Dei's First Day

The air smells distinctly of shortbread; their favorite —of their mother's baked goods. And then an infusion of lavender and a diffusion of something they do not recognize, fills their senses and surrounds them. Looking over their left shoulder, back across the green green grass, toward what looks to be a patch of garden, by a large, decrepit house and its wrapping porch, they walk over toward the buzzing garden. ZZiioozzit. They whip their head around at the sound. "Dei!" they hear ever so softly on the air. Turning, they look down at the top of their right shoulder, toward the sound. A tiny ladybug stands waving its arms, trying to get their attention, "Dei!" "Hi," Dei begins as they lift their left hand—palm up— up to their shoulder, "Would you like to come over here?" The ladybug, "It's Ladybug," the ladybug interrupts. "Just Ladybug," Ladybug corrects. Ladybug quickly scurries onto Dei's comfortable palm.

"You need to go that way," Ladybug points— full Warrior Two — "to the barn." They follow the line of Ladybug's point and see a large red structure in the distance. "Yea, that's it. It's big, right? It's called a barn," Ladybug informs. "I see," Dei responds. "Well, let's get on with it, then," Ladybug directs. Cautiously, Dei turns and slowly faces their body in the direction that it needs to go. "That's it," Ladybug encourages, "You've got it." And then they continue to stand there. "Shit!" Ladybug shouts, "Your list! Hang tight, I'll be right back." Ladybug zooms off into the house in front of which Dei continues to stand, hand held — palm up —directly in front of themselves, staring off, over the green green grass, toward the big red barn. They hear the audible grunts of someone mumbling on the second floor. Looking up, they see someone pacing on the balcony above. Mumbling and grumbling, the person disappears back into the house. They look back over the green green grass at the big red barn beyond and sigh.

Within a moment, Ladybug returns — flying clumsily— with a small paper roll. "Here you are," Ladybug states as it sets the small paper roll into the palm of their hand, "Your list." Breathing heavily from carrying such extra weight, Ladybug pants with arms atop knees, bent over, distraught. A large soap-like soap bubble begins to form around the big red barn. "Dei!" Ladybug shouts as it points toward the barn. "You're late!" List in hand, Dei clutches the thing tight and begins to run toward the big red barn as fast as they can. Slowly, the once clear bubble begins to turn a gentle purple. "Hurry!" Ladybug yells into Dei's ear as it buzzes along beside them. Just as the now purple bubble begins to rise and lift off the ground, Dei reaches the large sliding barn doors, slides one to one side, the other to the other, and dives — head first — into the gelly. Outside, the purple bubble pops, the zipper pull of the lamp's chain rips through the air, and day turns to night.

Once fully exited from the entrance cavity, Dei sees Jei standing mightily, pull-chain in hand. Ladybug buzzes as loudly as possible. "Sit!" Jei commands with a lifted palm. Ladybug quickly assembles itself on the outstretched palm of Jei. "It's not Dei's fault," Ladybug begins. "Obviously," Jei states. "I forgot to pick up the list before Dei arrived," Ladybug explains. Jei lowers their head and sighs a deep sigh, "Ladybug. If you're too busy, you're too busy. You need to know your limits." "I know; the Listmaker just yelled at me. I'm 'to hire an assistant immediately.' I've chosen to choose a lorikeet of my own," Ladybug explains. "That sounds like a good plan," Jei congratulates. "It seems, at least, that you were quite effective at instructing Dei," Jei begins as they shift their attention to Dei. "Dei, do you have your list?" Dei nods and holds out a hand— palm up— to reveal the small paper roll. "No time to read it, just yet, I imagine?" "No, of course, but who would want to read such a thing?" Dei wonders aloud. Jei ponders this, too, "I suppose a Monitor does not necessarily need to know such things, so perhaps, you're on to something." And then Ladybug immediately jumps in, "Jei! Are you crazy? Dei must read the list." "Why?" Jei asks. "Because that's what you do! That's what you all do! You read the lists." "But they're not really for us, and we're not messengers," Jei retorts. Ladybug sits back on its haunches and strokes its chin with its right top arm while the left top arm supports it, "I suppose you're right."

And then, Ladybug pops up, deploys its wings, hovers in front of the face of Jei, "Goodbye, then. I'll leave you two to it!" Ladybug salutes a small salute and buzzes off toward the entrance. Dei waves a lazy hand, "Bye." "Thanks," Jei smiles. "So," Jei turns his full attention on Dei, "Would you like to see your house?" Dei nods and shrugs, "Of course." "Or, maybe we should start right here in the foyer of the Post. Or, no, we have plenty of time before day, so let's head on over to your house," Jei finally manages.

Jei walks Dei past the study that sits to the right of the foyer, when entering the Post in which they're currently standing. They walk by the extensive kitchen on the left and then immediately turn to the right through a door that leads through a garage out into a back lawn. Beyond a healthy-sized garden, "It's a field," Jei interrupts. Beyond a healthy field of, "Peanuts!" Jei shouts. "Peanuts?" Dei asks, "Why peanuts?" "It doesn't matter," Jei responds, "It could be anything." Dei nods. They walk side by side around the, "It's best to just refer to things in relation to yourself," Jei offers. "With the light, there's no real coordinated directional metric." They walk side by side around the left side of the peanut fields toward two modest cottages nestled cozily at the end of a cul-de-sac, lassoed by a road that seems to lead to nowhere. "Not nowhere," Jei corrects.

Jei presents the two houses to Dei with a sweeping arm, "You are the Senior Monitor, therefore, the choice is yours." Dei considers each from the outside, "Are they the same on the inside, floor plan, appliances?" "It's whatever you like," Jei informs. "I think I prefer the green one," Dei states as they point to a gingerbread-house-like cottage with moss green stucco, forest green trim, and large, celadon shingles. "But I think I would like to go inside before I settle on a choice." Dei walks— first — toward the not-green cottage that is — instead— a lively orange. Once inside, Dei walks the halls and inspects each room of both houses.

In the middle of the paved cul-de-sac, Dei and Jei stand, arms crossed, mulling over the two cottages. Until finally, Dei asks, "Do you have a preference?" Jei stands up straight and then admits, "I—too—have been preferring the green one simply for its color." They stand contemplating the situation. "Is it so weird to make them both green?" "Or we could choose different greens but both have green?" "Deal," Dei states with an outstretched hand—palm up. Jei reaches out a hand, and awkwardly, they shake hands. "But which one do you want? The right or the left?" Jei asks. "Right," Dei remembers as they sit and contemplate once again. "Oh, alright," Jei agrees. "Oh, no, I meant. Well, right it is," Dei agrees, and again, they shake hands. "Well, I'm off then," Jei salutes. "When will you return to the post?" Dei asks. "Sometime in the somewhat early morning," Jei answers. "I see," Dei nods, "See you." "You should try to get a little rest, but not too much, if you know what I mean," Jei waves.

Dei stands at the end of the drive to the house that now belongs to them. They take in a deep, satisfied breath. Looking around, they decide that they are not tired, so after quickly familiarizing themselves with the house, they walk back toward the Post.

Inside, they begin to understand the enormity of the task. Luckily, the entire Post extends vertically high beyond anything that they can see, and the entirety of the Post is lined with books and shelves and shelves full of books and books on shelves. In a lifetime, (no one) few could possibly read all of the books stretching up into the Post. "But I am not a being to whom you can refer as 'one,' therefore, I am confident, I can read all of these books in my lifetime," Dei challenges. "That's better. Thank you," Dei thanks. Lost, Dei scales the staircase spiraling up and through the enormous collection of books, plucking one here, another there. And then finally, the time arrives.

Through the windows dotting the lamp's post, peeking through the shelves of books, the darkness outside begins to shift. Quickly, Dei descends the stairs— realizing the books had really distracted them—and readies themselves at the base of the dangling chain. Slowly, Dei sees the large soap-like soap bubble forming outside, in the pitch black of darkness. Carefully, Dei watches as the bubble turns a soft lavender on its way to purple. Dark again, the bubble begins to lift the barn— and all of its contents —into a neighboring realm of time and space. Dei pulls down hard on the chain. The bubble pops and drops the barn back into Time. A loud, tremendous rip tears through the sky and rides on the air until the special click of the lamp turns night into day. 

. . .

[for the U.S. edition this story continues on a bit longer]

Moments later a piercing sound, the sound of death, rips through the sky as Dei jumps, scared as shit at the sound. Within an instant, Jei comes rushing in through the back entrance of The Post. “No,” Jei sighs while seemingly seeing through the wall at the far end of the Post. “What is it?” Dei asks. “We need to go,” Jei instructs. “Where?” Dei asks, concerned. “Out there,” Jei points as the two make their way back through the entrance gelly. As they emerge, they see a man—a human man—wielding something that they do not recognize but that looks very familiar. A weapon. “Stop!” Jei shouts, running after the man. The man begins to run. 

Dei hears the familiar sound of Ladybug’s wings, “Where is that man headed?” “The school,” Ladybug whispers softly while landing gently upon Dei’s right shoulder. “Why?” Dei asks. “Who knows?” Ladybug responds. Dei begins to move in the direction of the school. “No,” Ladybug gently instructs. “Why?” Dei asks. “There’s nothing to be done,” Ladybug explains. “About what?” Dei asks. “About Men,” Ladybug states. And as Ladybug lifts off Dei’s shoulder in order to rest upon Dei’s palm in front of Dei’s face, they both hear the deafening sound of death once more and then again and again until finally, the Listmaker emerges from his house as two Bromides appear in a green, film-like bubble between the Listmaker’s house and the school.

Jei walks toward them with the man held in his grasp. The Bromides approach the man, looking him up and down, taking him in, whispering whispers back and forth to each other. Eventually, one of them asks, “Why?” And just as the man opens his mouth to speak, Jei—with a snap of the fingers—stops Time within the man, and the man falls with a thud, in a heap to the ground. The Bromides look at each other and then look at Jei and then look back toward the Listmaker’s house. “To the Land of Men,” they say out loud, for the ears within the vicinity to hear. The Listmaker drops his head low while resting his hands atop the banister of the balcony upon which he stands as he overlooks the Ranch. Jei looks toward Dei. One of the Bromides begins to walk toward the school as the other walks toward the house, and within a few paces, one begins to be surrounded in a film-like bubble of blue while the other turns red. A few more paces, the entirety of the Ranch succumbs to an overwhelming hue of green, a cracking whiplash-type searing cracks through the sky, and the Bromides turn to air. All returns to the clarity of day. 

“But the kids,” Dei whispers. “It’s an allegory,” Ladybug consoles with its middle set of legs firmly propped up against its hips while it stands, defiant, upon its bottom (or back) legs, its top legs lifted in the air as if saying, What did you expect?   

 

In Seven Parts—Book Three* Sketches: The Monitors, Dei, The Listmaker's Ranch, The Barn, and of course, Ladybug

If you have no idea from whence we came, you can read Red & Blue Make Green (book one) on amazon, and read Bromides (book two) on medium.

Part I

The Monitors are a set of Bromides who monitor the passing of day to night, night to day. Existing roughly within the Listmaker’s Ranch, each of the Monitors is assigned a transition. Dei is the newly-arrived Monitor and oversees the transition of night into day, while Jei oversees the transition of day into night. On the Listmaker’s Ranch, the light of day is controlled by the Bulb that hangs overhead; literally, a large incandescent light bulb hangs straight down from above the center of the Ranch. A chain exits the fixture, dangles loosely around the bulb itself and lowers through the sky down toward the right of the Listmaker’s house in through the roof of the barn where the Monitors exist.

Part II

It’s a barn. It’s a big red barn, just like the big red barns in the big books you used to read about farms, with all the animals. At least, it looks like a barn from the outside. Upon entering the thing, however, you quickly realize that wherever you are, you are not wherever the barn led you to believe you would be. Sort of like wrestling through a wall molded of gelatin, you must make your way through the long dark corridor until you reach the Circle’s Corner. From there, you must wait. You must wait until you no longer have to wait anymore. At this time, the Swinging Leaves must transport you through to Purple Lake where you can ride a droplet of mist through the light at the Listmaker’s Ranch. At the end of the day, you will do everything in reverse, of course.

And then, when you arrive at the Listmaker’s Ranch, you will see, in the distance, just off to the right of the Listmaker’s house, a large, red, angular building. It’s a barn. It’s a big red barn, just like the big red barns in the big books you used to read about farms, with all the animals. At least, it looks like a barn from the outside. Upon entering the thing, however, you quickly realize that wherever you are, you are not wherever the barn led you to believe you would be. Sort of like wrestling through a wall molded of gelatin, you must make your way through the long dark corridor until you reach the Circle’s Corner. From there, you must wait. You must wait until you no longer have to wait anymore. At this time, the Swinging Leaves must transport you through to Purple Lake where you can ride a droplet of mist through the light at the Listmaker’s Ranch. At the end of the day, you will do everything in reverse, of course. And then, when you arrive at the Listmaker’s Ranch, you will see, in the distance, just off to the right of the Listmaker’s house, a large, red, angular building. It’s a barn. It’s a big red barn, just like the big red barns in the big books you used to read about farms, with all the animals.

At least, it looks like a barn from the outside. Upon entering the thing, however, you quickly realize that wherever you are, you are not wherever the barn led you to believe you would be. Sort of like wrestling through a wall molded of gelatin, you must make your way through the long dark corridor until you reach the Circle’s Corner. From there, you must wait. You must wait until you no longer have to wait anymore. At this time, the Swinging Leaves must transport you through to Purple Lake where you can ride a droplet of mist through the light at the Listmaker’s Ranch. At the end of the day, you will do everything in reverse, of course. And then, when you arrive at the Listmaker’s Ranch, you will see, in the distance, just off to the right of the Listmaker’s house, a large, red, angular building. It’s a barn. It’s a big red barn, just like the big red barns in the big books you used to read about farms, with all the animals.

Part III

Unlike most Monitors who are born of and raised by former Monitors to potentially become Monitors, thrust into the world at the moment of birth, Dei is a Monitor. Discovered in her early toddler-hood manipulating light, Dei, of course, found herself catching the attention of the Bromides. Not knowing who they are or what they are all about, Dei felt them watching her and fled the world of Man before understanding the enormity of her power. Luckily, however, with her powers being so great, by happenstance, she found herself on the Listmaker’s Ranch.

Confused and afraid, she stood trembling at the foot of the first step onto the porch of the Listmaker’s house. Of course, the Listmaker knew of Dei, but of course, the Listmaker did not fill in the gaps for her. Instead, upon seeing her looking frightful just outside the house, the Listmaker promptly delivered her list to her. Cautiously, Dei accepted the slim roll of paper from the Listmaker, despite not knowing who this person (or entity?) was or what this person (or figment?) wanted.

As the roll sat diagonally across the palm of Dei’s hand, she looked up at the Listmaker and asked, “What is this?” Stern and impatient, the Listmaker looked at Dei and said, “It’s a list.” Pensive, she looked back at the roll in her hand, shimmied the thing to her fingertips, and began opening it. “Not here,” the Listmaker demanded, “Over there.” Following the line off the tip of the Listmaker’s outstretched hand, Dei’s eyes swept over the Ranch until she saw a large red barn in the near distance. “There?” she asked. “Jei has been waiting for you,” the Listmaker responded. “Who’s Jee?” she asked. “Not Jee, Jei,” the Listmaker instructed while turning quickly back toward the front door.

The Listmaker walked away and disappeared into the house. Dei shrugged, “Typical.” Fondling the “list” between the tips of all her fingers, she looked out over the Ranch toward the Barn. Figuring there really was nothing else for her to do, Dei opted to head on over to the Barn to find out who this Jei person was.The only thing she knew for sure was that she did not like the Listmaker.

Part IV

The air smells distinctly of shortbread; their favorite—of their mother’s baked goods. And then an infusion of lavender and a diffusion of something they do not recognize, fills their senses and surrounds them. Looking over their left shoulder, back across the green green grass, toward what looks to be a patch of garden, by a large, decrepit house and its wrapping porch, they walk over toward the buzzing garden. ZZiioozzit. They whip their head around at the sound. “Dei!” they hear ever so softly on the air. Turning, they look down at the top of their right shoulder, toward the sound. A tiny ladybug stands waving its arms, trying to get their attention, “Dei!” “Hi,” Dei begins as they lift their left hand—palm up—up to their shoulder, “Would you like to come over here?” The ladybug, “It’s Ladybug,” the ladybug interrupts. “Just Ladybug,” Ladybug corrects. Ladybug quickly scurries onto Dei’s comfortable palm.

Part V

“Well,” Ladybug begins, “it’s not so much that it looks like a barn than it smells like a barn. Or, I don’t really know. You’re maybe asking the wrong thing here. Right? Look at me. What do I know about telling or explaining it all to someone the likes of you. Why do you want to know anyway, all about that barn? Or, what was it, you called it The Barn? So what’s so fancy about the thing? What is peeking that fancy of yours so intensely, eh? Wait, wait, I’ll guess.” 

Ladybug sits back on its haunches. “Hey, eh. Who you talking to, yea?” 

… 

“What do you mean, what am I talking about? You. YOU. You over there narrating or something. Who you talking to?” 

… 

“I mean no offense. I understand that, uh, people, people gotta work.” 

…

 “I see. I don’t mind, and I definitely do not want any trouble. Not today.” Ladybug tucks back into a comfortable position, “Yea see. That. I’m not sure I’ll be getting used to that.”

Part VI

Ladybug takes a deep breath, “Where to begin. Where to begin. Let’s see. The Barn, as you call it, is just a barn. It’s big and red and smells like freshly cut hay. You can also feel the squishiness of the lush green green grass as you make your way across the Listmaker’s lawn toward the barn. You’ll taste the fresh, carbonated dew of morning, the salty sunlit warmth of afternoon, and by night, your senses will be overwhelmed by the sweetness of something tasting like flossed sugar. Upon arriving in front of the two large, sliding barn doors, you will smell the decadent aroma of something heavily buttered being baked in an oven. On good days, you’ll taste it too. As the barn’s doors slide wide, the first thing you’ll feel is something akin to gelatin or jello or jelly slap you across the entirety of your front body. The jello will swallow you as you make your way into the barn via this duct. Don’t worry. You won’t smell or taste anything. And I’ve heard that the jelly is quite soothing for some. Deathly terrifying to others, but people, you know?” Taking another slow, deep breath, Ladybug sits down and has one final instruction, “You will get lost. Unless you are a Monitor, you will get lost. In the event that you are lost, try to stay calm and wait. Just wait.”

Part VII

“Well,” Ladybug begins, “if I’m being really honest, that’s one really ephed up question, man. Man? You are a man?”

…

“Oh, sorry."

...

"Okay, great. So, you know what I mean? Right? It’s weird to ask about how someone tastes. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I guess there are some people who are into that sorta shit, but I’m not one of them. I can tell you, though, that Dei, she always smells like something fresh coming out of the oven.” Ladybug moves in closer and looks around as if making sure no one can hear, “Rumor has it that Dei smells like everyone’s memory of their mother. Sad story, I suppose, if you never knew your mother. I mean, everyone has a mother, but maybe some don’t know who theirs are, and that’s alright. That person would still smell Dei in some way, and that smell would be the unfamiliar smell of a mother they never knew. No harm. So, I suppose, if you don’t know what your mother smells like, then getting a whiff of Dei would, theoretically, as theoretical as rumors go, smell like your mother.” Satisfied, Ladybug sits back on its haunches and rids its hands of any responsibility.

THE END (of this ... thing)

*I’ve been mulling and sketching for Book Three since about early 2019, and so, these are some of the very first writings for this Book Three effort that slowly approaches on the horizon. These sketches were written first and posted to my old blog, Lady Polarity, back in early 2019. I am re-posting them here as this is the space from which I am now broadcasting, and since I am eager to begin full-time work on Book Three, I would like these sketches to remind me—in gleeful hope, as I must be in a financial state that allows for me to quit my part-time, hourly-wage labor—that that day is fast approaching. These sketches have been proofread and edited by Yours Truly, before publishing here, today.

New Product Announcement & Update for/on ‘sun김선sailor's Writer/Project Rate Sheet’

[view all of sun김선sailor's products here, here, and here.]

I realized not too long ago that my financial wish is, essentially, to be paid for my opinion, which I know sounds so utterly “Millennial” to anyone over, what?, forty five? Anywho … it’s the Truth, and then the bodybuddy/lifemate essentially said that I could start charging people I know for my opinion. For instance, if someone at work were to ask me something that was, essentially, phishing for my opinion, I’d maybe say something like, “It sounds like you want my opinion,” to which one imagines they will affirm or deny by saying, “Ha, yea,” or “Uh, no, nah, bra.” If they answer in the affirmative, I’d then say, “Well, I’m $100/hour (with regards to my opinion).” 

[In the road up ahead, you see an orange, diamond-shaped, reflective, construction warning sign, warning “DETOUR AHEAD”]

A few months ago, I worked a different job for the same corporation, but I left the former job because I couldn’t stand my new coworker. The reason why I could not stand him was because he was a poser, and the type of person he was posing as is the type of person that I am, an entrepreneur. Nevertheless, one day, he was attempting to “test” (as if someone stupider than me could be successful at such a feat) me by asking some questions about our business, and whatnot. A lame fucking attempt. Anyway, I don’t remember what he asked specifically, at this point in time, but it was some snotty remark about how the business must be struggling if I still work where I work (he’s now since quit after realizing just how much of a weak-ass beta he truly is), even though I work a forced three days a week because we (the bodybuddy/lifemate slash Director of Details/Co-Founder/Co-Owner of our business tkscm, limited) would really only like to work two days/week (weekends), but we can’t because the company has a 20+ hours/week policy. I responded by telling him the Truth, "One of my financial goals is to make $100/hour, every hour of the day, every day of the week, every week of the month, every month of the year before I quit the security of wage labor,” to which he laughed a little scoffing laugh and said, “Wow, that’s great. This job means that you’re almost making that right now,” to which I responded, “Sorry, what?” Then this idiot looks at me like I’m the idiot, and condescendingly explains that, “You almost make a hundred dollars a day, here, don’t you?” And then, I had to just stop what I was doing to look into this fucking idiot’s head before I said, “No. I don’t make anywhere near one hundred dollars per HOUR here at this lame as fucking hourly-wage job.” Then he turned red and tried to brush off his mistake by saying, “Oh, I thought you said a hundred dollars a day,” to which I responded, “Obviously.”

[The gravel, after a bump over some roughed up asphalt, returns to the smoothed out, paved road upon which you were driving only moments before]

But then, I thought of something better! And so, I'd like to introduce my new product:

"Want My Opinion? or, I’ll Spank Your Ego’s Tiny Naked Ass For The Low-Low Fee of Tiered Pricing!" 

As you know, from the above Detour, I am actually, $100/hour, but since hours break down into minutes and minutes into seconds, everyone should be able to afford a slice of my time, and the younger you are, the more affordable I am because, let’s be real, young people are poor (and don’t come at me with your individual examples; it’ll be a waste of any troll’s time). And so, I present …

Want My Opinion? or, I'll Spank Your Ego’s Tiny Naked Ass For The Low-Low Fee of Tiered Pricing!

Age Range: Cost Per Opinion*:         Discounts:

Under 18                   NA                                     NA 

18-22 $20                                     10%

23-28 $30                                     5%

29-32 $40                                         -    

33-37 $50                                         -            

38-40 $60                                         -

41-48 $70                                         -

49-56 $80                                         -

57-65 $90                                         -

66+                 $100                                       -

*Opinions will vary in length, but the price purchases you about an hour of my thought. I am, however, willing to spend more or less time on an Opinion; for example, a 23-28 year-old could theoretically purchase a two-opinion Opinion (I’ll spend two hours on one Opinion) or half-an-opinion Opinion (I’d spend thirty minutes on one Opinion), which would cost $57.00 ($30x2 minus the 5% Discount) or $14.25 ($30/2 minus the 5% Discount), respectively. All prices are available in any mathematical increment desired by the client ;) 

And since I know that making a decision on absolutely no information can be difficult, the following is an example of a real-life Opinion that was given to someone who may or may not have paid for it (because if he did pay, then I’d be ethically bound not to speak of such things, and if he didn’t pay, then that means that he was not a “client,” which means that he would not be an “example” per se, but since the Truth cannot be known without violating the privacy of someone who may or may not want his privacy violated, this is all I can say on the matter), nevertheless, an Example Opinion:

A male who fell within the 29-32 age range—someone who views himself as an entrepreneur—wanted a one-opinion Opinion about his level of professionalism when considering both his email address and the emails themselves. Here is my response: 

re: Your Email Address

Under normal circumstances, I would not have returned an email that I received from someone with an email address like yours. It is only because I know you from [Redacted] that I haven't completely dismissed you professionally. 

What your email address says to me is two fold:

A) At [Redacted], I personally witnessed you as you attempted to sell yourself as someone who knows stuff, but what your email communicates to me is that you do not know how to develop or maintain a personal (much less professional) website as you are using a generic email service … namely, Hotmail. Hotmail is the email service my 70-something mother uses. I have honestly not even seen a new Hotmail address in about ten years. And developing/maintaining one's professional web presence is … a very basic skill. 

B) Since you've also included your birth year in your email address, my assumptions automatically assume that you have little to no awareness of your online privacy, or you simply do not care about your privacy on the internet. In my view, both intentions are problematic.

re: Your Email

When I send and receive professional emails, I have a few rules that I like to follow: 
A) Address the person to whom you are emailing, and use the name they referred to themselves by in their email to you or if you are sending a new email to someone, address them by their full name or title if you do not know what to call them. 
B) Use please and thank you 
C) Sign your name

D) Use a desktop or laptop for email communication

Since you replied to my email so quickly (and I saw the little “Sent from my [Redacted],” I knew that you had sent it from your phone, which also communicates to me that perhaps you do not have any digital communications boundaries set up for yourself.

If you'd like my complete philosophy on how to use the various forms of digital communication, I will gladly share it with you. 

Again, I am not saying you are or are doing any of these things. This is merely how I am perceiving your online actions. Again, none of this is a judgment, this is my mere perception. There's nothing "right' or "wrong" about the way that you use email, and I am not suggesting that you change the way that you are. I am simply sharing with you the way that I and others like me may see you when you interact with me and others like me online.

[END Example Opinion]

Would you pay (more like, can you afford, ha!) $40.00 to receive some feedback like this?

If you are interested in my product(s), feel free to be Curious through the form in the menu bar. This is all very trivial. In essence, this is a joke, but a serious joke, nonetheless. Do with it what you will. 

In the meantime, if you’re in need of a writer, want to be a writer, or think that maybe you need a writer, you can see all of my other writing-related products on “sun김선sailor's Writer/Project Rate Sheet,” and for more of what I do, entrepreneurial-ly, visit tkscm, limited (dotcom).  

 

Are you an Elitist? Are you White and college or 'college' educated? Then, yes. I can guarantee you that you are.

[DISCLAIMER] I am not a Musk sympathizer, nor am I a Musk-bro (I am an East-Asian female for fuck’s sake), and I strongly support the unscrupulous scrutiny by everyone of Musk—a person with so much wealth so as to be extremely powerful because of said wealth. I am also supportive of the plight of sexual diversity. The points in this following opinion are merely to reflect the status of the Left in the context of what Musk seems to be, at best, critiquing, at worst, attempting to dismantle. Read at your own discretion. 

[TRIGGER WARNING] Triggers exist (one assumes, but since I do not suffer from sexual diversity discrimination, I do not know what does and does not trigger those who do suffer) for those who suffer for their sexual diversity. I’m a writer, and I’m a free agent. I write about whatever I want. You do not have to read or participate in my writing. You were warned. 

[The above are two examples for why I, sun김선sailor, the author of this post, have also come to a place where I hate the Left. I cannot go so far as to support the GOP, however.]

^..^

If you do not understand—cis, male, White, South African (a White African, imagine how it is that his existence came to be, by the way) billionaire—Elon Musk’s disparaging remarks regarding the Left and consequent support of the GOP, you are an elitist. An elitist is someone who belongs to a socially defined “better” class of human because you are either highly educated, praised for your education, born into wealth, a product of nepotism, become wealthy, or are a celebrity (for whatever reason)—thereby making you “better” than those who either work hourly-wage jobs or who belong to some arbitrarily labeled “lesser” group. 

What the Lib-tard (yea, sure, “retard” is no longer PC, so I undoubtedly understand how some speech-policing Lib-tards would come after me for appropriating a term that’s so obviously harmful, nevertheless) Left does not seem to understand is how blatantly obviously their elitism shouts. It’s a painful realization I realized not long before I gave up streaming Late-Night “television” (namely, Stephen Colbert once I realized that he’s a Fraud, of the gravest kind, a writing for another time). My point is that the majority of working people are hourly-wage earners, which means that the Lib-tard Left—that’s mostly made up of college educated professionals—are the minority, and yet, they control the majority of the facets of power, namely, the media and technology.

And so, the Lib-tard Left—who have decided to “take on” the priorities of minorities have essentially become Far-Left extreme by policing speech, forcing pronouns, sexual identity issues and individual plights onto the masses, a population that does not have “issues” with such issues that only affect an inconsequential portion of the total population. In short, the Lib-tard Left has driven the vehicle of equality for the majority of minorities into a scattering of individual traits that all must be rectified, acknowledged, praised, accepted, and most importantly, Labeled. Sorry, but the individual plight of each individual means that there are no “issues” because everyone’s tailored issues are issues of equal import, which means that no issues are important, and this sort of society is not sustainable or even reasonable. Like my fellow Millennials know all too well, If everyone’s special, then nobody is, etc. 

If the “Democratic” Democrats were actually for the people, they’d realize that they’re trying really hard to represent a fraction of a fraction of the population—those affected by gender disparities beyond the “binary” equality of men and women—which sadly, as the Lib-tard Left is soon about to find out, is not a large enough voting block to sustain this ridiculous trend towards an ends that demands “equality for all,” a pipe dream.  

This American Dream has become a Nightmare for the Majority of Americans—”straight” cis, natal-gender, biologically organed, organically reproducing humans—because a small fraction of the population has been put on a pedestal of importance by the Lib-tard Left, while the rest of us—”normal” working-class Americans and our needs/issues—are deprioritized because we’re not “sexually ambiguous.” The Majority of Americans' problems do not revolve around their sexuality. Sorry not sorry. The Majority of Americans need infrastructure and jobs, not pronouns and gender-affirming surgery. 

And calling Musk “anti-labor” is a sure sign that the Lib-tard Left does not mix and mingle with those who actually make up the Labor class, because like I said, they’re Elitists. Anyone who has worked an hourly-wage job or socializes with those who do knows that what we need is not gender-affirmation, but jobs that make us feel human, no matter our sexual orientation. “Oh, but that’s what we’re fighting for!” the Lib-tard shouts; “Sexual discrimination is real!” Yea, duh. And you’re saving one, single life at a time as opposed to understanding the larger labor system within which we are all trapped, and that by improving the lives of the MOST people, we will improve the lives of everyone. 

The problem, obviously, is that the GOP confuses White people for being “superior” and they consider themselves the majority of people, when there are many different ways to read demographic data and divide the country into its respective types, and so, when you consider that White people barely hold the majority these days in these United States, in race-based demographics, how is it that the metric with the strongest spotlight demanding equality is that of sexuality as opposed to say, economics? This is what Elon Musk points to when he says that he can no longer support the Lib-tard Left (one imagines. I don’t know him, obviously, and even if I did, I wouldn’t claim to know what he means when he says shit). 

And so, ask yourself, Why is the Lib-tard Left so focused on helping so few, when the problems—such as the wealth gap and climate change—that we all face as American citizens and ultimately, citizens of the world, in this miraculous Land of the Free are shelved and seemingly unimportant to those who make up the “Elite”? 

And then, ask yourself, Why is Musk—a man who ought to subscribe to the elitist mindset—the only person who cares about bringing electric cars and the internet to the masses—while creating tons of jobs, btw—disparaged as an “anti-labor billionaire” by those who are supposed to care about bringing electric cars and the internet (i.e. creating equal access) to the masses? Curious.

"But Musk is just doing it for the money, wealth, fame, power, etc.!" the Lib-tards exclaim. Yea, duh, and also, Musk might actually want to make the world a better place, but like you and me, none of us really knows how. The Lib-tard thinks they know how, but they do nothing. Musk knows that he does not know how but is, at the very least, trying to do what he thinks might work. And in the same way we must not forget that no person/group/type is a monolith, neither is the White Male Billionaire.

 

Consider This A [unperformed—so that you may read it at your leisure, while sad and alone on your bed scrolling through your phone as a lonely consumer of the internet, and so that you can use your own imagination to imagine how it is that I might say these things out loud, so that you may realize your creative potential as opposed to believing the words of the incompetent people who surround you and fill your head with lies about who you are or are meant to be—cause I’m not a performer of this ilk] ‘Tight Five’

… although, I imagine that this would run longer than five minutes, and it’s not really comedy. 

[These bits in brackets are the imagined bits, the parts imagined, for some reason. And so, a 164-centimeter tall, moderately-built Korean-type Asian walks onto an ill-lit, makeshift stage, and begins to talk into a corded microphone that makes her feel tethered to the stage like a helium balloon gaily bobbing up and down on textured ribbon …]

What’s up. As you can see at the top of this page, my name. If you’re an English speaker, it’s Sun Sailor (capitalized or lower-case or whatever), and if you read Hangul, it’s that bit in the middle. I’m told it’s Korean, but I don’t know how to read it. I go by this name on the internet because I like to pretend that my life is far more meaningful than the shitty hourly-wage job I must attend three days a week in order to survive this thing called life. 

I don’t know how many of you are hourly wage-earners, but I’ve done a bit of hourly wage-earning myself, and at one of these lower points in my life, just kidding, that was mean. It’s mean to think of hourly labor as something lowly, especially when the majority, you heard me right, the majority of working people are hourly-wage earners. Remember this. Anyway, I’ve basically worked hourly my entire life because why would I subject myself to The 9-to-5 willingly? I wouldn’t. Yes, I have two four-year degrees. (This is absolutely true, from the best state school in my home state.) Leave me alone. 

So one time, I was working overnight in one of the country’s largest grocery retailers when a conversation struck up between my fellow overnight stockers. I dunno about you, but I am not fond of coworkers, in general, hence my deep appreciation for the night shift. Anyway. One of these fools (a twenty-year-old white-ish [honestly not sure] male) starts talking about how the Apocalypse is coming, and two obviously, painfully, Conservative older (like over fifty) white males laughed out loud and said like, “It’s happening right now, kid.” And then they went on for a few minutes pretending to know things, especially about how much it’s going to suck, when I finally piped in and said my allotment of words for this particular shift, “It’s only going to suck if you’re poor.” 

At this point, the more determined of the two older white males to prove that he’s “too smart for this job” responded by saying something to the effect of, “But that’s how you have a target on your back. They …” And then he suddenly stopped himself, and I chuckled to myself quietly under my mask. 

I’ll admit it. I tried to entrap him, and he fell right into it by nearly admitting that the rich are “them/they,” that he is, indeed, a poor motherfucker, and I made him realize this, I hope. 

But then I watched this video by Trevor Noah on his The Daily Show—a “Between The Scenes” as it were. And in this particular clip, Trevor begins the video by disclaiming that he doesn’t actually know anything about finance and finishes the video stating that capitalism—American-fucking Capitalism-As-Usual—is a scam. Trevor indulges us by bickering about how money works and doesn’t work and how the rich do and don’t pay taxes because they “tell the IRS” what they will and won’t do. Firstly, this is so irrevocably incorrect that I nearly hit “B” on my XBOX controller to stop this nonsense coming at me. But then, Trevor continues to divulge how “little” he knows about finance but explains Capitalism (especially American Capitalism-As-Usual) perfectly. But then, he calls it a scam because Trevor Noah Does Not UNDERSTAND Capitalism. It was a sad moment for me, to watch a quote-unquote “intelligent” comedian explain Capitalism-As-Usual so accurately and then completely whiff on what Capitalism actually does, is, means. Ugh. What a disappointment. 

And then I was reminded of Donald Glover’s Atlanta wherein Season 2 (I think), one of the episodes reveals “Earn’s” return from “Darius’s” investment in some expensive dogs. “Earn” walks away with $4K and then loses $4K in a gift card scam. It’s unclear if he only doubled $2K of the $4K. I almost threw my XBOX controller at our TV. 

And then that reminded me of some movie called The Florida Project?, that I watched a few years ago or something.  It stars Willem Dafoe, which is the only reason why we were watching it, to be honest. Anyway, in one of the scenes of that movie, one of the main characters, I guess, I dunno, the female with the daughter who gets caught doing sex work in the presence of a child, etc. That character, that mom. So in one scene, the mom finally gets a little cash windfall, and what’s the first thing she does?, she spends it at some dollar-store-type store, and one of the items she buys is FAKE MONEY. This fucking lady finally gets some money when she’s at the end of her rope, and she fucking trades her REAL MONEY for FAKE MONEY. I couldn’t believe it. I sat there in total shock that that’s something that someone would do! Is this a real-life thing that could happen? I was beside myself, and I think of that scene every fucking time I feel even the smallest inclination to spend frivolously. 

And then, I remembered a Ronny Chieng clip about how Chinese people love money so much that during the New Year they don’t say, “Happy New Year” or any translation like that, they say, “Hope you get rich.” I dunno how to say it in Chinese, or whatever, cause I’m Korean. 

[The 164-centimeter tall, moderately-built Korean-type Asian suddenly looks confused. Looks around the stage, puts the mic on its stand, and exits stage left.]

 

 

You literally [in the literal sense] cannot participate in the 'American DREAM' if you are awake.

 ... &this is why it is a total, complete, tedious drag to be 'woke.' 

... &it is no wonder that there are some minds that are either too ignorant or too weak (or too both) to take on the task. 

... &i totally understand why the 'Dream' is still alive and well. 

"On Wokeness"

Die Asleep, or Live Awake

 

Twitterless Tweeting 2022 March + April Edition

It (this, this thing I’m writing about now) dawned on me, not too long ago, that I am aware of tweets tweeted on Twitter despite the fact that I do not participate on the platform. I neither have an account nor do I tweet, but like Thena so masterfully whisper-proclaims in Eternals when confronting Ikaris, “But I’ve always wanted to.” 

Thus, it (again, this thing you’re reading here, now) occurred to me that I could tweet without Twitter, and so, here we are now—some Twitterless tweets from the months of March and April in the arbitrarily named year 2022 that I would’ve tweeted via Twitter if I were a user/abuser. 

The Twitterless Tweets of @DoesYourFirstScreenNameEmbarrassYou
“nullius in verba”

• A robber steals—

a house with two homes.

• I sat through the entire Spider-Man: What’s It Called, The Second One? No Third, The Third One, just so that I could finally watch the Dr. Strange trailer. 

• my dilemma [this is it, this is all there is to the note in my notebook about this tweet]

• sometimes you have to lie to get exactly what you need so that nobody finds out what it is that you want.

• The bigger the phone (i.e. more expensive), the smaller (like penis size) the man. 

• re the book Mother of Invention—The Conditions

If the argument is that women’s work is skill-less b/c it’s innate, then the argument could be made that men need to be paid more b/c of the effort it requires for men to acquire new skills, any skills, b/c men are inherently skill-less. 

• Life’s guarantee is death.

Death is for the living.

To be human is to leave nothing 

but death, destruction and 

waste in your wake.

• "On Dieting"

Tighter the budget, tighter the waste;

Tighter the waste, tighter the waist.

• The smarter the phone, the dumber the man. 

• The absolute truth of any corporate workplace that employs hourly-wage earners at the bottom (the majority of working people, fact, and yes, go searching for the actual average income for those who earn hourly, you will be shocked, fact), department managers, tiered corporate management, above them etc., is that for the on-the-ground workers on the bottom, seniority rules. And so, this structure works very well to create economic slavery. When seniority rules, more—perhaps meritocratic—workers have to literally wait for their department heads to die or quit in order to “work their way up” or whatever the saying is whenever a corporation attempts to present economic slavery as a ladder. This system is also designed to weed out the “too intelligent” or the “too hard working” because economically enslaving those who are less- or uneducated is much, much easier. Economic exploitation only works on an uneducated masses, and so, anyone who claims or affirms your thinking that college is pointless is no friend of yours. [What’s the character limit on Twitter these days?] 

• On the Naming of People

• If it tastes like shit, don’t buy it again. If he treats you like shit, don’t ride it again.

• On the -ness of things (in two parts)
• The “-ness” of something is really the physical manifestation of someone’s internal ideology. 
• White Americans see Asianness in their grueling academic-rigor-like stereotypes and the hard-working perfectionism as militant aspiration. To Asians, we’re just Confucian. Asians, perhaps, see White Americanness as lazy, passive, overwhelmingly ignorant. The Whites, perhaps, see themselves as having “total faith” in their lord and savior, Jesus christ. 

• I love how it’s trending these days to be uneducated. Like, people believe all these headlines about how “I didn’t go to college and I make $100K+ per year!” etc. is possible for them. LOL. It gives me great hope for all of my fellow future Capitalists of the world in their pursuit to exploit the working every-person. 

• How did unoriginality become original?

• If someone can’t help you get off the ground (i.e. from scratch), they are no help to you at all.

• What do you do when you realize that a conspiracy-affirming nut job does not know what a conspiracy is; for instance, one time, one such person said, “The government is the biggest conspiracy of them all. Every part of the government is headed by someone who has their own agenda, wants to do their own thing. Conspiracy.” Later, I overheard someone else explain how Hollywood is a conspiracy because everyone is like second- or third-generation famous, to which I was very very tempted to ask, “Do you not know what nepotism is?,” which then made me realize this whole nonsense of “fearing the Right” is a waste of my time and energy. I no longer fear because to fear someone who is illiterate is to fear a child. Yea, sure, a child can still pull the trigger on a loaded gun, but that child is more likely to shoot someone in their direct proximity as opposed to creating a movement and destroying democracy as we know it. 

• Fuck you, JT. (I guess I’d @ him at this point, but I dunno his handle)

• "On Patriarchy" 

Men cannot take credit for their success, 

just like women cannot blame themselves for their lack of it. 

• “Hyperconsummerism”
• The Influencer
• Marvel Studios
• Lower-Earth Orbit as Amusement

• Evil—the lazy man’s way to fame

• If you’ve ever been labeled or found yourself under the heading “Person/People of Color” fear not

“... a dead person has no color.” —Cennino Cennini 

(p 229, The Secret Lives of Color, but which I actually renamed The Secret White Lives of Color, #sorrynotsorry [and I wouldn’t @ the author on a post like this, right?])

• re $

One always hates that which

One seemingly cannot attain.

• A Diorama (without the drawing)
• Person A walks up to Person B and declares, “I’m better than you!”
• Person B calmly responds, “No you’re not.”
• Person A points and shouts at Person B, “Anti-Semite!”

•  re “stop flirting with me”

@aoc Grow a pair. You were obviously not popular in high school if you can’t manage to sling a single zinger at the expense of some straight, white male with such an “enormous ego.” 

@elonmusk You’d be so lucky, cause why?, why would someone, anyone, flirt with you? Perhaps you were cute enough, back when you were young, to be an object of flirtation, but now, now you’re just fat and are—through one’s own self-proclamation, apparently—all-too familiar with how boners are lost. Pass. 

• Money is really—really really—good at affirming who you are.