Category: Uncategorized

return to blogging

It is 5:42AM and I have just decided that I am returning to blogging. I am returning to writing. I have been trying to be a regular person who plays video games and goes to bars and is sociable and likeable and makes friends. This is not what I want to do with my life so I am coming back to the internet. Things make sense here; they are safe.

I am writing an e-book. The working title of it is “Diablo 3.” I’m not sure what will happen in it. I don’t know how to make a PDF.

Noah Cicero is in South Korea. I want him to come back to America so we will be on Facebook at the same time and I can ask him things.

I will be applying to grad schools in the fall. I don’t know how to do this. I have to ask my professors for letters of recommendation. I feel this will be awkward and horrible.

I am working on finding a voice for my Twitter account. I don’t know what works and what doesn’t. I feel like Twitter is an “uncharted frontier” in ways, but irrelevant and overdone in others. I think I might just tweet in all capital letters, things seem funnier that way.




what if mubarak directed melancholia

On May 8th the Huffington Post iPhone application posted a story from titled “Dying Stars Caught Feasting on Earth-Like Planets.”

The article opens with “Astronomers have caught four dying stars in the act of chowing down on rocky alien planets similar to Earth, a destructive cosmic process that may one day play out in our very own solar system.”

I couldn’t help but want to see this happen.

I couldn’t help but feel like the astronomers viewing this through photographs must have felt extremely existential, like they were staring into the future of humanity, of the end of humanity(I say this in the most earnest, non-silly sense of the word “humanity,” and that the “end of humanity” would be a very true, terrifying, cataclysmic shaking of Earth’s feelings of “existing”).

I couldn’t help but think that the astronomers were probably really upset when they saw this, like they just viewed a kid getting bullied at school through binoculars and told the principal but no one could do anything about it but post the astronomer’s findings on the Huffington Post and that the mom of the kid getting bullied saw it but realized she couldn’t really do anything but maybe move him to a new school, to a new planet.

I couldn’t help but think of Kirsten Dunst’s character in Melancholia when she says, “I know we’re alone. And when I say we’re alone, we’re alone. Life is only on Earth and not for long.”

I feel like everyone on Earth knows that life on Earth won’t be forever but we can’t do anything about it so we don’t think about it, which is normal, I do the same, it just makes me sad, frustrated that we can’t do anything about it(I say this in the most earnest, non-silly sense of the word “it,” and that when “it” happens, life will truly no longer exist in any discernible, conscious fashion).

I couldn’t help but think that the universe would be much more simple without Earth.

I couldn’t help but think about writing this when I read that article, when it said “They found that the most common chemical elements in the dust around four of the white dwarfs were oxygen, magnesium, iron and silicon, the four elements that make up roughly 93 percent of the Earth.” I thought about everyone’s iPhones and Macbooks getting pulled into space by gravity or explosions or whatever makes things go into space because the Sun is exploding. I instantly thought that this is probably what happened to the Earth-like planets mentioned in the article, that everyone’s iPhones and Macbooks were pulled into orbit and smashed into each other and created a cloud of oxygen, magnesium, iron and silicon.

If this happen on Earth, I hope someone, maybe an astronomer from some far off planet, calls this dust cloud the iCloud.

I couldn’t help but think this was funny.


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Fear and R.L. Stine in Las Vegas

I’ve been sending tweets to R.L. Stine in the hopes that he will notice me. For what, I have no idea. I just need validation. I need validation from R.L. Stine.

When my mother bore me from her womb, I’m not sure if this is what she had in mind for her son. Did she know that I would one day sit at my computer and type juvenile things to a middle-aged Jewish author searching for the answers to life? Did my mom know what Twitter was 22 years ago?

I think I had some Goosebumps books. Every twentysomething probably did. Their parents thought, “This is good for them, they will read these books and will be ‘into’ reading the rest of their lives.” I think I read a Goosebumps book but I don’t remember it. I think it had a green hand on the cover of it.

I feel like R.L. Stine and I have a shared past, a shared existence. My mother bought me his books and I never read them. This existence is unfinished, it is burdensome. There is knowledge and know-how that I’ve left untouched and I seek retribution.

One day, I see myself being successful and relevant. This might be a long ways away but I can feel it. I can feel myself sitting in a cafe or bookshop and having a girl come up to me with something I’ve written and asking, “Could you sign this J.D.? I love your work.”

I will smile, sit down my coffee and look up at her. “Absolutely little lady,” I’ll say.

I will scribble my name and feel good about myself. She will be excited. Maybe we will take a picture together. On her way out, she will turn around and ask me, “What was your biggest influence?” and I will say, “R.L. Fucking Stine.” And she will say, “That’s what got me into reading, that book with the green hand on the cover. My mom bought it for me. What was your favorite book by him?” And I will say, “I never read any of them sweetheart.” and feel depressed.

R.L. Stine and I have business to take care of.

It has consumed me.

There is madness in every direction, at every hour, and it all has to do with him.



Selections from “I Remember You Well In The Charlottesville Motel: a Novella” by Justin Carter

Louise was in the front seat shaking pills from a bottle in front of a gas station somewhere in Kansas. We were on the way to Portland where my friend Steve had promised me a job in a canning factory. Nine bucks an hour. A used mattress on the floor. We were drinking stolen Miller Lites and eating stolen Doritos. Louise was three weeks pregnant, but we didn’t know it yet, thought that she was vomiting every morning from the pills and the beer. Janis Joplin’s ghost was in the back seat, shaking her head.

“I want a beer,” Janis said.

“Dead People can’t get drunk,” I said.

Louise got out of the car to pee, and Janis reached for the open Miller can, but it went right through her hand. She stomped her feet and disappeared. I finished my beer, then took another one out of the glove box. By this time, Louise was standing beside the door. I opened it.

“Let’s go,” I said.

“I’m not getting back in that car,” Louise said.

I took a long drink from the beer, then pointed the top of it at Louise and smiled.
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Jesus Prescription by T.C. Hamelink

I saw it happen. Watched it live on CNN. A flash then nothing, they cut the feed. Anderson Cooper offered condolences for a few seconds then everything went dead. I took a Xanax and tried to calm down. My prescription is low. I should have gotten a refill before the Apocalypse started.


Walgreens is probably closed too.

Fuck again.

I tried to read for a bit before bed. Mind still reeling from the news, making it hard to concentrate. Fuck it I’m going to bed. I sleep. Not well mind you, but eventually I succumb. A good Ambien induced dreamless sleep, just like nature intended.

The next day I turn on the television but find nothing. I wonder if Anderson Cooper is still in there offering condolences. I wonder what’s happening on Fox News. How long before the ‘Fox and Friends’ fucks resort to cannibalism? Or how long before O’Reilly’s smug cunt realizes this has nothing to do with the liberal elite? How long before he realizes this is exactly what he wanted?

I take another Xanax and calm down. I look out the window. No looters yet. Maybe Walgreens is open now. Maybe I can break in.

I step outside and slowly survey the neighborhood. It seems normal. No sign of those asshole kids. At least the Apocalypse took care of them. Wretched little shits.

The weather is still nice, too.

I walk to the garage and grab my bike. A car alarm goes off in the distance. Someone else is around? I pop my last Xanax, take a deep breath and ride towards Walgreens. No sign of life outside myself. Was the entire town raptured? Or evacuated during the night?
My destination lays just over a hill. As I coast to the bottom I finally notice movement. Some Jesus looking motherfucker is standing outside Walgreens.

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running log

A short story of mine called “Christmas Carols, Chrysanthemums, and the Callous Characteristics of Christopher Kringle” is being published in the University of Wisconsin-Stevens Point annual literary magazine.

I’m scared of Israel attacking Iran.

I am trying to sketch out a novel about ghost hunting.

Reading Noah Cicero’s The Human War.

Cat’s are playing in the toilet water.

Nearly all of the dishes are dirty.

I was going to write a short story about lottery winners but found that there was a 60 Minutes episode containing everything I was going to say.

Thinking about writing it anyway.

Feel like anyone who would watch 60 Minutes probably doesn’t own a computer.

to ben

St. Patrick’s day was your favorite
I don’t even think Mom would have
let you drink
maybe your dad

I remember waking up
at like 6:00 AM
on March 16th one year
to you saying,
“Top of the morning to yah”
It was loud, you were wearing one of
those green hats
I told you, St. Patrick’s day isn’t
until tomorrow

You died like four years later

I would have let you figure it out
on your own
if I knew you were
going to die

tempurpedic mattress

Tell me that I am valuable.

Tell me that I’ll one day be famous and break hearts and never even have mine touched.

Tell me that my life means something, that every word I’ve said has made an impact, and that I will do great things like fly an airplane or build walls of sandbags to keep water out of black people’s basements.

Tell me that God and Christ are watching me, that when I die they will be there, holding my lungs and heart in their hands like a child’s balloon. I want them to find me, I would give anything for them to show themselves, to make me calm, to give me peace.

Tell me that you love me with all your heart and that I am perfect and wonderful and mean the world to you. Tell me it’s ok I’ve fucked up so many times. Show me kindness and beauty.

Tell me that the world is a merciful place that will forgive me for turning my back on the drug addicts and cancer patients. Let me know that it’s ok, that I’m one of them, that the universe will fight for me when I close my eyes for the last time.

Tell me that money doesn’t matter, that hope and the will to do good things is what makes a person human, is what makes them alive and full of grace.

Tell me you worry.

Tell me that forever isn’t long enough for us. Fight with me until the end, when terror and blight absorb us until we are plastic shells, a petroleum based ghost of misfortune and regret.

Tell me you’ll always hold my hand.

Tell me I’m worth your time.


I am staring at a Google Analytics screen
Nothing makes sense here
I keep thinking that my Google Analytics screen
is holding out on me

I keep thinking, “Tao Lin should post screen-shots of his Google Analytics screen,”
so I can feel horrible about myself

Everything here makes me feel horrible about myself

Jordan Castro makes me feel horrible about myself
I keep thinking, “He’s the type of guy who would constantly bum cigarettes,”
and I feel horrible about it

I feel like Noah Cicero and I would be friends “IRL”
but then I think that everyone thinks that about Noah Cicero
and I feel horrible about it

I can’t have an original thought here
Nothing I do, write, or say is original
Everyone has already done it, and better
and I feel horrible about it

My girlfriend is the only one who Facebook messages me
I have one person on my gmail chat
My mom is the only person to e-mail me back
My friends from high school are my only Twitter followers

I want to livetweet my suicide
but then I think that someone has already done that
Someone has already committed suicide
I keep thinking, “No one would like you more if you committed suicide”