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Wednesday, September 26th, 2012
Watch as I impose on you new forms of useless emotions you didn’t know existed. Watch as everything becomes something worth regretting.
Smelling clean like a shower. Apologizing to my mother.
Look at this.
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That’s what I feel like.
This is a new day, like every other.
I have an urge to spend $250,000 to market a new book online. Everyone gets the same empty envelope.

The key to not being an asshole is to realize when someone else is being vulnerable.
Whenever I have an uncomfortable interaction with someone I want to say ‘Look, I’m a lot like you. We have a lot in common. We’re both going to die.’
Then poke them in the stomach to make them giggle.

 

 

Saturday, September 29, 2012
Heritage is important.
I am eating the Trader Joes Teriyaki Meat Substitute of my ancestors.
It looks like cat food, as is tradition.
I got off work early today.
There were no customers.
The owners came by and saw us all standing around.
They said ‘who wants to go home!’
I said ‘Spencer.’
Then I got to leave.
Which is good, because I was prepared to say ‘FLOM FLOM FLOM FLOM FLOM’ at anyone who walks in.
Thinking about today.
I know that someone–many people, probably–died today, but I can’t be sure because I didn’t see anyone die.
It’s a type of religion, this belief, that even when you aren’t suffering, someone else is.

 

 

Tuesday, October 2, 2012
Just cleaned my room.
Feels good.
Why don’t I do the things that feel good.
It’s raining in America.

 

 

Monday, October 8, 2012
The things that are hardest to love are the things you love most.
I want you to make it a challenge for me to love you.
If I had a ‘type’ it would probably be grieving girls.

Soon after waking today I put on long wool socks and made coffee.
It’s cloudy and not very beautiful, but when I look out at the sky my face feels younger.
I look at it like I am its child, unsure of everything but trusting of something.
I read poems by my friends. I feel something for the poems and something for my friends.
I have never met them.
In the age of the internet, people very far away can hurt you.
When it’s done beautifully, in the way of a poem, the pain is calming.
Tomorrow is tuesday and I think if I didn’t have to be alive, tuesday would be my favorite day.

Later, I have this very restless feeling of doing nothing.
Just sitting. Trying to get rid of it. Eating excessively, masturbating excessively.

I need to have rough sex or get into a fight.

But neither of those things are possible, given my isolation and nature.

It’s like restless leg syndrome, only my whole body and mind feels it.

I want to do something insane but I want the insane thing to be presented to me when I walk into the living room.

I want it to come to me.

I have gotten nothing done and I realize that the true reason I need to go to a cafe to finish anything is because I can’t masturbate in a cafe.

 

 

Wednesday, October 10, 2012
It’s 12:30 but it feels like morning.
Playing songs that are ruined by voices.
Drinking coffee. Eating toast.

The sun shines down on everyone, which is why offices are indoors.

I look at my second and last piece of toast and think ‘Goodbye. I love you.’

Then I look at my hands typing and I make fun of them, only without words, because that’s how my brain interacts with my body. There are no words inside me. There are only sounds and thoughts. Words come after. I have to make them up like an actor given a scenario but no lines.
I wonder about the extremely beautiful people.
I wonder, do they sometimes dribble a little when they drink beverages.
What if I put a sign outside my door, for all my roommates to see, that said ‘The Masturbatorium.’

 

 

Thursday, October 11, 2012
Yesterday the king of Sealand died.
I am still mourning.
Sealand is two cylinders in the water off the coast of England that support a platform on which is a house and a helipad.
It was used as a military facility in world war II.
Then it was taken over by pirate-radio broadcasters.
Then The Late King of Sealand took it from the pirate-radio broadcasters to broadcast his own pirate-radio.
Then he was like, Wait no. I am king. This is my nation.
Now he’s dead.
Sealand’s first king is gone and I walked outside and no one seemed to care.

 

 

Thursday, October 18, 2012
A new day, a new way of saying good bye.
Are there any brand new ways of looking at things.
Sitting in this cafe.
The Crosby. The barista is the kind of beautiful that you don’t see at first, the kind that grows, the kind that you fall in love with.
The seating: white stools.
The tables and benches: white wood.
The cups: mason jars, with handles.
How I’m feeling: like an asshole.

Looking out a window for inspiration is like everyone you know moving away.
I dance inside my head and on the outside it looks I’m like another not-yet-dead human waiting for the inevitable affirmation that it was all worth exactly its weight, that the currency exchange between reality and meaning is 1:1, that no one makes  a loss or a profit. Everything is just exactly everything, and that’s the worst part.

Is there a way to tell people I like that I like them without doing anything.

Today it’s finally autumn.
I biked around and the sky was blue and the air was cold and dry and the trees were losing themselves in colorfully helpless ways.
I thought, Maybe dying is beautiful.
Then, Maybe things are fine. Maybe ephemerality is actually cyclical, and therefore not ephemeral at all, but chronic, recurrent. It isn’t temporary if it is always there, ready to come back every year. It isn’t mortality if you get to die over and over.
Then my eye caught the sun-gleamed windshield of a parked car as a birthmark of pigeon-shit landed on it.

 

 

Pop Serial is edited by Stephen Tully Dierks.