Relationship is an Ugly Word


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Presume the Death of a Relationship before it happens.

Objective Collapse is just a quantum theorist’s means of clinging to the belief that romance is still attainable in Western culture. Classical novelists and observational psychologists alike have spent the last twenty-four hundred years obsessed with this most elusive of human experiences. Tellingly, in all that time neither field has had much that is novel to say on the topic. Still, we continue to buy their lies with pieces of the very souls we are trying to save.  Lies perpetrated by those who tell us that there are only eleven basic human emotions and their counterparts, twenty-two words with which we encompass the entirety of anthropological history. Contrast this with the forty-eight emotions classified by the Human-Machine Interaction Network on Emotion and it becomes clear that, like the rest of existence, love obeys the natural language of the universe.

So, embark on a superposition encompassing the three possibilities extant in our calculations.  The former two determinants, polarized by the belief of 73% of Americans, exist only to describe, relatively, the third. In order to force a resolution (wave function collapse) of this physical system which will satisfy either eigenstate, it is essential to first observe the Rational State Apparatus that is always functioning at a conscious and subconscious level.

  • Solitary, approachable, but skittish twenty-seven year old seeking tattooed, stable male.  Plus if he makes me laugh, prefer local, sorry but only white guys because i am only attractive to them.
  • A partner who is physically attractive is: A. Mandatory B. Very Important C. Somewhat Important D. A Little Important E. Irrelevant
  • My ideal partner can spit all the words to the Fresh Prince song
  • HIV Positive.  Over 50.  Looking for partner of similar lifestyle.  No drama, crazy ex’s, tats, tobacco use, prison record, young children, or really excessive anything….  Nothing ventured, nothing gained.
  • Thirty-five year old  male looking for a nice female with own residence who would like a long-term relationship.  Race, Age, Looks not important! Recently laid off with no prospects.  I’m nice, white, fit, no kids!
  • Dudes of the Bay: My ladies and I will be out in the Lower Haight this weekend and I am looking to stack the chips for my two best friends to meet some guys actually worth talking to. Speak English and have a job.  Email me if you are interested, with a pic, and I will give you details.
  • Disabled bisexual male looking for help decorating.

If you’ve ever marveled at the difficulty present in trying to find a romantic partner that lasts, you must admit the odds are fairly daunting. It isn’t any wonder that more than three fourths of single Americans have experimented with online dating. Simply answer a few hundred questions about your sexual habits and whether or not you like cats, and the return key will instantly provide a list of “matches.”  You can even respond positively to questions like “Would you ever eat something out of the trash?” or “In a certain light, wouldn’t nuclear war be exciting?” and still be someone’s 96% match. Of course, matchmaking profiteers are not the only ones who opine that the difficulties in finding “true love” can be surmounted. The website is another great example. Their premise is that, given a population of 800,000 and a 95% attrition rate of those who can be considered “available”, there is half a person out there who’s soul is calling to yours. If these factors are the only paradigm from which a relationship can be viewed, encountering that perfect someone should be a task that grows exponentially easier as population and ease of communication increase.  After all, Schrödinger need only have opened the box to receive his answer.


99% Match = superposition 1

95-98% Match = superposition 2

0-94% Match = superposition 3

1 is the impossibility of a perfect match. 2 is the deficit with which we’re realistically willing to settle. 3 is the understood plausibility of relational termination at some point, be it a week after meeting someone or fifty years into the marriage. What the graph fails to show is that superposition 2 will close the gap towards 1 as the box is opened.  If that sounds like a good thing, remember that superposition 1 is impossible.

The absolute certainty of our third eigenstate, in light of the cardial trauma implied by the physical state, can be determined early on in a relationship. A/S/L, occupation, interests will never trump the following conversations:

“Then I started thinking about the real me and the compromises I’m willing to make and the things you love doing. I’d watch the way your eyes light up at a Fritz Lang film and would want to become an expert in all things Noir, even though I know I won’t. I like asking why, shopping, concerts, antique stores, and Randall Shreve and the Sideshow.”

“You read a lot. You might be smarter than me and that might bother you, or us in the future.”

“People need sanity. Being in a constant state of existential crisis, debating the myth of progress and death isn’t going to help us put food on the table.

“I just can’t convince myself some days that you will always have the patience, tolerance, and desire to deal with me and my bull shit and contradictions and masks and lack of punctuation. And I’m a bit neurotic.”

These conversations are what dating is designed to discover. Why, then, do they not occur earlier in the relationship? The above chart recognizes the plausibility of receiving a passing grade as inherently low. By assuming superposition 3 before every relationship starts, it immediately corrupts the interaction. This can be educational in that it opens our eyes to how selfish we are. Why does the dissenter continue? Keep the sex, keep the distance, see their cat, avoid their parents, avoid friends, impress friends, pretend; imagine:

If every expectation is a percentage lost and we lose them before we begin, why do we attempt, why do we pretend to love?

The Alphabet

A. Your couch – We acted responsibly even as the embers of previous loves drown, faltering in the depths of superposition 3.

B. I decided to be honest with you after 3 years.

C. It is dreadfully obvious to everyone how I adore you.

D. I ended things with the other person.

E. I realized you were never going to commit to me, other than occasionally, physically… So I gave you an out and swore I’d never tell. (We’d still be friends at the least, and could make the occasional eye contact that held more than your current relationship of four years does).

F. You fucked us over with your inability to keep a secret. Naturally, the social bubble in which we exist was torn asunder. Needless to say, we were in trouble.

G. I decided you were worth the trouble.

H. You still wanted to hold me at arms length. Sentiments, visits in the night, and promises to escape.

I. You talk endlessly about us.

J. Your words slowly lose value as I realize words are never actions.

K. I’m left alone, except sporadic shallow sentiments, again kept on a leash.

L. You make plans… Plans for those plans and a few more for those plans.

M. You tell me that you love me. But, you hide it from others.

N. The holidays come and go.

O. I spend them alone.

P. You said I could kill you if you didn’t find me by the New Year.

Q. I give up.

R. I’ve never been able to kill me.

S. So I assume you’re going to have to kill yourself.

T. If this is love.

U. I understand the inherent destruction before it starts.

V. Yet it is inescapable:

W. The Tragic Hero

X. The MacGuffin

Y. Plot Coupons

Z. So we call it love anyway, when in reality it was merely an excuse for a tangent in a life of tangents. Who really ever finds their way into superposition 1 or 2? Why open the box if we can pretend we know there is nothing in it? Why open the box if we can lie to ourselves and pretend it may still live?

The most detrimental part of this theory lies not in the plausibility of the graph, the pathetic declaration that ‘I am not that shallow’, nor those still dreaming, but in the fact that superposition 1 or 2 has to be met twice. Congratulations, you’ve found your “other”. Add three years to discover that they are still searching for theirs. If you refuse to accept the reality of superposition 3, there is only one option. Lie until you have to back out.

Content: DS
Execution: MS

Loving You Is Killing Me



Two fists were thrown, two connected.  The dead cats still sing, not a pig in sight.  God watches over the wicked and the simple minded


I have been scavenging boxes from work for days.  The Meticulous One has taken care to cross off all preexisting identifying labels before adding his own.  I will admit, he is the only one who has begun packing.  Every night I have come home with the intention of describing my adventures with the Lost Boys, but have found that said events are requiring a significant portion of my time.  This evening is the first that Marlfox and I have had the house to ourselves.  It will consist of doing the dishes and catching up on other small tasks.  I thought perhaps in lieu of adding this to the list of things I don’t accomplish by the end of the night, it would be appropriate to keep a running dialogue when the opportunity arises.

Chaos erupted Saturday morning with all the heralding of a straight to video release.  Confused at having overslept, I stumbled downstairs in my pajamas, hair a bird’s nest, expecting to find The Resident asleep on the couch.  Instead I found half of the living room missing and the front door open.

Enter title here


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“When disputes happened to arise, though conscious that I understood the subject better than any of them, I dared not offer my opinion; in a word, everything I saw became an object of desire, for no other reason than because I was not permitted to enjoy anything…  Thus I learned to covet, dissemble, lie, and, at length, to steal, a propensity I never felt the least idea of before…”

I am still writing, though not posting.  Most nights are spent dealing with the crushing weight of being myself.  This week I have spent more time in my head than drinking, drinking than writing, writing than eating.  It happens.  The above is from a block of text at the beginning of Rousseau’s Confessions.  When I accessed the Kindle store to make the free purchase, the top American comment (yes, Amazon operates independent comment sections for each language) was very enlightening.  “The autobiography of a Narcissistic Sociopath.”  I am reminded of nothing so much as Mathew 7:5 – “You hypocrite, first take the plank out of your own eye, and then you will see clearly to remove the speck from your brother’s eye.”

Although I have not traveled farther than his childhood and initial education, I find myself consistently empathizing when the author relates a lack of agency in his life.  Rousseau does not waste time recollecting his first experience of sexual arousal so that we, generations later, can laugh at the 1720’s version of “dat ass, though,” nor do I think he was implying that all who suffer corporal punishment before resolving their oedipal conflict (which must have had a different name sixty years before Freud’s birth) will inevitably wish to be dominated during sexual encounters.  Life isn’t: if A then B.  What I take from the text is that in any particular environment one has two choices: leave or act in accordance with your intention.  The behavioral models in Rousseau’s early life were, pleasant or foul, inexorably dogmatic.  Relatives, educators, employers all expected a certain behavior of him and his every consequence was a direct result of their preconception.

Perhaps when I am seventy I will have the grace to recollect what we shall term my formative years from a benign state of senile sublimity such as the aforementioned Narcissistic Psychopath.  I am young, though, and full of anger.  You would not know it, looking at me.  People describe me as sweet, caring.  My name actually means caretaker, helper.  But, I have rage.  A rage suppressed to such a degree that I display it by crying.  Even righteous anger begins as a creeping weakness in the limbs after the nature of delirium tremens.  I am learning not to suppress these feelings but to allow them to pass through me.  When my boss put his hand on my shoulder this afternoon, though, I could have released the rage right through his kidney with a knife.

Wednesday evening I had accepted that there would be no cooking in my immediate future.  After a meal of kidney beans I summoned the energy to acquire canned organic vegetarian chili from Trader Joes to mix with the remaining beans for the rest of the week.  It was this I had in front of me when I felt him standing behind me; some have a presence detectable without sight.  With a smirk (I am still determinedly not looking at him) he placed his hand on my shoulder and commented on my lunch.

I would like to take a moment here to explain that my only insights come from watching Marlfox.  She is a most particular eater.  It is a rare occasion for food to disappear from her dish unless I am present and have shut the door to our room.  She also refuses to consume more than two thirds of a serving no matter the size.  Oh, wait, bad behavior in animals is learned.  I used to experience the previously mentioned murderous rage any time my then lover would take from my french fries as I was compulsively trying to finish them at exactly the same time as my soda and sandwich.  I stopped carrying a knife for a while, it was that or give up fries.

Back to my boss.  He says, “Well, I know you did not make that chili!”  My habit of preparing fresh meals has become a running joke at the office.  Heaven forbid my willpower fails and I partake of the Friday doughnut festivities, not because I receive inappropriate harassment constantly but because not a single person notices the inconsistency.  What fun is there in mocking something mindlessly, speaking on a subject of which you know nothing?  My assumption is that the tofu looked like ground beef to my boss because he only sees what he wants to.  Therefore, I was eating meat.  Therefore, I had not prepared my own meal because I am not a meat eater.  I try not to refer to myself as vegan; it isn’t something I aspire to.  My goal is eating habits that are sustainable and respectful.   My diet is often described as vegan by others, however, as they grasp for a way to explain my personal beliefs without ever having to understand them.  But, hey, words don’t matter.  We can all just grunt at each other and see who is perceived as having the most power.

My boss may have thrown out a, “Looks good,” but I was not in any condition to notice.  That man isn’t any different, the occurrence any different, than my co-workers and the times I am patient enough to lower my headphones in order to participate in their circular conversations; he just happens to be the boss.  There is no dastardly design, no enmity, and it is nearly impossible to fight apathy.

“What will be the consequence?” the reply was ready, “I know the worst, I shall be beat; no matter, I was made for it.”


P.S. The traditions of Arthur and Cortez aren’t so very different in that they are terribly inaccurate.  If you find your font, drink until you fear you may burst; then, drink again!

P.P.S.  Google translate the German Amazon website for stellar reviews on electronics and appliances.  Or learn German.



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A week has passed and I have written nothing.  That isn’t entirely true, I have written things.  What I have not done is begin and finish writing a singular thought.  There is ever a latent lassitude waiting to encroach upon any productivity I attempt.

This year centers entirely around my intention to move north; wait for me, Bay Area.  The particulars of how I will go about this have yet to be ironed out (do people still iron?) but that isn’t what interests me right now.  I am no longer confused when the way I approach tasks/goals/problems in life befuddles others; instead I attempt to discover what is causing cognitive dissonance.  Whether solving for x, tying shoe laces or eating waffles, the look I receive from others clearly says lo haces más dificil.  I remain obdurate in my commitment to taking the scenic route.  What really gets my goat (check that off the bucket list) is the smug sneer that consistently follows my assertion that I am, “Over this city of angels,” which is my response to any critical comment concerning the plans I currently have in place.  These plans, they don’t matter.  What is, to me, of utmost importance is getting the fuck out of dodge (check) and abandoning the poor, soulless vesicles of narcissism that infest the southern coast of this state.  These tragic vehicles of apathy are so entrenched in the fairy-tale lives which exist solely in their heads that, prior experience not withstanding, they are unable to conceive that maybe things are different.  They have this idea that in every theater across the globe they are playing the same movie to a room filled with the same popcorn munching, media absorbing bags of flesh.  The past may have been more moral but you can’t improve your situation simply by relocating, they say, not realizing the contradiction in their “beliefs”.  I don’t think things will be better, but they will be different.  I’m told that things get worse before they get better; am I the only one ready for things to get downright apocalyptic?

P.P.S.  My boss blows raspberries at me.  Sometimes he claws the air and makes hissing noises at me.  How does one respond to this professionally?

Note to Self


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Never turn off laptop before lying down. Close tabs.

As an authority figure it is ok to signal correct behavior.  Observe, I feel I had every right to mewl my way around the house this evening.  Yes, the garage is filled with poker players of the late night variety, but that was no concern to me.  I introduced myself by way of explaining that I had taken three tabs of acid (I hadn’t) and then crawled around their legs looking through any crevice a square foot or larger.  I spent time in the back yard, in the middle of the street, a full three minutes talking to the fifty year old Filipino Uncle smoking his cigarette next door as if he were my cat.  Do you appreciate how long three minutes is?  Now that I have finished my display of bed-time behaviors, I am lying down to sleep soundly.  Can’t you tell?  If my cat needs me, she will let me know.  Until then, she is braving her own wilderness.


P.S.  I promptly shut my laptop, without closing the tabs.  By late night variety I meant Hispanic.  One of them is my room mate, some of them looked like they could accidentally crush me, one seemed sweet on me.  Two of them have probably stood on both sides of a jail cell, I certainly have.  Shame on me for being afraid to make assessments based on how a person looks.  Every one of them was polite and expressed delight at the paltry entertainment I provided.

Disaster is an ugly word


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Darlin if it’s shit came out

Disaster is not a thing one can approach. It cannot tempt you, nor can you flirt with it.  Disaster, like death, is with us from conception.  From the moment of birth our each and every breath contains the possibility of unspeakable horrors.  The development of an individual’s first memory proves that it is not until we discover the use of words that our imaginings begin to take shape.  Speech gives us the untold power of creating the world around us.  Alas, we are taught this power without understanding its true nature.  While things like good and evil may exist, the power of “the word” is not inherently moral.  Like any totem of mythical power, language cares nothing for how it is used or the effect it has on the one who wields it.

Name a thing and you have power over it.  Name a thing and you are actively exerting dominion over it.  Name a thing, the ancient Egyptians believed, and you have called it into existence.  And, like tyrants, this is what we do.  We create stereotypes, by referring to the “black vote” as if it is an established fact.  We create pain, by naming whether a relationship is going well, or poorly.  We have created seventy million slaves in this country alone, by naming mental illness.

I could enumerate countless disasters, each day created by the expunged breath of we seven billion humans that call this planet home, but what use in that?  It is too late to prevent them.  If we approach every problem as a unique incident, a failing, if you will, in the inherent beauty of nature, we have done nothing but build the foundation of our own demise. It is time to realize that we are not a part of nature. The natural world has order, beauty, and above all balance. I have been struggling since my first breath to find any semblance of balance in life. Beauty, peace, balance exist all around me, yet I rarely find them in myself.

It is time to redefine disaster. The English word disaster comes from the Latin word disastro, meaning “ill-stared.” For generations we have treated disasters as if they are just that, ill fate. I posit that disaster comes not from some predetermined or accidental event, but from what we allow to be true. In this technological world it has become too easy to disdain the written and spoken word. People are content to communicate by pictures, meaningless symbols, and abbreviated phrases. No wonder my generation feels as if it has lost control of the world around it.


Then I suppose that it’s shit went in

Note to Self


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Fonda – Colin Meloy

A scarf is an important weapon for many reasons.  Firstly, it estab. memory cog.  It also creates a false cog. in which it is expected that you be remembered (freedom of movement).  And then there is the attention it draws.  It is hard to be in the moment, said the blonde with the under-dressed friend (what I meant was I found her to be unattractive in a doesn’t take care of herself way).  They were both talking too loudly about what the poor girl in heels was supposed to do for fun on her last night in L.A, all the while casting what I presume to be alluring glances behind them at a bearded gentleman in red corduroy.  I turned up the street as a homeless man (not the same as transient) blew raspberries at me.  This town lies heavy on my soul, I want to close my eyes and sleep forever.  I must remain alert.  And then, awkward human interaction.  Who will save your soul?  We are only lying to ourselves.

Paranoid thoughts; Dissolution.

The man who barked at me, I can’t believe I let him get that close

So close I could feel his teeth on my jugular

And it isn’t like I didn’t see it coming, the second he began

Weaving through my line of sight

A challenge in his step, Look at me it said

But I’m in my head

Willing it not to happen, pretending I’m alone

So I didn’t look

And he called me out


P.S.  Colin Meloy has taken a break from writing songs about obscure historical interactions to focus on a subject even nearer and dearer his heart:  cunnilingus.  Good for him!



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If you expected sense the night before a full moon you are a fool.  If I am an exhibitionist, this is for me.  If you are a voyeur, this is for you.  If neither of us are either, what are any of us doing here?



Dear ______, I love you…  I am now in Ventura City at a reform house called Kep Khepera.  I am here for 5 months, and upon Completion I will be discharged from parole and free to pursue the life that is for me that includes a better relationship with you.  Today we are celebrating Thanksgiving.   I am one of the cooks.  Will be my first time Cooking a Thanksgiving dinner.  You Know I really miss having females in my life.  Though sometimes they don’t seem worth the effort, With good Communication and correct understanding they can be an ultimate companion.  I have a girlfriend Whose name is Brenda, she lives in Vipomo, Very understanding.  I like her a lot.  I’m not so lonely anymore, but have high hopes for a better life now.  I just completed a 15 questions workbook.  Did not like it much, Cause it was all rehash of old mask, that I have already accepted procured and planted through God to grow differently and better.  How was your birthday and thanksgiving?  I would like if you could Visit me, Yet it’s a long distance, + you have to make three appearances to a class, or make(?) 3 hours on a saturday.  Sucks being so far away.  I didn’t see you much when close.  Write and tell me What’s going well with you, _____, and whom you associate with.

Love Always Dad…

This song perfectly describes my twelfth Thanksgiving.  Salvation Army makes an ok turkey.