The words in this posting can not express how great this opportunity is.

Each meme a chunk of life replaced by an x/y coordinate, gone forever.

In the dream he caught the eye of someone who seemed familiar, a trusted friend of long ago or a forgotten family member, only to realize with a shock that it was a younger, kinder version of himself—a version he’d forgotten had ever existed. Describing it to them, he suddenly burst into tears. He said that three days after the dream his depression had lifted. The dream seemed rather obvious, he said, but the mind likes obvious. Obvious works.

When I was about ten years old my Grandfather told me something I’ve never forgotten. He said that whenever he was going through something painful or unpleasant he always reminded himself, it’s what you deserve, you miserable piece of shit, and that always made him feel better. I used to wonder why that made him feel better, but think I’m starting to get it now.

Glimpsed in a reflection, he saw himself as he must look to the world: bewildered, as if expecting a final blow to the head.

Since childhood she had engaged in small acts of self-mutilation in hopes of turning prettiness into beauty.

Who’s the asshole, somebody asked, and when he repeated the question I realized he was referring to me.

Going through her things, they came upon a note.
The note said: I’d kill for a cigarette, or half an hour of sleep.

The book’s celebrated “brutal honesty,” refreshing at first, is ultimately outweighed by a hipster/junky air of smug self-congratulation I’ve encountered in some AA people, reveling in their transgressive pasts while simultaneously gloating over their current virtue.

The inbred entitlement of the once-attractive.

Your utopia, my nightmare.

The cat who joins you at the back window to watch squirrels on the lawn; the dog who briefly rests his head on your lap on the bench in front of the food co-op; the toddler one table over, offering her bottle to you—all touchingly unaware of what a shit you are.

I’ve reached a late August level of nihilism,
and it’s only the first week in July.

An injured animal under a bush, conserving strength for the struggle ahead.

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