“Books are a way of learning to feel more acutely” – Marguerite Yourcenar

something vague is the best bright eyes song for a couple of reasons, none of which are particularly important or worth writing about. i have no new years resolution but my resolve is off the charts, mostly because there are no charts.

if i don’t finish this william gass novel by sunday i will donate 10 dollars to the american nazi party.  (borrowing this idea from aj jacobs who mentioned it on sam harris’s podcast–yes, fuck you, im listening to waking up and yes, fuck you, i kind of like it).

yes it’s all been done before and other people can write better than you and shit is cliche–and yet but what

Blergh. Feeling kinda down way down in the dumpster like really fuckin down there like beneath all the dripping diarrhea of weekold trash and not sure why. Maybe the -5 on yesterday’s LR section, maybe spending too much time on twitter, maybe just bored at work.


Got to get my spit together for Peace Corps clearance. Need prints of these fingers.

need something other than this Coke Zero. Feel strange when my 30 y.o. coworkers start talking about partying on a Tuesday night and going to Colorado to smoke the weekend away. Feel strange when I realize I’m the only one who feels strange about such conversations taking place. These people all seem so…unaffected….

and mirthful


it was strange to read the cover story of the Economist’s 1843 Magazine. Micro-dosing and creativity. Admittedly always wanted to microdose lsd. Not sure that it increases creativity and have cried a lot on lsd and but still so why the desire?…

Reading brave new world (finally) after getting an A in Modern European Intellectual History freshman year without reading it though reading it was required. required for what exactly. eudaimonia always again eudaimonia and wonder: how prof. bernstein is doing he really liked my essay on hegel.

feeling shit about skeezing my way through college with vyvanse and unreality and literally ingesting soma daily sometimes often more than daily–well not literally soma–but literally it’s the same thing (KIND OF haha??) and now i want to be pure i will be pure like that one bright eyes song

except maybe microdosing lsd one day

silly goal little idealist cute kid cute idealism

been listening to some old ones

Maybe spending too much time reading Top-Law-Schools forums reading posts of kids that got 4.0s in UG reading stories of their incredible prestigious amazing accomplishments and can’t help thinking I really screwed the pooch man I really could’ve I really could’ve I really could’ve been… everything

And yet but think in some very real sense what I have overcome

cannot be denied and the camus quote about the invincible summer and yeah yeah–yes, it’s all been done before and other people can write better than you and shit is cliche and feeling is cliche especially existential feeling oh please and the truth is that what you have to say is not profound in the least–and yet but what?

a pause and a breath

that ineffable peace escaping (returning…)

silly blog cute blog (SHUT THE FUCK UP haha)

that yaweh of the self looking out at the self with my ass on the sand

can i be the ocean with such waves?

i do miss the ocean




Peace Corps invited me to serve as a Primary Literacy Adviser in Jamaica from 2018 to 2020. The position involves helping elementary kids, namely those elementary kids that aren’t high achievers, learn how to read. I’ll be working with them one-on-one to develop not just reading comprehension but a desire to read. Or at least that’s the spiel that I was given when I applied 6 months ago. It sounds like a dream, but of course it does: it’s fucking ad copy. A salesman is a salesman regardless of that which he sells.

I don’t want to seem (much less be) caustic or irreverent. Rather, the point is I don’t want to go into the whole thing with any expectations. I especially don’t want to romanticize something that may never happened (if there’s one thing I’ve learned in my short time on this planet it’s that fantasy is pernicious). Whatever is, is.

If all goes as planned, I’ll fly from D.C. to Montego Bay on March 12. That’s a big if, though, because I still have to obtain legal and medical clearance. Legal clearance I’m not so worried about–my only brush with the law was getting popped for smoking weed by some narc RA sophomore year of college, and that incident was resolved solely through the university.

But there is a very real chance I get denied medical clearance. This is because of the various mental health diagnoses I’ve been bestowed: depression, alcohol dependency, substance abuse disorder. All by licensed medical professionals, all of which I disclosed in the medical history portion of my PC application. Additionally, the fact that I got invited to serve does not mean I’m in the clear with respect to my medical history; placement specialists, who review applications and invite/deny candidates, never see the medical history form. Shit is completely separate. And so my hirer was unaware of my mental health issues (cringe along with me at the phrase ‘mental health issues,’ please).

Despite the fact of 13 months of sobriety and despite the fact that I’m mentally healthier than I’ve ever been and despite the fact that I really truly don’t even have any spite for the facts (whatever was, was) mental health stigma is real. It’s nobody’s fault, I guess–it makes sense PC wants every volunteer to be stable and healthy so that they represent the U.S. well overseas. And I get that serving often is incredibly mentally taxing–the isolation, the loneliness, the culture shock, the fear: each of these is real. It matters that candidates be strong-willed with constitutions high enough to withstand any and all demons.

All I’m saying is this: I know my demons well. I’ve played chess with Death. And I’m ready to go to Jamaica.

I hope I get the chance.

And We’re Back

*coughs from inhaling probably weed* you don’t want that shit.

-conro orbest, as heard in the outro of the Desaparecidos song “Mañana”

Light from unlight. Or light from light from light and so on, ad infinitum. Remember what the professor said: there is nothing logically inconsistent about an infinite causal chain.

Light, here.

Lanky legs illuminated and full pubes too and boy blue in his bedroom naked as his dick laying on his bed, mostly legs, almost arachnid, reading james joyce’s a portrait of the artist as a young man thinking the only good pun i can come up with for my magnum opus which will inevitably cleverly allude to james joyce is a portrait of the fartist as a young man and that’s not even close to being good, or clever.

And then remember how david foster wallace talked about being twentysomething wanting to be clever and how students who want to be clever are like literally the worst. and then think would mr. foster wallace think well of father john misty? and think too didn’t dave predict this whole trumpian dystopia and–fuck–i wish he were still alive to help me.

think a bit selfish, maybe.

Pause put the novel down and think jesus time is moving pretty fast huh, already july. We’ve come far. The beginnings of existential dread as the mind constricts itself with thoughts of past and future, wrapping itself in unrealities,

and then ha woops catch yourself bud, ha there you go, no we must not get rapt.

Pick the novel back up and continue reading and let the mind breathe and maybe a pun better than fartist will come to you.



A Sketch

If you could take the day by the hand

even now and say Come Father

calling it by your own name

it might rise in its blindness with all

its knuckles and curtains

and open the eyes it was born with

                                 -W.S. Merwin, “The Day”



I am fifteen years old and might as well be five. The most difficult thing I have ever done is read the part from Anne Frank’s diary where she’s talking about puberty out loud in front of my eighth-grade English class without laughing. I am wearing a t-shirt from The GAP and orange khaki pants that have a zipper at the knees that if I unzip turns them (the pants) into orange khaki shorts. I am fifteen and taller than all of my teachers and goofy with one droopy eyelid and conspicuously, grotesquely, virginal.

I am bored. I have been bored since second grade when they started putting me in the third grade math class in Another Room with Third Graders I corrected Mr. M’s error on the chalkboard. I am fifteen and bored sitting at a comically small desk thinking about second grade and was I born in the wrong city to the wrong family in the wrong era of history?

I am fifteen and bored, with a slight boner, thinking about the girl across the room and imagining her body naked. I have been watching pornography regularly ravenously on the computer ever since sixth grade when a friend said something about 69 at the lunch table and I didn’t know what it was so when I got home from school I googled it, and so I know what a real naked girl might look like, I think.

I am fifteen and bored and my package has just arrived. I have very little idea what William Burroughs is about but I had my mom buy me The Yage Letters on Amazon. It’s finally here. I am fifteen and what is Moloch! Moloch! or capitalism? but I’ve been on the Wikipedia page for DMT and ayahuasca and marijuana and I like Ginsberg and so mom bought me The Yage Letters. Mom has no idea what DMT or ayahuasca are. She may or may not know about Wikipedia. We both have no idea how marijuana smells.


I am seventeen years old–not five–with a droopy eye and somehow still getting taller, still getting taller wow, the doctor says, you must really be pretty good at swimming.

I am not really pretty good at swimming, but thanks but I think I have ADD or something. I’m not sure. I’m always bored and restless and can’t pay attention to the chalkboard and the teachers are dumb and I keep getting up out of my comically small desk or staring out the window.

Secretly I’ve known that I have attention deficit disorder ever since last spring when I scooped some Adderall XR for the SAT. After I took that pill I just knew. Talking to the doctor, though, I omit the part about my clandestine SAT doping; telling her would just complicate things.

I am seventeen with a slight boner at a comically small desk sneakreading Kant’s Critique of Pure Reason while my civics teacher teaches. It is much more difficult than Plato’s Republic. One reason I like the ADD medicine is it makes my eyelid feel less droopy. It doesn’t actually make the eyelid less droopy, but it makes it feel that way. In four years, I will come to have a visceral, phenomenological understanding of the word ‘delusion.’

And I am seventeen on a drug I conned the doctor for sitting at a comically small desk, desperate for ayahausca and Truth and, most of all, sex.

Outside, the sky is a dark grey. Anyone who is paying attention can tell it’s going to storm soon.