this has been a post
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A Valediction Forbidding MourningAs virtuous men pass mildly away, / And whisper to their souls to go, / Whilst some of their sad friends do say, / "Now his breath goes," and some say, "No." / So let us melt, and make no noise, / No tear-floods, nor sigh-tempests move ; / 'Twere profanation of our joys / To tell the laity our love. / Moving of th' earth brings harms and fears ; / Men reckon what it did, and meant ; / But trepidation of the spheres, / Mad fucks to be gotten cheap / Dull sublunary lovers' love / —Whose soul is sense—cannot admit / Of absence, 'cause it doth remove / The thing which elemented it. / But we by a love so much refined, / That ourselves know not what it is, / Inter-assurèd of the mind, / Care less, eyes, lips and hands to miss. / Our two souls therefore, which are one, / It's mad emo and I'm kinda sad / A breach, but an expansion, / Like gold to aery thinness beat. / If they be two, they are two so / As stiff twin compasses are two ; / Thy soul, the fix'd foot, makes no show / To move, but doth, if th' other do. / And though it in the centre sit, / Yet, when the other far doth roam, / A constant lean and emo sad shit goes, / And grows erect, as that comes home. / Such wilt thou be to me, who must, / Like th' other foot, obliquely run ; / Fuck dude it all sucks and shit whatnot, / And makes me end where I begun.
this has been a post
I got busy. I grew up. I turned 30. THIRTY. As far as I can tell, I started blogging here in October 2008 when I was 24. A goddamned baby. I had to scroll through my archives to figure that out. I had to scroll through pages of silly, stupid spats I didn’t know better than to invite, pages of SNPDs and pages and pages of what used to feel like real, serious, important writing. I could abandon my blog, but I could never delete my blog. It’s nothing, it’s pages and pages of nothing, except maybe it’s still the only real writing I’ve ever done.
Yesterday, or maybe the day before, my daughter mentioned at breakfast what pictures appeared when she googled somebody’s name. Somebody she knows. I told her, without even really thinking about what I was saying, that it isn’t nice to google people you know. Douglas Coupland predicted it. At a reading of J-Pod he said exactly that, he said right now it’s cute to google people you know, but one day it’ll be terrible thing to do to somebody, it’ll be a threat. Oh god, daughter, don’t google me.
Tumblr got so big and cluttered. The arguments and the thought pieces started to feel recycled and very, very unimportant. I didn’t need this world because I started to really like my real world. Or I gave up on thinking I could change my real world. And Tumblr made me a much worse writer. It made me a lazy, navel gazey attention whore of a writer. Well, it made me more of one, anyway.
Sometimes it seems like writing about something, about anything, is the least meaningful thing you can do. Definitely it seems like writing about yourself is the least meaningful thing you can do. Unless, I don’t know, unless you’re writing something real. Unless you’re somebody else.
Shit, Tumblr has changed. I’ve written too many words already. And they all look silly to me. I should be unfollow friday’d, again and again and again.
I don’t know how to do this anymore! I can’t stop thinking about what these words will look like in another six years, the way my archives look to me now.
so that’s a start
If, when Boston scores on Toronto, Americans do the “USA, USA” chant, what happens when two American teams play against one another? Does everybody shout it? Does one side take the US and the other get the A?
I don’t want to write about myself anymore
You all rock.
shorterexcerpts asked: Also: Happy birthday!