I make stuff because I can. I am creative because I create. I have no delusions of talent, or peculiar worth. I mean, I kind of think creation—itself—is worthwhile.

still, I mostly hate myself most of the time. and, some days, tumblr gets to being the voice inside my head. as a depressive cycle starts to taper off—please, fuck, taper off—nothing can stall the beginning of a manic phase (which is also fucked, but bearable) quite like targeted abuse.

no. I don’t think most of what I make is particularly good.

yes. more thought goes into most of it than what I explain in tumblr posts.

sure. maybe I should make better use of self-deprecating tags about my own patheticness.

but … should I supply complete critical justification with everything I post? I don’t think so. I don’t think most of you guys are stupid enough to need that. I don’t think most of the internet is stupid enough to need that.

I’ve seen it—abuse—happening to other people far more frequently than it happens to me (it’s really not that often). and it’s fucked. I’m sick—particularly—of hipster craft culture—or whatever—and its naive elitism.

‘I’m tons into craft and it’s totally cool. but stuff you make is shit. you can’t do that, or you’re rubbish at it. now I’m going to blog about how I’m tons into craft, and how stuff you make is shit. … because that will fulfil my participation requirement, or whatever.’

I’m more attracted to an idea of craft that is encouraging, than one that’s limiting. I am interested in facilitating people to create, engaging them, showing them that creation is an end, regardless of the objective value of what is created.

I don’t know.

I’m more into surrounding myself with things that I admire than things I don’t. I certainly don’t see the point of lurking blogs I don’t follow to find content I don’t like, so that I can reblog it … simply to be cruel.

probably, I’m weak. I’m absolutely afraid this post will open me up to further shit. whatever. fucked people are fucked and should probably fuck off. if they’re not going to, that’s their problem. this has pretty much fulfilled my participation requirement, or whatever.

there are always some dudes on the dance floor who, despite being consistently turned down, will not leave you alone.

I’ve heard it referred to as ‘bar culture’, as if that makes it okay.

but no means fucking no.

totally hating on the restrictions of physical existence

it’s murder, you guys. it’s a conspiracy.

I mean, it’s undeclared. certainly, it’s undeclared: that’s how I know it’s not a war.

and death isn’t a parallel move.

guess who spent all day in hospital? … I did!

and with my twin (who is also my hero).

reading Quadrant’s ‘QED’ is sometimes interesting and always hilarious and—generally—rewardingly infuriating. but it can also be a ridiculous waste of time in which you could have a lot of better, more reasonable and more eloquent ideas of your own …

so it’s past two am, and I’ve just written nine-hundred words about how some articles I just read were rubbish. but I’ve not done the editing I’d set for the evening.

this happens a lot.

how does this keep happening?  it’s already tomorrow and my thoughtful consideration of god and stuff is still called this, still starts with this psalm, is still absolutely not funny, and is in all these different documents.

so drained. 

Curt Livingston, I eat souls [Tony Abbott] (2010).

tony abbott makes me feel a little ill

he looks like a shark.  he says stupid things.

maybe a case of Total Internet Doppelgänger. an idea that, while excitingly scifi, is also terrifying as fuck.