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Archive for December, 2013|Monthly archive page

Visitor’s Badge

In by Michael on December 13, 2013 at 3:45 am

Hi, welcome to Tekko Corp.

My job here is to hate the company I work for.

Her job is to answer the phone and deflect questions.

His job is to tell other people what to do.

Her job is to order lunch and organize the holiday party.

His job is to take notes at meetings.

Her job is to come up with ideas and give them to her boss.

His job is to make spreadsheets.

Her job is to write the same email over and over.

His job is to hide things from the government.

Want to get a coffee?


The Good Art

In by Michael on December 4, 2013 at 1:36 pm

This is bullshit art.

It’s “look at me, pretending to be an artist” art.

It’s a tourist on a tour.

A halfhearted attempt to prove to yourself that a more normal path is what’s reasonable. Go get a fucking desk job.

Vulnerability. Show it to me. Show me what you got!

Don’t let the voices in your head get to you. The insecurities. They tell you to close doors. Be afraid. Someone might not like it.

Damn right, someone might not like it. Be proud.

What I want in an artist: “I’m not pretending to be anything. That’s the point.”

The Royal Game

In by Michael on December 3, 2013 at 4:11 pm

“You start. Rookies take white.”

He wasn’t aggressive, like the jail dudes in the movies. His eyes though, had this steady intensity to them – you could feel him watching, focused, sizing me up. Looking to see if I was going to be a pussy or a problem or what.

I moved my King’s pawn two spaces.

He brought his full attention to the game.

We didn’t play with a timer, but there was a real pressure to not take all day making a move. Taking all day means you’re a pussy.

He looked almost happy when I beat him.

Falling in

In Uncategorized on December 1, 2013 at 2:06 am

Wild, deep, and anguished. It was torment, yearning, with stones tied to the back of the throat.

The first miracle was that she had burst into existence, and the second was that her existence had crossed with his. All he needed was a third. His ribs wrung with the eons-old pang. His ears rang with it. It was not quite love, nor mere lust. Each time he fell for this new someone, he felt savagely alive and dying to be requited.

It wasn’t love.


It was grieving.

Grieving the loss of what hadn’t yet been, and might never be.