04 July 2024

F-Words & some shotgun shots

fraught friendships find fake freedom

falling fruits fly freely from former forests felled

fucking fuckers frolic ferociously forecasting fright

from frothier formations, feudalistic fissures foam fancy financial footwork

frankly, foreign foods finish first

[these were the last words i wrote when i realized that i ought to take a writing rest; all other words beyond this first kitty icon were written, like all other posts, today, the timestamp date of this post.]


If you're looking for some sorta update about the month of June, it's already been posted in the form of food.

Never. The. Less.

June was one long-ass month (from my perspective *iroll* cause this is my blog, remember, duh). I realized that I needed to take a writing break about four days into the month (see writing above), so I took a break, but being the writer that I am, I typically only need about one metric week (ten days) or a week &a half to feel rested. 

After one metric week passed, I started to get antsy and wanted to write, but then, I realized that I have been writing—nonstop—on this site since May 2022. The last time I took a month off from writing was April 2022. Two whole years, writing. I'm a mother-fucking beast. And, as stated, I wasn't even tired. I took the break before actually falling apart and losing it, which is what I would consider, "growth," lol. So, now I know. I have, at minimum, two solid years of nonstop writing in me. Damn. 

Oh, and I've been jobbing a goddamn job this whole time, too, just fyi, full-time for the past full calendar year (and I only took two sick days, about a year ago, and have yet to take a vacation, although I have used one whole vacation day to take off a Friday about three months ago). 


There's no commentary to be had on any current topics that even remotely interest me, at this time.



I, obviously, ended up having a lot of free time during my writing rest, and with this free time, I spent a lot of time time traveling, to the past, and as I saw my life in the decades-long perspective from which I can now view my life (since, yes, I am nearly forty), I understand my life in a different way. I've had one seriously incredible life, thus far. I basically have zero complaints at this point. I have zero regrets, and I give zero fucks. And I have to remind myself—constantly—that not all people get to have the type of life that I've had and continue to aspire to have. And yes, of course, some of it is luck (the abilities/circumstances with/into which I was born, etc), but a lot of it is also my own hard fucking work. The bodybuddy/lifemate and I were in our early twenties when we set out to financially free ourselves. Creating a plan took a few years, and then implementing that plan is what we've been doing for the past decade, and a decade later, we not only stuck to the plan, the plan is working.

"CHECK YOUR PRIVILEGE! Oh, this is all so well and good, except that you're not [race redacted]! What do you know? You've just been handed everything cause you're not [race redacted], and only [race redacted] people can ever know anything at all, and [race redacted] people are the only people who can overcome struggle, cause only [race redacted] struggle is real struggle! Check your fucking privilege!" they scream and shout (and blame).

To which I respond with a flippant chuckle.

All I will say on the matter (cause, generally speaking, plebs do not enjoy talking about money, and so, I'm sure some of you have completely tuned out by this point) is that, unless you were born into money (as in, you never have to job a day in your life cause your family just drops cash into an account with your name on it) you should not buy anything that you cannot afford in cash. 

Of course, credit is an amazing capitalistic tool, but it is not a tool that ought to be utilized by the financially illiterate poor.


ANYONE (even those egomaniacal office jobbers [omg, can you imagine being an office jobber who makes, maybe $100K+/year who worries about money! bahahahahahaha! goddamn, that life must suck so hard! they spend as fast and as much as they can make just to show everyone else in that job-tier that they can! Un-fucking-believable, bahahahahaha! i hope you die in that house you can't afford. bahahaha!]) WHO MUST SHOW UP TO A JOB TO BE DOLED OUT WAGES TO LIVE ON IS POOR, A WORKING-CLASS PEASANT.

I'ma poor peasant. I love it. There's so much freedom to be had. 

I show up to a job, five days a week (or forty hours [a soft forty, cause i usually only work about thirty-six to thirty-eight, cause i can, and i'm not so cash-strapped that i must live in a life of miserable overwork to make ends meet]), and the earnings that I earn ($23/hr +an array of manager-level benefits) is the money that we use to pay for our life (the bodybuddy/lifemate works part-time [three shifts per week] for about $20/hr +union benefits). And at the end of every month, we have money leftover. And since we currently have a nice little cash stash (for emergencies, etc.), we invest the rest of our monthly surplus. Our monthly expenses have been so low for the past decade that we've been living in "poverty," on paper, until this past year, when we moved. Luckily my job's hourly went up to the point it is now, which has brought our total living expenses above the poverty line. We intentionally moved to a knowingly expensive place, because we thought we could put our financial literacy to work, and we can. 

We don't have any kids, cause we don't want them. So, if you need to tune out cause your ego is telling you that you can't do what we did cause kids are expensive, then please, leave.

I also work a business that is mine. All mine. (Majority mine.) 

The money from the business, however, gets funneled right back into that business—for the time being—until that business makes enough money to pay me out a salary that I deem comfortable enough for me to quit my job as an exploitee for an employer.

But I also want to have five bank accounts filled with $250K each before I quit jobbing for good. I will drop down to part-time when we've reached a certain milestone we've mapped out, and at some point, when I'm comfortable with our total cash+net worth, I will quit jobbing. 

When I leave the jobbing market, I never ever want to return. 

The point is not to have no-job. Jobs are great. Jobs are easy. You show up. You do what you're told. You make zero decisions. Jobs make the world go 'round. Jobs are places where you can show up and someone will pay you. You don't even have to be good at your job to get paid. Jobs are the reason why you get to live the life you live despite your average intellect. 

Most jobbers should be very very grateful that there are jobs out there that they can do and that someone will pay them to do said jobs. I still cannot get over the fact that there are so many people out there who think that they somehow "deserve" a "better" job when they cannot even accomplish menial tasks with high accuracy. The general mindset of the American (United Statesian *iroll*) Jobber is unbelievably egotistical and narcissistic. 

You think you can run a Fortune 500 company? You think you can run a branch of any company?

You can't even take the trash out and replace the trash bag properly.

And do you even know when the trash ought to be taken out with the greatest efficiency when considering the trash route pickup of the establishment that you loathe so much?

Didn't think so. 

"But that's not information that a CEO needs to know," they say.

To which I reply, "A lot of CEOs did not found the companies they currently 'run,' and if you don't know that the Board Members of most companies are the people who run most companies, why are you even speaking out loud about such things?"


There's nothing worse than a Loud, Shitty Leader. 


Most Liars are Pathetic People Pleasers


Did you know that even complimenting a [race redacted] woman is oftentimes read as insulting?


I'll just say this ...

... my Plans have plans.


I realized not too long ago, that there are some women who complain about people asking to touch their hair. What they fail to realize is that for some women (namely those with gorgeous, perfect, long, straight, thick, black, asian hair) asking would be a welcome act of respect when considering that most people who want to touch their hair simply reach out and start stroking it.  

"You obviously don't get it. There's a whole history of [race redacted] women who have been treated like side shows, and so, when [race redacted] women treat [race redacted] women this way—wanting to physically touch [race redacted] women like an artifact—they're exerting their [race redacted] colonizer supremacy over [race redacted] women," they educate.

To which I respond, "Or maybe you're just giving [race redacted] people or people, in general, who am I kidding, lol, way too much credit, and generally speaking, people like to touch and be near people and things they find to be beautiful."


And how fucking gross is it that both [race redacted] and [race redacted] women purchase the hair grown specifically by Asian women to wear as their own in the form of vanity wigs *barf* like, they have hair of their own, and yet, they opt to wear the hair of other women of a very specific race.

You wanna talk about appropriation? BAHAHAHAHA! Go fuck yourself!


It's better to be nice than right, only if the people around you are all average.


You're there

on your bed

the rectangle upon which your whole body can fit

the bed in a room

a rectangle in which the whole bed can fit

the room inside a larger home

a home a part of a larger neighborhood

the neighborhood

one of many that create the city

the city in a country

the country on a continent

the continent on a planet

that planet


among multiple planets that orbit a star


the center of a solar system

among many solar systems in an infinite universe

a universe of an infinite, unknowable, number of universes

and in that universe

there's a solar system

a solar system with a star named Sun

and of the multiple planets that orbit Sun

there's one called Earth

and on Earth there are continents

and on those continents are countries

and in those countries there are cities

and those cities are made up of neighborhoods

and those neighborhoods are made up of homes

and inside those homes are rooms

and in one of those rooms is a bed

and on that bed

there you are


It should be a relief to you that nobody knows who you are. Your actions are not being made public, unless you make them public ("fame" and "celebrity" exempted, for the moment, as, in general, the vast, vast majority of people are not "famous"). You're a nobody. Nobody cares what you do with your life. It is only you who thinks that other people are even thinking about you. Or worse, not-thinking about you.


Nobody thinks about you nearly as much as you think about yourself. 

In fact, nobody's thinking of you at all.

If this idea makes you want to end it all cause your life is meaningless, congratulations, you're not special; you're human. 

Get up. Let's go.


&as Earth spins on in its revolutionary rotation, the photons of its star will inevitably reach the relative space within which I currently exist, and within this spread of photons, I would rather shrivel up and die than be forced to confront my existence (&or reality) in the harsh, punishing light of day. 


&so, for some final thoughts on some stuff, it's no insult at all to be insulted by someone. I would argue that an insult is one of the greatest compliments a person could give to another, cause, in essence, the person hurling insults is thinking about you. With a known life being but one hundred years—best case scenario in this second decade of this twenty-first century—someone out there is spending time thinking about you. Of all of the things that there are to do in this life, and someone is thinking about you. What a great compliment. 

The next time you feel insulted, thank the person for insulting you. Thank them for spending their life's finite time thinking about you. It's beautiful. It's such a gift to be thought of in this me-first world.