Discs 1-2, Elliott Smith

the busiest vacation

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EVER.

And not like you’re travelling and seeing and doing things.

Nope.

House cleaning. In-laws that are mildly insane (okay, a lot insane – seriously, someday I’ll write about it, but it’s very difficult to write about it in a way that’s empathetic and believable, at this point. Seriously, you try to explain it to people and they either reduce it to a simple thing that can be easily fixed (it can’t) or they think you’re exaggerating or outright lying).

Hint: you’re not.

Anyway, my back hurts, my brain hurts, and I’m very, very fucking tired.

Fuck Christmas.

Target: 1000 words
Written: 150 words, comic: Western Cradle #1

Read: The Vegetarian Myth, Lierre Keith (cannot recommend higher - it's a shame she's apparently a TERF as well - I guess we'll have to agree to agree on this, and disagree on the trans thing)
Comics: Chew 60, Outer Darkness/Chew 1-3
Music: A New Kind Of Army, Anti-Flag

birthdates

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My niece turns seventeen today, which is insane to me, but that’s time, I guess. Time is weird.

The bond she’s formed with my wife pleases me to no end. You’d swear they were actual daughter and mother, except there’s no fighting, only a intense shared love of crafts, aesthetics, music, etc.

She and I bond over music as well, but she’s more of a Swiftie/Rodrigo/Roan girl and if you’ve paid attention to my musical choices, I am… not.

(That said, I actually don’t mind many of the new female pop stars; there’s way more depth there than there used to be, and they’re leaps and bounds ahead of their male compatriots. That said, I’m more impressed with T-Swift as a machine of longevity and Beatle-like clout, and I’m not really into Chappell Roan’s Amanda-Palmer-In-Pop-Star-Drag thing. If I want Amanda Palmer, I’ll listen to Amanda Palmer. Plus, that country song? I realize she’s the hot thing right now, so the critics all fellated the shit out of the song, but I strongly suspect that once they realize no one’s into it, they’ll crucify the poor girl for such a clearly misguided misstep that destroyed any authenticity she had in her brand.)

Anyway, happy birthday, kid. We love you.

Target: 1000 words
Written: 1535 words, novella: The Mungk

Read: Words For Pictures, Brian Michael Bendis
Comics: The Boys 25-28
Music: Money Will Roll Right In, Nirvana (cover, I think? Mudhoney?)

still processing

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I’ve mostly felt ill and drunk, like I’m outside reality.

All kinds of thoughts have screamed through my head, up to and including saying fuck it and snuffing it.

Who wants to live through that shit?

And I’d rather die than become one of them.

I won’t though, because that doesn’t let me protect my family and whoever else I can, even though that may not be something I’m able to do.

Focus on survival; focus on forward.

Focus on transcending.

Even if that means this life.

Target: 900 words
Written: 651 words, novella: The Mungk

Read: The Shining, Stephen King
Comics: 100 Bullets 81-84
Music: Up From The Catacombs, Jane's Addiction