Never worry, she said, everyone thinks you’re exactly as useless and impotent and pathetic and fat as you think.
Then, she sucked my dick but didn’t swallow.
mogwai, BURNING; atmosphere, TO ALL MY FRIENDS…; steve mcqueen’s HUNGER; clark, TOTEMS FLARE; battles, GLOSS DROP; nicolas winding refn’s BRONSON; terence malick’s THE TREE OF LIFE #sunday (Taken with instagram)
mogwai, NEW PATHS TO HELICON PT 1 (live), from the BURNING dvd. original version appears on TEN RAPID (COLLECTED RECORDINGS 1996-1997)
I was saving up for a new brain but, man, try and get a loan for one of those.
My old brain started failing me. I would forget things. But I’d know I’d forget them. That’s the thing: I’d see a pen and I knew what it was, what I’d used it for before, but I couldn’t get my brain to remember. It was so frustrating.
Out in the street one time, a woman came running up to me and asked me how I was doing, and wasn’t it a long time since we’ve seen each other, things like that, but I couldn’t place her face. I think I remembered her hair color, and when I meandered my way through some nondescript answers, she went away, confused and probably offended. Hope it wasn’t anyone I cared about.
And it wasn’t just my memory, no. I think my brain stopped sending signals to the rest of my body at times. Like a hiccup and suddenly, after peeing, my brain would forget to tell me I was done, and there I’d stand for a while, dick in one hand, strangers thinking me a pervert on the other…figuratively.
Went up a several flights of stairs when my apartment building’s elevator stopped working for a while and at the landing for my floor, my legs stopped. I wanted to get going, I knew where I needed to go, but my brain wouldn’t tell my legs to do anything. It was really annoying.
If my brother were still alive, he’d lend me the money for the new brain. I know he would, even if I can’t remember his face right now. But my whole family’s gone. My mother also needed a new brain but died with her old original one in her head. We never knew our father, my brother and me, and I think he’s the reason why our bodies are falling apart. My brother, he died when his off brand legs broke and he fell onto the subway tracks. His legs made him heavier than people thought and he died when the train ran him over. His wife got all of his money and she doesn’t speak to me.
Whoever our father was, he was a cheapskate. That’s obvious by just looking at my mother and brother and me: we should’ve lasted a thousand years. We’re not robots or anything, but whoever married my mother, he was supposed to make sure our parts were maintained, and our original bodies were replaced as necessary. You hear about guys like him more and more: they literally build a family and then leave it when they figure out how to build a newer model.
Been saving up for years and I think by this time next month I’ll have enough for additional brain memory and a back up. But that isn’t the same as a new brain. A new brain means full functionality. A back up is just that because you’re anticipating the end. But at least I’m a wi-fi hotspot and it’ll take me a little while, but if we run into each other in the street, I’ll remember your face.
The only thing I knew I could change beside me was her.
Then, I finally fell in love.
[lcd soundsystem, I CAN CHANGE]
I am her mother’s age. But she isn’t her mother.
anachronaut (kit stolen by nadya lev)
[removed comments to add attribution.]
(Source: deadpictorial, via librariansoul)
dr manhattan by chip zdarsky (via warren ellis - GUEST INFORMANT: CHIP ZDARSKY’S WATCHMEN 2)
warren ellis says: “Comics creator Chip Zdarsky — dimly related by birth to Canada’s National Post cartoonist and thwarted Toronto mayoral candidate Steve Murray — is currently writing his autobiography, and has very kindly shared a chapter of said tome with me. Herein, he relates the story of the time he was offered the job of creating the WATCHMEN comics sequel.”
[zdarsky = funniest canadian ever!]
Going to the movies alone is the best thing about being married.
[quick note: man, today tumblr sucks. fucking everything is about your terrible sexual politics, and what you don’t like, and the people you’d fuck, and the bad shitty cartoons you still watch as an adult, and how much you hate your job but won’t quit, and how fat you are, and pictures of cats, and how everyone who isn’t about you is racist/homophobic/misogynistic/etc., and how pathetic you really are but think you are clever. lighten the fuck up. jesus.]
I thought it was an ingrown hair just next to my scrotum. I’d feel it, a little tender, just right there where sometimes I like to scratch just because if feels more than fine. It didn’t hurt at first so I figured it would eventually pop on its own. But as time went by, I’d forget all about it until I was in the shower, until I jerked off. And it was growing, but I didn’t pay it any mind soon after I noticed it … again.
Eventually, it was the diameter of a quarter and the bump felt hard. So I worried. Or began to worry. Whatever.
It didn’t hurt but I wondered if this was cancer. Should I take a needle soaked in alcohol and pop it? “Doctor visit?” I wondered once aloud while in line at the grocery store. I looked at it with a mirror, I’d lean in while sitting to see it, feeling around the edges of it - tender but no pain. It wasn’t red nor was it like a giant zit. Imagine a ping pong ball underneath your skin. Imagine those weirdos on the internet with implants.
And then I’d forget about it once more.
It became large enough for me to notice it when walking, and I decided, fuck it, time to see a doctor. Called my insurance to find a decent doctor, took the day off work, cancelled a date I’d made with someone whose name I couldn’t remember. I was readying myself for the worse, and the worse was cancer. I don’t know why, but that’s where my brain landed.
In the shower the day of my doctor’s visit, I was so nervous. I wanted to just take a knife and take care of it myself. The bump between my leg and nutsack still grew hair and still didn’t hurt and still didn’t just go away. I toweled off, and sat on the toilet naked, with a mirror to see how bad it must look. So strange, looking at myself this way, thinking that I don’t want a doctor to think this growth on me is strange looking. Fuck, right? So, I’m looking at myself in the mirror, at the cancer I think I have, and I can feel it more and pulsate with my heartbeat.
That’s when I dropped the mirror because I couldn’t take this feeling, and I couldn’t take the fact that as I’m looking at myself - lifting my nuts off to the side to get a better look - this bump that’s been growing painlessly on me opens up slowly but just natural enough, like an eyelid lifting open, and reveals a mouth with black teeth smiling at me.
She said if I looked in her eyes I’d see how they’re speckled with tiny bits of gold.
I leaned in so close our noses touched. She opened her eyes as wide as she could.
I looked in her eyes.
I said her eyes were brown.
She slapped me and said I was an asshole. She stormed off.
We married two days later.
clark, DEAD SHARK EYES
The sheriff’s officer, he gives me a ride home from downtown because when he asks me where I live and tell him, he says he realizes it’s four in the morning on a Sunday and he’ll just take me home.
The entire fifteen minute ride, the police man, he talks to me about his wife and their sons, and how each of them must make their own choices. He tells me about his church and asks me if I’m Catholic. He asks me if he knows how lucky I am to be let out OR. I say yes to everything.
Nearly five in the morning, he pulls up along my street, in front of my building, and says I need to be more careful, unzips his fly, takes out his hard uncut dick, and says, “You never know what could happen to you,” and I say a little prayer.
[full disclosure. also, this.]
I’m glad I’m no longer young enough to still believe that forever means FOREVER.
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The Beastie Boys, diagrammed.
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L1007527.jpg on Flickr.
Playing D7D with @SatinePhoenix at @meltdowncomics
Leica M9, f2/35mm Summicron lens, 2nd version. -
“I just do hair…”
On the set of DEAD INSIDE, hair stylist Amaran rants about a particularly disastrous day on set.
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Napkins
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by Giorgia Mannavola
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Picture of the day; Day 6
While out and about on U St -