Z.

A return to form, write-from-the-hip, no editing, in-the-moment lambast of words that probably should have all been edited, second-guessed and scrutinized into something easier to read, but you know what? Fuck it. Sometimes shit's just gotta hit the fan.  How else are you going to get the shit to splat in all the hard to reach places?  Tired this week. Woke up so exhausted I felt drunk. After a long, hot lean against the shower wall (after the requisite washing had taken place), I was awake enough to actually enjoy that sensation a little, actually—since I'm a few years removed from my 'getting fucked up' era. Being 'tired-drunk' is a little bit more fun than being 'alcohol-drunk,' because being 'tired-drunk' doesn't come with the other unsavory side effects of alcoholism. Throbbing headache for one. Being 'tired-drunk' has other trademark 'drunken' characteristics. Euphoria. Delirium. Lowered inhibitions. Easier access to rep...

"Tell me you brought the pail." "The pail?" "The pail." "What pail?" "You didn't bring it?" "You mean the bucket?" "It's a pail." "'Pail?'" "You didn't bring it." "I thought you were." "I told you to bring it." "You said, 'Bring the pale,'" "Oh my god." "It's a bucket. 'Pail'?" "Well go back and get it." "No." "We came all this way and you didn't bring it?" "I'm not going all the way back down." "Oh my god." "Why didn't you bring it?" "I would have but I asked you so I thought you were." "I would have if I knew what you were talking about." "I asked you, and you didn't. So go get it." "I'm not going." "It's your fault. You should go." "It's not my fault. You're the...

You receive a notice in the mail. You know the kind. The official looking ones. They're a little heavy, and the return address at the top indicates the notice originates from a high level bureaucratic agency. There's a long barcode along the bottom, and a serial number for tracking purposes.  This is a notice of import and significance, and you weren't expecting it. You're a little worried to open it. But you do. The fear of the consequences of ignoring a notice of this gravity outweighs the consequences of knowing what it contains. When you open it, it does not disappoint. You withdraw a series of folded pages, documents, and a return envelope, addressed to the same bureaucratic agency that sent it. You aren't sure where to begin. But one of the pages catches your eye. "NOTICE OF COMPULSORY TERMINAL DEPARTURE." Below that ominous-looking heading is a diatribe of jargon and legalese. The typeface gets smaller and smaller the further down the page it goes. ...

Do you know?  Do you think so, too? When you're up,  Late at night, Do you wonder who? Do you remember when? Does it fill your dreams? The way it does, for me? Do you get carried away With thoughts Of how it may have been? Guessing questions,  Answers posed, And seeing Where your imagination goes? Do you talk out loud? Telling me things When I'm not there to oppose? Do you sing songs You think I'd like to hear? I do. Don't I? In a way. For you. I know. I think so, too. When I'm up, Late at night, I wander through Memories of when. They fill my dreams, The way it might for you.  I get carried away With thoughts Of how it might have been.  Guessing questions,  Giving answers, And stop When my imagination goes too far.  I talk out loud. I tell you things, Taking my chances.   Singing you songs, I think you'd like to hear.  Do you? Don't you? In a way. You do.

I know the feeling. ( Source ) MAGNECOW I learned once that cows can accidentally ingest a lot of metal while grazing out in the fields.  Screws, nails, tractor equipment, barbed wire. Go on, think of other metal objects a cow might encounter. I don't have to list them all here.  The resulting ailment plaguing these cows is colloquially referred to as "Hardware Disease." Occasionally, farmers feed their cattle something called a "cow magnet".  They (the cow) eat the magnet; it passes through their system, collecting as many bolts and washers and nuts as it can along the way; and exits out the rear of the cow. Presumably, perhaps, to be eaten by accident by the next cow, I imagine. Imagine finding a nice big consolidated nugget of shrapnel out in the field after a long day of eating and regurgitating cud. "You know what? Yeah, actually, I could go for a little iron right now." Except it comes out as: "Moo moo moo? Moo, moo, Moo moo moo moo moo moo ...

Ladies—prepare yourself for some "inside knowledge."  That's right: Sex advice from a man. Technically, I wouldn't be allowed to share this under normal circumstances. But because this blog affords me some anonymity, I can divulge some inner secrets that you may find helpful without repercussions. Sex is always a bit of a leap of faith. For both parties. But the risks for the woman will almost always outweigh the risks for the man. As such, any leverage she can assert prior to that decision is incredibly valuable.  Imagine this: You, a female, are on a date. You and he are seated across from each other in a restaurant for dinner. As the date proceeds, you may find that your male date projects every positive signal of virility you may be looking for in a potential mate. If the moment should arise later (or right there on the table if things go remarkably well), when your best guesses about your prospective partner's romantic stamina are put to the test... ...you ma...

Well, it's been a year. I embarked on this little writer's sojourn in November of 2024 in an effort to recapture some bygone mojo that hath, in recent years, been untimely sapped of me. "It doesn't have to be good. It just has to exist." So here I am, to write about writing. What this process has been like. How it has gone. And where I think it's going. I'll try more original art moving forward, instead of the cheap and easy but vague and soulless AI art heretofore. First—some housekeeping: I am thankful for an amusing muse who, upon reading their works, reconjured a desire in me to delve back into this kind of writing again. I write by trade. But very impersonally. I write as a hobby. But somewhat formulaically. So to write in a third mode, as a way of expression and self-discovery, has been something of a 'palate cleanser' for me. It's a gear I have repressed since I first began to take writing seriously.  Why repressed? Because this "lo...