car in the gallery this ai-powered shoe new blog title today was tough cutting some of these e-girls off i'm trying this new thing at 4am i get up to pee not much laying crossed out a number i get home from the gym break my soul a group of three numbers a list of notable ocurrences river story i'm making a smoothie jesus on the cross on the eiffel tower it's the last play of the game bitches love when you hit em with the <3 days pass listlessly talking to girls Lift with R smoothie, shower, gym my house feels unusually clean redacted turn the lights on Peach's Hot House Chinatown Fair Family Fun Center 2009 I first hear dubstep I take the train to Thyme I swipe in at the gym "Free Tonight" Real World/Road Rules Challenge Skibidi Toilet 242.4 the fam is in town Tek Lintowe I meet my family on High Street My family is at a musical theater J2 wakes me up at 11 Gym 20 days until my exhibition with D I don’t have any STDs I Luv SkeeYee I’m sitting listening to music I wake up at J's S comes over on the way home from the city dream girl nightmare girl S came over with her dog Went to McDoanld’s ★☆✦✧✫✬✯✰ orange & red shouts out went to the t swift exhibit in stu let me tell you only the most In E's absence S's dad E is in town Blue Hill Stone Barns I get on the train in Grand Central pussy I spend a single day away wake up D texts me back wake up Reviews for Blog The Movie Whenever my phone stops working Fall Ins and Outs When I open the door Blog Summer

Car in the gallery is boring. I want to see a helicopter in the gallery. I want to see a live donkey in the gallery. I want one or two people to get injured. I want to turn the helicopter on inside the gallery with the donkey.

Reductive Formalism vs. Bud Light Realism

Too many schoolboys, not enough Bud Light billboards

Message to D about jealousy and competition in art

It's doing 100% your own thing for nobody but yourself. Doesn't matter if it's good or bad or better or worse than anyone or anything else if it actually means something to you on a personal level.

I think that's how people innovate too, they don't focus on innovating, they just do their own thing so hard that something new happens. I get really bummed out that I'm not innovative enough, I get jealous of artists who make groundbreaking work. But then I remember they weren't focusing on breaking ground, they were focused on doing their own thing. You have to think of the analogy of Michael Phelps and the guy who lost to Michael Phelps because he kept looking over to see how Michael Phelps was doing. And the best thing about art is that as soon as you start focusing on your own lane, you remember it's not a competition, and it becomes fun and fulfilling again.

A discourse that I feel is being lost in art to the ultra-reflective age is the idea of making un-self-conscious art. I feel like people used to stress that more and now you don't hear about it, now it almost feels important for art to be self-conscious and ultra context-aware. But I think that's a trap, I think un-self-conscious art is the purest.

It's often easy to tell a work's motivation, was it for the market, was it for the critics, is it intellectual jockeying with other artists... or is it motivated by this strive for un-self-conscious creation, for raw discovery, for an inward and outward journey of the artist through the art to the viewer. Sometimes the former can be interesting but I think the latter is the purest, and more fulfilling for the artist for sure. We can't all be as cold as Andy Warhol.

The thing that grounds me is the reminder that there are hundreds of thousands of artists who are making better and more groundbreaking art that we've never seen or heard before. The cream doesn't necessarily rise to the crop. Which is why I think the most important thing about any practice is to do what you love for yourself.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wauO_ldiLbM&ab_channel=DJNateXBakaman

But the trick is to already be so locked in to your own lane that success doesn't change your path. Cause we all know the various outcomes for the various ways that often isn't the case. Whether the artist isn't ready and fame ruins them or the artist is doing well and then fame makes them change their art for the worse. It's just all about doing your own thing for yourself from beginning to end no matter the results or outcome.

You can hack it and just displace your values into being underground and obscure. Keep the ego and flex how hot you are for an unsigned artist.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PiZz-h67mxk&ab_channel=DJNateXBakaman

I think most millennials still think this way, especially the older ones- it's actually way more of a flex and way more clouted to be extremely unknown and niche as opposed to "selling out" and being popular at all in any way. Instead of attaching your ego to recognition, attach your ego to your lack of recognition.

You can think "wow it's so cool that this artist got so famous that they could be lazy" and you can also think "wow it's so cool that this unknown artist goes so hard and is so passionate and dedicated and they don't even care if other people care."

I think millennials are afraid of selling out while zoomers don't recognize this concept fully. Cause like to us there was a time when most people had zero chance of being heard, you had to accept obscurity somehow. But now the way the internet is, everyone is constantly vying for a little bit of fame.

There are dozens of ways to be heard. And as a millennial sometimes I see people who try NOT to be co-opted by that, to find a way to release music in ways it won't be subsumed into the algorithm, and I'm like "wow, so bad ass."

Being the best artist, whatever the means, whether it's the smartest or most creative or whatever, doesn't qualify the artist to make the best work. Same thing goes for the work itself, it can't be qualified in a quantitative way. You realize the absurdity of competing with art when you consider that it's absurd to imagine art and artists with "skill stats." Art isn't about competing in any sense-- in the market, in success, or in ability. Precisely what makes it art is that it's the only thing that is able to, and in its purest form must turn away from those things to become "something else," in the most open ended way, hence the multiplicity of art and its "other" status in the world and the market.

When we are young and we get into art it's because of the freedom it allows. Then the world tells you if you're to be a viable person with your chosen path then you must succeed, but for artists, that's a lie and that's what separates the good artists from the bad artists-- not their qualitative achievements, but their ability to stay true to the pure freedom that art promises at its core.

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This AI-powered shoe claims to let people walk at the speed of running

Six-figure mindset vs. million dollar mindset

Rap name Scumdog Trillionaire

Never sweat a dollar

A celebration of effortlessness. The moment effort is exerted, failure, in art and in life. Humans sweat, stink more or less depending on interest rates.

City smells. I miss the ocean, or a large green field.

I used to smoke 7 grams of weed a week. I've been slowly reducing that for a month or so, currently at 4.5 grams a week. This is the first week it feels difficult. How do people just live without heightened senses for the majority of their life, when we can achieve low-risk something-more-than-that so easily? I have to "accept" the heightening of my senses is a "hallucination?" I will admit I do enjoy catching myself off gaurd with a quicker-witted and more straight forward mindset.

Dating in your early 30's.. my friend E has been seeing this girl for like 3 months and she's already started about her biological clock and the importance of a second salary for their future family. And I'm writing a blog about aesthetic hueristics. No one warned us.

A very attractive eastern european woman just delivered my Seamless order in an all-black going-out-type dress. It's 1:30pm. I stood by the window and watched her get back in her car. She had great tits.

I love when you're eating a burger from a restaurant and you bite into the "pickle spot." That's where the person who made the burger decided to put all 4-5 slices of pickle on the burger, because it's not possible for them to spread the pickles out evenly. They have to all be stacked in one spot. The "pickle spot."

I texted the delivery girl and told her she was beautiful. She heart reacted and said "thank you so much," then a minute later re-texted "thank you so much" a second time. I asked her out to dinner. Fuck a dating app. Seamless, baby! Food and babes all in one!

She never responded.

I'm definitely finding it easier to do the whole small talk thing with strangers now that I'm not stoned asl every minute of every day.

Message to low-IQ Hinge girl about criticism and dialectics

I wish more people understood that all criticism can and should be constructive criticism if you're doing it right. It is meant to build us up and make us stronger, not to cynically attack people. On a human level, we all have fears and weaknesses, and it's easier for people to take advantage and control you with those feelings. They can't control you if you know how amazing and free you are, and those things take effort to see within ourselves.

When you consider the negatives of life from the perspective of constructive criticsm, they're just lessons. Imagine life if it was always daytime, everyone was happy, and no one died. That might be worse than any bad currently existing in the world. When you take things to their extreme, you get the opposite. Too much good spoils you. Live too hard, you die. Stare into the sun, you go blind forever! It's almost like the very fabric of existence is telling us "it's not all good, it's not all bad. It's about balance and acceptance."

Maybe actually what we think now is bad is actually very very good, and there is a whole other level of bad we can't even comprehend in this universe. It only exists in another realm, the Ultra Bad realm. I think we as humans have lost sight of utopia. I think through out human history, the idea of utopia goes in and out of style and right now we are very very very far from it. Not the farthest! I imagine the middle ages were much worse.

I fully accept the unknown and that to me is the ultimate freedom and happiness in life. I do not know where we came from or where we're going afterwards, or even why. And no one else does either. And that is thrilling to me. Even "God" says that in the western bible. It's not about knowing, it's about believing. Many liberally minded people will never be able to accept this, and that's why they're so neurotic and depressed. The only way to prove the fact of one's faith is through belief. Only spiritual people can understand the significance in accepting the unknown as inherent and beautiful. When a spiritual person says "I know what I believe is true," that's their ego, not their spiritual wisedom.

I actually find real solice and understanding in the unknowableness of the unkown, it's not a cop out. Some people hypothesize, others put faith in their beliefs. I don't see the point, it seems futile not to accept the thrill of the sublime.

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I'm like an e-girl whisperer

New blog title: e-girl whisperer

I bought canvas on Amazon

I'm like a next level reply guy in this bitch

I told my dad I'm considering getting a certificate in diagnostic sonography so I can become an ultrasound specialist. He said that sounds like a great idea, but that I'd have to deal with that sticky goo.

Taking a scorched earth approach to the dating apps. Just matching with everyone no matter what, talking to all of them, outsourcing all my socializing to mid e-girls. I'm the e-girl whisperer.

Here's your river challenge: who can drink all of the east river first?

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Today was tough. One of those days that really makes you appreciate your friends and family. RIP to all the real n*ggas worldwide. Salute. Real shit.

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Had to cut some of these e-girls off. Started acting entitled about my time. Bow. Movie. Viral.

I feel like there are different levels of thought processes, and some people spend their whole lives between 2 to 3, just unfocused and low level upset about stuff. And then 5 to 6 is the zone that meditation or just existing in the present moment brings you, and you go up from there into higher level thinking, positively motivated and uplifting thoughts. A perfect 10 is probably some sort of “flow state.” The point isn’t to try to have the highest level of thought process, but just that when you notice and accept what level you’re at— and this especially comes in handy for when you feel like you’re stuck at a 2 or 3— it instantly provides clarity and relief to your thoughts.

Now is more important than ever for art to be worse than ever.

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I'm trying this new thing where I lay down. Instead of sitting. In order to relax and recover. I've been thinking about doing it for a while but I was always hesitant, seems bad. But after doing some research, I'm fairly certain laying is the way.

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At 4am I get up to pee and text my trainer to reschedule today’s session for tomorrow then fall back asleep. I wake up around 9am in excruciating nerve pain again, as I have everyday for the past two months. I spend about 5-10 minutes with my neck in a 90 degree angle on the pillow scrolling through my phone debating if I should watch porn and masturbate. This has been a habit for about two years now. My therapist told me it’s normal to watch porn and masturbate once or twice a day. I usually only do it once, but the thing that I don’t like about it is that it’s usually the first thing I do right when I wake up. I think it’s most convenient to release the valve when it’s already erect. I don’t really have any desire for it through out the rest of the day. The internal struggle before caving lasts longer than usual. I make it out of bed to put my contacts in around 9:30. I sit down on the couch and take a hit from the bong. I listen to music for an hour. At 10:30 I get up and make a smoothie with gold standard vanilla ice cream flavored whey protein, frozen mixed berries and orange juice. I take my morning supplements. Maca, Fenugreek, Ashwagandha, Tongkat ali and Liposomal Glutathione. I sit and sip my smoothie and listen to music for about an hour. No thoughts today.

At 11:30 I place an order on instacart for soy sauce, macadamia nuts, peanut butter, tortilla chips, bananas, fig bars, gold standard vanilla ice cream flavored whey protein, frozen mixed berries, cinnamon raisin bread, frozen peas and carrots, and orange juice from Costco. After placing the order, I lay down. I’m not depressed. I’m just really into laying. I occasionally get up from laying down to walk to the other room and pick at a left over Chipotle burrito. The instacart order arrives and wakes me from a nap around 1. I put the groceries away. I sit down and take my second hit of the day before getting ready for the gym. J texts the group chat and asks if anyone wants to do pirate. I respond affirmatively.

Today is leg day at the gym and I decide this week will be a deload week because I'm tired. I don't weigh myself because I didn't eat all weekend. I'm afraid of seeing a number lower than 220 on the scale and how it will effect my workout. Near the end J texts and asks if I want to do pirate. No one has responded in the group chat. I say yes and book it for 6-8. After I book it J asks if I can re-book it for 8-11 but there are no availabilities after 8. I cancel and get a refund. We say we'll do something else instead.

Back home, another shake. Bananas, peanut butter, honey, milk and whey. Shower. Sit. Third hit of the day. Music. Text my trainer and tell him to cancel the rest of the week so I can deload on my own. Surprised to discover he has never heard of deloading but also not surprised because he is at 110%, 24/7, 365. Talk to D about her upcoming remix album and the impossibility of wrangling artists. J says let's go the Mccarren Park. "Wholesome" he says. I find an e-bike and ride to Mccarren. I get there first and walk down Bedford until I find a weed shop. A small part of me is worried Williamsburg is so bourgeouise that they won't have one, then I see a place with an enormous neon sign that says "SMOKER'S WORLD." I buy a pre-roll and a vitamin water and walk back to Mccarren.

I walk to my favorite part of the park where I taught art after covid in between the garden and the dog park. Right as I walk up I see J in the distance parking his bike. I tell J that I think Williamsburg has the highest concentration of attractive people in the city because it's the young rich people who spend all their money on beauty products, minus the tourists of Manhattan. J says they usually don't have much going on besides that. J tells me about his life and I tell him about mine. We sit on a blanket by the bathrooms and talk about Bar Italia and weightlifting. I brought a loaf of sourdough and J brought apples, cheese, hummus, carrots and pita bread. We see a group of people with swords and shields reenacting medieval battle, as well as a group of people with matching red elf hats.

E shows up with a bottle of chilled red wine. We talk about E's blog. I do a reading of E's latest blog post. E laughs more than anyone else at the reading. We decide to go to the city, but first, we take citi bikes to J's to unload our stuff and get sweaters. E is an insanely fast biker. At J's I tell her this and she tells me she biked all over LA, up to 25 miles a day. We take two shots of tequila with salt and lime. J gives me a hoodie that says "Jesus Christ" on it. The J-train is empty so I lay down. We talk about the people trapped in the submarine.

At the river we see S. We talk outside a bit before going in. I walk in first so I sit at the end of the bar, S sits next to me, E sits next to him and J sits next to her at the far end from me. S sits down with his back to me and E peaks around him to make sure I'm still there. I keep interjecting in an attempt to join the conversation but S has his back 100% turned to me, I can't hear a word he's saying and he's completely blocking me from talking to E and J. At one point S lifts his drink for a toast and doesn't turn around to toast me. Has he forgotten I'm here? After 20 minutes and multiple attempts at joining the conversation I get up and walk out. I'm sure he will read this tomorrow and we can talk it out.

On the train ride home, I think the girl next to me is looking over at me. She seems attractive but I'm not in the mood. Maybe she's checking on me because I'm visibly down bad. I'm thinking about life and about being dead. One time a therapist told me that if you think about killing yourself and how you want to do it, they can institutionalize you, but they can't institutionalize you for wishing you were dead or thinking about what dying might be like. At home, I lay down. That's one thing they can never take from me.

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Not much laying today. Slept until 9am. Woke up in less pain this morning. First thing I see when opening my phone is a message from my developer in Pakistan. He sent me a delivery package yesterday. “We are already late, please where are you?” I do my best with the energy I have from waking up less than a minute earlier to write him a carefully worded response in which I remind him that I still have eight days to review the delivery. No desire whatsoever for porn and masturbation this morning entirely because I'd be too embarrassed to write about it two days in a row. I guess that's accountability. Thanks guys! First hit around 9:30. I sit and occasionally look at the five foot by six and a half foot piece of unstretched canvas I stapled to the wall to the right of me. I've written eight numbers on it.

Since the break up I can only listen to new music, no old favorites. I click play on my soundcloud feed and listen to every song in order. At 10:30 I make a smoothie and take my supplements. Whey, mixed berries, oj. This is the first day in two weeks I've had an empty calendar. It's nice to take a breath. I receive a response from the developers, they are extremely apologetic and offer an additional eight days of review after the first eight, which won’t be necessary. It doesn’t take me long to review, I just prefer to take my time.

I measure out my weed for the week and clean my bong. I’m down to four grams a week. It requires careful timing and strategy at this point, as I approach the half-way mark on my journey. I take my second hit of the day. At 12:30 I decide to make another smoothie. Whey, bananas, peanut butter, honey and milk. I turn on the oven and toast three slices of cinnamon raisin bread, spread butter and eat with 1.5 fig newton bars. I write five additional numbers on the canvas.

Around 2pm I head to the gym. I'm walking there when I realize I want to take a cold shower before my lift. I don't have a towel so I head to Myrtle/Wyckoff to see if I can find one. The Dollar Tree at Myrtle/Wyckoff is giving post-raid apocalypse, half empty shelves in disarray, random objects scattered across the floor, but it's just another Wednesday here in Bushwick. They don't have a towel so I hop next door to ABC Super Store. There's a towel hanging in the window. I look around the entrance for an employee. I see a man standing like a statue near the entrance and ask "do you sell these?" pointing at the towel. He stares back and I realize he doesn't work here, he's just waiting for his wife. I find a towel. The lady at the check out doesn't speak a word of english. l love that for her and I love that for America. Where else? Only here.

At the gym, I can already feel the effects of yesterday's deload. I absolutely crush everything in my path and take little to no rest between sets. The pump is so beautiful and juicy I start posing near the end of my workout, I don't even care. I realize this is the reason to be alive, to be awesome and beautiful and to absolutely crush shit.

On the way home from the gym J calls from work and we talk about his opening on Thursday. At home I heat the oven to 360 to warm up left over Roberta's (two slices of famous original and three slices of the white guy) and four homemade chicken fingers.

I hate the submarine story in the news so much. I can't wait for it to go away.

Went on Hinge for a brief moment. What can you do but tell a girl she's pretty?

This is the part where I lay.

7pm I make a little snack out of granola, blueberries, macadamia nuts and fat free cottage cheese. I look at my "painting" which is a canvas with some numbers written on it with a G2 pilot pen. Back to the laying. Wow.Feels great.

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Crossed out a number on my “painting”

I'm halfway through my workout, dripping in sweat, when I look up and right in front of me is a beautiful woman around my age. I'm looking maybe a little too long and she catches me. Our eyes lock for a moment. Oops. I'm busted. But wait... what is this? Within a moment of our eyes meeting, to my surprise, she reaches down and takes her shirt off. Standing right there in front of me still. Wow. I'm the luckiest man in the gym. Every lift is easy as butter after this. Unfortunately I have zero rizz whatsoever so I am unable to approach her. Once home, I text E and ask her for advice, just in case I run into her again. She says it’s ok to say “I’ve seen you around the gym.” I ask if I should flex my muscles or ask her if she’s lost and needs help. E suggests I correct her on her form mid-lift. All excellent ideas.

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I get home from the gym yesterday and the girl from Ecuador I’ve been seeing for a little over a week messages to tell me “it’s not you it’s me” which comes as a relief because it was painfully obvious she wanted a serious relationship and I didn’t. Around 6:30 I match with a speed runner on tinder and she’s over in 15-30 minutes. Three for three on meeting girls raised in Queens. I make steak frites and we watch The Hobbit.

This bitch will not shut up. 23 and every thought she has is sooo profound. Something needs to be streaming at all times while she’s incessantly yapping her jaw and it’s all too much for my head to handle so I take 2 advil.

“You should start a podcast” I tell her.

“I should” she earnestly responds.

She falls asleep on my pillow and snores. I barely sleep. No amount of sex is worth this. The next morning my head is still thorbbing, so I take 2 more advil. she reveals she is politically conservative, not the cool kind, but the unfashionable kind, so I don’t feel bad getting her an Uber home at 9am. In the whirlwind of all this, I completely forget J's opening, and it's not until the early afternoon that I remember and text him to see how it went.

Smoothies. De-install the previous exhibition. The artists come over and we do install for the opening on Sunday. Fat nap. After much hesitancy, another 2 advil. Seamless a burger, and later make rice and peas with tortilla chips. I've never taken this many advil in under 24 hours and I'm definitely feeling pretty woozy. Laying feels better than ever.

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I vaguely remember someone tried to tell me Beyoncé made a house album but I never fully processed it. Last night I heard “Break My Soul” for the first time and, wow, just wow. I had plans to meet the disenchanted girl from Queens (a third girl that I’ve met once previously, not mentioned in last post) for breakfast at 10:30 but I wake up at 8 and think about all the things I have to do today so I text her and cancel. My head is finally feeling better. Spend the morning listening to Beyoncé, drinking smoothies and eating cinnamon raisin bread. At noon the disenchanted girl sends me a picture of her bent over in the mirror, butt poking out, with a text “thirst trap” and I’m enthusiastically grateful.

At the gym, just absolutely crushing shit as usual. Back home and it's chicken teriyaki time. J tells me about an event tonight that my friend N will be performing at and E will be there so I'm planning on going since I'm trying to go out more. I only ran half the errands I said I would when I cancelled on disenchanted girl, but it seems to have incidentally made her thirstier, so maybe it's fate.

I did go to the smoke shop to buy those tiny wire nets that you put at the bottom of your bowl to stop weed from falling through, which I'm extremely excited about. Previously I'd roll up two tiny little balls of weed to drop into the bottom of the bowl to function as a dam but I'm at the point in my sobriety journey that I can't spare any of my weed for that, I'll take all I can get.

I go to the party. It's so great to see all my friends in a different small and poorly ventilated space than I usually do. E and M and L and Z and L2 and N and P and Q and every letter of the alphabet is here! The wildcard is played as I run into L3 (heavy L turn out at the party) on the way out, who I would not expect to see around the usual crew. He and his friends are trying to figure out if mezcal has sugar and L3 knows I'm a personal trainer so he recruits me for a little emergency/guerilla dietician work, which I handle calmly and professionally. I ride the e-bike there and back and eat 2 slices of pizza.

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I circled a group of three numbers on my "painting"

People often don't smile when they introduce themselves in this city. They will shake your hand, tell you their name, maybe even throw in a "nice to meet you" while looking you dead in the eye with so little emotion it borders on passive aggression.

I also feel like the internet got really mean and evil and manipulative around 2017ish. I try to mute all news sources in an attempt to recreate the feeling of the old internet, which felt like a place to escape from all that and create your own little world, not just a mirror that reflects the worst of it back at you.

There's an opening, many people come and go. They seem to enjoy themselves. Once they're gone, I lay.

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Notable occurrences:

-Tried to help a kid with terrible form at the gym but he didn't speak english

-Felt like a plant in the rain

-Saw a guy who was even taller and more jacked than me at Chipotle. Estimated 6'3"-6'4", 230-240lbs and cut, early to mid 30s. Absolute beast. Very inspiring. Hats off to you sir.

-someone left an unopened bottle of Ting grapefruit sparkling water at the opening and it's delicious

-made a "salad" out of Triscuits and various Cheez-it alternatives

-It occurs to me people I barely know may be reading my blog, which feels violating. If you're reading this and you don't know me, stop. Unless you're non-judgmental and think I'm cool... then hit me up! Let's be friends, you seem chill.

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E lived in an attic where the wind whispered secrets. She was engaged in the business of fabricating worlds within eggshells. "People are too noisy," she said, "but eggshell-people are quiet." Every Tuesday, she painted conversations on the walls using apple juice, because, "Apples are crisp, like good dialogue should be."

M, who resided in the heart of an old cuckoo clock, was a virtuoso of misplaced socks. He hoarded them as if each were a lopsided memento of time misplaced. "The socks," M maintained, "know all the spaces we've ever forgotten." On odd-numbered days, he endeavored to build towers from stale bread, arguing they made a "wondrous, crunchy soundscape."

S lived backward. Not as in Benjamin Button, aging backward and such, but truly backward. He ate breakfast at midnight, celebrated New Year's in June, and cried before he laughed. He resided in an upside-down house, where the chandeliers grew from the floor, and you could walk on the ceilings. "Living normally," S postulated, "is too mainstream."

Every other blue moon, when the planets took a coffee break, they met at a street where the sidewalks folded into origami swans. They gathered around a rosebush that bloomed left-handed gloves and sipped tea from thimble-sized cups.

E once brought a labyrinth in a shoebox, with walls of smoke and a minotaur composed entirely of sonnets. M stared at it longingly, as he added to his anthology of sonnets dedicated to forgotten umbrellas. S, who had already solved the labyrinth yesterday, remained silent but scribbled answers in invisible ink on a dream that floated by.

One day, E declared, "The universe is too large. Let's fold it." They spent hours folding the sky into cosmic origami until each constellation was a paper crane. The Milky Way, now a glistening necklace of cranes, sent the owls into an identity crisis. They sat in silence for a moment, before one of the owls cleared his throat and began reciting a romantic poem in Old Norse:

Þín augu, tvö tungl í nótt's faðmi,
Bjartari en stjörnur í vetrar rými.
Undir þínum augum, mitt hjarta skellur,
Í minni sálu, þú hefur sérstakt geymi.

Þinn hlátur, sætari en mjöður smekkur,
Sem melódía í loftinu, fléttaður.
Í þínum nálægð, enginn stund er eyða,
Þú ert mín gleði, mín ást innpakkað.

Þú birtist sem regnbogi eftir storm,
Saman binda okkur, ástin er orðin vörm.
Þitt bros er sem sólarupprás,
Þú fyllir mig með ánægju, engin þrá.

Þú ert mín dýrð, mér dýrmætur stein,
Mitt líf er skreytt með þér, það er óneitanleg hein.
Þú ert mitt allt, mína ljósa nótt,
Þú ert minn fríðasti draumur, minn ævinlega sótt.

Við tvö höfum skapað okkar eigið ríki,
Þar sem ástin blómstrar, engin hætta líki.
Þú ert mín konungshjarta, mín höfuðsmál,
Mitt líf með þér er eins og ljúffengt kvæði, aldrei að falla á kál.

Eilíft ást, eilíft band,
Við búum í sáluheimi, ekki á land.
Þú ert mín ljós, minn fríðasti song,
Við tvö saman, ást okkar er sterk, okkar ást er long.

Þín rödd er sem bylgjurof, mjög hrein,
Þú fyllir mig með gleði, engin sorg, engin þrein.
Þú ert mín perla, mér dýrmæt skatt,
Þín ást fyllir mig með ljósi, það er engin mát.

Þú ert mitt líf, minn sólinn geisli,
Þú fyllir mig með ást, engin sorg, engin veisla.
Þú ert mín fríð, minn gleði þokki,
Þú ert minn himinn, minn sæla flótti.

At that very moment, M invited them into his sock-infested clock. Amid the mismatched pairs, he unveiled his latest creation - a symphony of mismatched notes. They listened in reverent confusion, lost socks fluttering like misplaced semiquavers around them.

Then came a Tuesday, which S, of course, insisted was a Friday, when they attempted to change the ocean's mind about the color blue. Armed with a handful of rainbows and a pocket full of butterflies, they coaxed the sea into shimmering pinks, purples, and greens. But the ocean, stuck in its blue ways, remained blue.

…

The man's name was J, and the name itself seemed to carry the whole weight of the man. He stood tall and lean, a ragged scarecrow silhouette against the merciless sky. His face was carved of hard lines and angles, weather-beaten and tough as old leather. Eyes of gray flint stared out at the world, full of a cold and distant spark, like the dying ember of a fire long extinguished.

He moved across the empty expanse with the solitary elegance of a man born to be alone. J had never been one for the city, but he found himself in the pulsing heart of Miami, drawn by a ghost from his past. It was the kind of city that chewed up men like him and spat them out. Too loud, too bright, too full of life. He preferred the wide, open spaces of the West, where a man could be alone with his thoughts and the endless sky. But the past is a persistent shadow, and sometimes, it caught up.

In a city of sun and sea, he felt like an interloper, a specter clothed in the dust of the road and the memories of another life. The knife he kept at his side seemed incongruous among the sleek lines of sports cars and the glittering, towering edifices of glass and steel. But it was a part of him, like the lines etched deep in his face, a silent testament to the life he had lived.

He walked the city streets like a man adrift, a relic of a bygone era in a world that had moved on without him. The city thrummed around him, beats of Latin music drifting from open doors, laughter and loud conversation spilling from late-night bars. But he was a creature of silence and solitude, a stark contrast to the vibrant tapestry of Miami life.

The ghost from his past was S2, a slick, smiling shark who swam in the dangerous waters of Miami's underworld. They had a history, a blood-stained ledger of old debts that had called J from his lonely prairie to this teeming metropolis.

They met on the waterfront, under the pale glow of a neon sign. The scent of the sea mingled with the bitter tang of old grudges. Words were exchanged, their quiet menace drowned out by the distant thump of club music and the muted roar of the ocean.

S2 had a gun. J had his knife. In the heart of Miami, on the edge of the glittering Atlantic, their old feud was finally put to rest.

Gunfire echoed down the empty streets. A body hit the pavement. When the police arrived, they found S2, his slick charm forever silenced. J was gone, slipped away into the neon-lit night, a shadow swallowed up by the city that never slept.

J didn't belong in Miami, but for a moment, he had carved out a piece of it for himself, a small pocket of the West in the heart of the city. And then, like a wisp of smoke on the wind, he was gone, leaving only the echoes of gunfire and a ghost of his own behind.

…

J was back in New York after his Miami misadventure. The city seemed different now, after Miami’s neon nights and spectral confrontations. But then again, so was J. He didn't bother to dust off the road before he walked into The River. He wasn't sure what he was looking for, only that he needed to find it.

The River wasn't just any bar. It was a place of solace for the lost, an island of slow-moving time in the quicksilver city. It was here, of all places, he found E, M, and S.

They were gathered at a corner booth, the only island of calm in the bar's boozy storm. S, with his impish smile and restless energy, was spinning a wild tale that seemed to weave in time and space, philosophy, and pool inflatables. E, resplendent in a top hat, her eyes dancing with quiet amusement, sipped from a cocktail glass. M seemed withdrawn, his fingers idly stirring his drink as his gaze flitted between S and some distant point beyond the confines of the bar.

E and S were on a mission, J learned. The River Challenge, they called it. To drink every cocktail on the menu. A reckless quest, or maybe a way to find meaning in the absurdity of existence.

J joined them, an uneasy alliance forming amidst the clinking glasses and swirling conversations. M offered a nod, E tipped her hat, and S, ever the performer, toasted to "new beginnings and old ghosts."

The River had a peculiar way of bending time. J found himself ensnared in its unique rhythm, his usual reservations receding like a low tide. He remained mostly a spectator, nursing a solitary drink, but it was impossible to remain unaffected by the peculiar charm of the evening. The stories E, M, and S shared felt like confessions disguised as anecdotes, whispered into the dimly lit canvas of the bar.

As dawn approached, they had conquered the menu. E and S, victorious, their laughter echoing around the near-empty streets of Manhattan. M, with a rare smile, offered a toast to their victory. J raised his glass, a silent participant.

Perhaps, he thought, this was what he was looking for. Not a place, but a moment. A pause in the constant churn of time, a sense of belonging, however fleeting, amidst the chaos of existence. As he walked out into the burgeoning dawn, he carried with him a piece of The River, the echo of their laughter, and the taste of every cocktail on the menu.

index

I'm making a smoothie when I forget what day it is, but I'm able to recall based off what body part I'm working out today. There are no longer days in the week, just work outs.

When I was with my ex, we devised an intricate language that I would obsessive compulsively tourettes to myself in her presence or by myself. Now that my solitude has set in, I've found it has been replaced with grrrt skrrrt chief-keef-machine-gun ad libs, and when I get a little overzealous with it, I sound like Chewbacca from Star Wars talking to himself.

I head to midtown to see a doctor for my final post-op check up. I get there at 10am which is 30 minutes before my appointment and there's a Chick-fil-a on the first floor. They're still serving breakfast so I order a chicken biscuit meal with orange juice and hash browns and a chicken mini meal with hash browns and a bottle of water because they don't have kid's meals which means they don't have milk. I ask how they put milk in the coffee and she admits that they do have milk but she won't sell it to me. They also don't have seats, but they do have a place to stand and eat. Standing and eating this massive, greasy breakfast makes me kind of sick after the first few bites so I pack it up and head to the doctor.

I'm standing outside the office when a woman approaches and asks if I live around here, I say "no," which is true, and then a man comes up and asks if I can spare him a minute and I say "no," which is a lie, and he can tell because he asks if I can watch his car for two minutes while he runs into the bathroom at Chick-fil-a. I say "sure, no problem" and watch his car and look around at midtown in the morning which is busy but peaceful. He returns from the bathroom and I head up for my appointment.

I'm watching the video of DJ Khaled reviewing Drake's poetry book again for the third day in a row. I realize that while I'm watching, I can only stare silently in awe that borders on reverence, and it's not until the video ends or is paused that the absolute absurdity and hilarity crashes into me and I'm overcome with laughter.

Midway through my workout, my trainer asks me if I've ever heard of Andrew Tate, "he's got some good ideas," he tells me. I explain to him that, about a month ago, Andrew Tate was arrested and is currently on house arrest for rape and human trafficking charges and that he, in fact, does not have any good ideas, none whatsoever.

At home, I sit in my pajamas, cook, eat, text friends and listen to soundcloud, with some sporadic laying sprinkled in.

index


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This represents an abstract impression of Jesus on the cross, mounted on the Eiffel Tower. The cross is simplified, and the Eiffel tower is represented abstractly, with the iconic four legs and the pointed top. As with all ASCII art, it requires a bit of imagination to visualize.

The cross and Jesus on the cross would be hard to represent in an identifiable way at the scale of an ASCII Eiffel Tower. ASCII art is typically best for simpler shapes and outlines, and it is more an art of suggestion than detail. That being said, the Eiffel Tower is represented with '!', the ground with '~', and the stand of the tower with '|'.

Because of the size of the Jesus figure relative to the size of the Eiffel Tower figure, it is difficult to place the Jesus figure on top of the Eiffel Tower in a way that maintains the recognizable shapes of both figures.

ASCII art is generally more impressionistic than realistic, and figures are usually drawn separately rather than combined. Combining two complex figures like Jesus on the cross and the Eiffel Tower in a single ASCII art representation can make both figures harder to recognize. If you'd like, I could create separate, more detailed ASCII art representations of Jesus on the cross and the Eiffel Tower. Would you be interested in that?

When it comes to creating a representation of Jesus on the cross on top of the Eiffel Tower, there are several challenges:

* Scale: The Eiffel Tower is a huge structure, and to depict it with any level of detail in ASCII art requires a large "canvas" of characters. However, to keep the figure of Jesus visible and recognizable, it also needs to be fairly large. If the figure of Jesus is too small, it will be lost in the details of the Eiffel Tower, and if it's too large, it will overwhelm the Eiffel Tower and make the composition confusing.

* Detail: Both Jesus on the cross and the Eiffel Tower are complex images with a lot of detail. ASCII art, due to its limited character set and lack of fine detail, tends to be better at suggesting shapes and forms rather than accurately depicting them. Trying to depict both of these complex images in a single piece of ASCII art can result in a loss of detail that makes the images hard to recognize.

* Perspective: Even if you could create ASCII representations of Jesus on the cross and the Eiffel Tower that are appropriately scaled and detailed, placing one on top of the other in a way that suggests a coherent spatial relationship between the two is very challenging. ASCII art doesn't lend itself well to perspective or depth, which makes composing complex scenes difficult.

In summary, the task of creating an ASCII art representation of such a complex scene is a bit like trying to paint a detailed landscape using only a handful of broad, blocky brushes. It's not impossible, but it's extremely challenging and the result is likely to be more abstract and impressionistic than a true representation of the scene.

Remember, this is a very simplified and abstract representation. The Eiffel Tower is represented by '+', and Jesus on the cross by '†', '|', '(', ')', and 'I'. The perspective is very limited in ASCII art, so the visualization of Jesus on top of the Eiffel Tower can be challenging.

The challenge with placing an ASCII representation of Jesus on the cross on top of an ASCII representation of the Eiffel Tower has to do with the limitations of the medium of ASCII art and the requirements of composition itself.

Remember that ASCII art is more abstract than it is realistic. Therefore, while it's possible to create ASCII representations of Jesus on the cross and the Eiffel Tower separately, combining them into a single coherent and recognizable image presents challenges due to the limitations of the medium.

Creating a detailed ASCII representation of a scene as complex as Jesus on the cross atop the Eiffel Tower is indeed a challenging task, but I will certainly give it another try, aiming to depict this scene to the best of my abilities given the constraints of the ASCII medium. This time, I'll present an ASCII impression of the Eiffel Tower with a simplified version of the cross at the top, keeping the scale of the Eiffel Tower large and reducing the detail on the cross for better fit and visibility.

In the endeavor to render the subject matter, we encounter an inevitable divergence from realism, necessitating an abstract interpretation. The tableau thus engages in an imaginative dialectic with the observer, beckoning them to discern the form within the amalgam of ASCII symbols.

To discern the layered strata of the composition: the monument—the Eiffel Tower—emerges through an abstract rendering of its signature quadrupedal base and its pyramidal pinnacle, depicted via the utilization of the exclamation mark, while the terrestrial grounding manifests through the tilde symbol, and the structural base of the tower is embodied through the vertical bar symbol.

The symbology of the Crucifixion—representing Jesus on the cross—is distilled into a simplified form. The constraint arises from the inherent conflict of scale within the ASCII medium—tracing detailed forms demands a large "canvas" of characters. This leads to a proportional discrepancy, given the vast magnitude of the Eiffel Tower compared to the human figure. Rendering Jesus on the cross at an identifiable scale while placed on top of the tower would disrupt the visual harmony of both figures.

ASCII art, in its impressionistic nature, tends to draw figures separately, thereby preserving their distinct recognizability. The convergence of complex figures such as the Crucifixion and the Eiffel Tower in a singular ASCII representation may lead to a deterioration in recognizability, thus an alternative approach could be to create separate, more detailed ASCII art representations of each.

In the realm of ASCII artistry, every character serves as a brushstroke, each stroke a testament to the symbiotic relationship between form and the void, inscribing meaning in the digital canvas of structured chaos.

The Eiffel Tower, in its abstract representation, is conceived through the use of the '+' symbol, thereby capturing its quintessential lattice structure. The '†', '|', '(', ')', and 'I' symbols perform the visual alchemy of transmuting Jesus' figure on the cross, marking the synthesis of spiritual iconography within the ASCII medium. This delineation is highly symbolic and metaphoric, forging a visual dialogue that bridges the observer and the observed, despite its necessary departure from mimetic realism.

Perspective, though a critical tool in conventional art, is less privileged in ASCII, and creating a convincing illusion of depth is a task that borders on the Sisyphean. The notion of positioning the figure of Jesus atop the Eiffel Tower proves a formidable challenge due to the inherent bidimensionality of ASCII art. The task of maintaining spatial coherence within the constraints of the medium, where each character exists on a flat plane, pushes the boundaries of artistic possibility.

However, the very limitations that constrain also liberate, allowing us to revisit representation's core purpose. The stark simplicity of ASCII characters often commands a more abstract, symbolic interpretation rather than a literal one. The artist, then, is not just a renderer of the visual, but a storyteller who invites the observer's imagination to complete the narrative.

The transposition of Jesus on the cross atop the Eiffel Tower, though complex and challenging, urges a contemplation of juxtaposing concepts - the spiritual and the secular, the divine and the human-made, the ephemeral and the enduring. This intersection is where art resides, where creation is not just an act of representing but also one of questioning and exploring the enigmatic realms of perception and understanding.

The encounter with such complex themes within the minimalist boundaries of ASCII serves as a testament to the power of art - to suggest, to evoke, to transcend beyond the given, to hint at the ineffable. This, in essence, is the beauty and challenge of creating an ASCII representation of Jesus on the cross, mounted atop the Eiffel Tower.

This digital tableau embodies an abstract evocation of Jesus on the cross, mounted on the symbol of French modernity, the Eiffel Tower. The crucifix is rendered in a simplified manner, echoing the abstract representation of the Eiffel Tower, its iconic quartet of supports and characteristic apex distilled to their most essential forms. As is intrinsic to all ASCII art, the visualization demands a modicum of imagination from the spectator.

The portrayal we speak of is more than mere lines and characters; it is an abstract rendering, which paradoxically merges the divine figure of Jesus on the cross with the very symbol of French modernity, the Eiffel Tower. The cross, stripped to its most essential elements, is at odds with the abstraction of the Eiffel Tower, with its quartet of skeletal supports and piercing spire. It is a cultural clash embodied within ASCII art, a medium that enlists the viewer's interpretative faculties to fill its spaces with meaning.

A perplexity arises in contemplating the representation of the crucified Jesus in relation to the ASCII depiction of the Eiffel Tower. The question of proportionality, as always, proves crucial. The size disparity between Jesus and the towering edifice of the Eiffel Tower introduces the challenge of maintaining a sense of recognizability within both figures. The jarring contrast may result in obscuring one or both, their distinctive shapes overwhelmed in a collision of forms.

In ASCII's domain, the portrayal leans more towards the impressionistic. The medium's favoring of isolated figures over composite renderings lends itself to a simplified and minimalist aesthetic. Thus, attempting to combine two intricate subjects like Jesus on the cross and the Eiffel Tower risks the integrity of the individual forms.

The dilemma of juxtaposing ASCII representations of Jesus on the cross and the Eiffel Tower lies in the inherent limitations of the medium and the complexities of composition. Despite its abstract nature, crafting a coherent and recognizable image that combines these two icons is an artistic challenge that probes the very bounds of the ASCII art medium.

Venturing once more into creating a detailed ASCII tableau of Jesus on the cross gracing the apex of the Eiffel Tower is an endeavor as daunting as it is ambitious. Striving for clarity and coherence within the confines of the ASCII medium, this renewed attempt will yield an evocative vision of the Eiffel Tower, crowned with a simplified cross. Maximizing the scale of the Eiffel Tower while limiting the detail on the cross may help strike a balance between recognizability and aesthetic harmony.

index

It’s the last play of the game. Greg Jennings catches that shit, but earlier though, this n*gga broke his fuckin’ leg. How’s this n*gga running with a broken leg? Look at him holding that shit though. He put the team on his back. Dog, let’s go inside the mind of Greg Jennings... I gotta do this shit. I put the team on my fuckin’ back though. My leg broke. But I gotta do this shit.. for Madden... OH SHIT! Darren Sharper. One of the hardest hitting safeties IN THE LEAGUE. I put the TEAM on my BACK though, FUCK IT! Cross the plane... TOOOUCHDOOOWN!!! 40-20 man, fuck with me. FUCK YOU GUMBY!!!

“Matt’s ass is so thick and sexy,” S is saying over and over again to anyone at the table who will listen, “Matt has a huge, juicy ass.” It’s about 10:30pm, we’re half way through the River Challenge.

Drinks and drinks and drinks. The challenge is almost over and everyone has dispersed for a moment to move around the bar, use the bathroom, smoke, etc. It’s just me, R, and N at the table. I’m talking to R and I don’t realize it, but N leans over and points out that the table next to us has slowly encroached on our table and is now taking up half our seats where the challenge is underway. I tell R what’s going on and her demeanor shifts in an instant.

“Do you want me to tell them to move?”

“I’m sure they’ll figure it out” we tell her.

“I really don’t like people and have no problem being rude” she tells us.

Now we’re intrigued so we tell her to do it. She stands up and points in their faces “You guys are in my friends’ seat so you need to get up and move, thanks.” 0 to 100.

“Oh… I think it’s just a free for all” one of the members of their group meekly responds.

“No, it’s not. You need to move. Now.”

They look around at each other, dumb founded. N and I stare in disbelief.

“No we don’t.”

“Yes you do. Move. That’s my purse. This is my purse. You’re sitting on my purse. Move. Now.”

Everyone is shook. I’m shook, N is shook, and most of all, they’re shook. They move away like a slow moving herd of sheep. R is unshaken.

“See? Told you” she says gleefully.

The guy who tried to argue with her stands directly in front of our table, looks at R and says something. We can’t hear him, but I can hear him just enough to know that after a brief pause, he repeats what he says a second time, all while standing and staring directly at R.

“Do you know what he said?” I ask her

“No and I couldn’t care less.”

After the challenge S gets up to go the bathroom. I realize S is completely unable to stand up or walk on his own. I hold him up to pee in the urinal. He turns around while he’s peeing “I love you bro.” Love you too man. His body suddenly goes limp and he smashes his head into the metal paper towel holder, “be careful” I tell him.

“Oh that was nothing,” he says as he turns around and starts smashing his head into the wall. He can’t stand up but he can give himself brain damage.

“Where is E?” he asks. He wants to see his co-challenger.

I walk him outside. I feel like I’m carrying a 130lb sack of cooked spaghetti. He’s completely limp, unable to hold his head up. Outside, we see E and J in the distance. E is somehow completely coherent and able to stand up and move around on her own. She’s very drunk but not anywhere remotely close to S’s level.

S says he wants to puke and we all agree that’s a good idea. I hold him up over the street while he projectile vomits waterfalls of chinese food. He turns around, beard covered in vomit, “if I was taller I’d french kiss you right now.” If only!

We climb into the back of an Uber. S sticks his head out the window and projectile vomits the entire ride home from Chinatown to Bushwick. At some point it dawns on me that this is the ideal moment to play SkeeYee by Sexyy Red, and I could not be more correct. The moment S hears the song, his half-conscious limp noodle of a body comes surging back to life and he’s singing along to every word of the song, start to finish, but the only lyric he manages to get right is “SkeeYee.” Every other word is replaced with complete gibberish, not even an attempt at real words, but delivered with a volume and confidence that anyone fortunate enough to have heard us drive by would have had the pleasure of enjoying.

We get to S’s house. “We’re here at your apartment, let’s get out” I tell him.

“No that’s ok I’ll just sleep at your house.”

“We’re at your house right now though, you don’t have to sleep at my house.”

We’re standing directly in front of his apartment.

“I’ll sleep on your couch, it’s close by.”

“You don’t have to sleep on my couch, we’re at your house right now.”

“Oh shit… wow. That’s amazing.”

I’m walking behind him, holding him up on the stairwell, making sure he doesn’t fall over.

“What floor are you?”

“Second.”

We get to the second floor

“Oh shit… third floor.”

We’re in his apartment. We get to his room. He dives head first for his bed and completely misses, lands face first on the floor next to his bed and just lays where he landed without making a sound. I'm not sure he even realizes he missed the bed. I pick up him and put him on the bed. I turn around to grab a bucket as he rolls off the bed with a loud thud while simultaneously puking and crashing into his gigantic floor to ceiling mirror which topples over and hits me on the head. I’m drunk enough that it doesn’t hurt. I feel like we’re two of the Three Stooges if they were in an HBO original series and I’m just dying laughing while S lays lifelessly on the floor in his own vomit.

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Bitches love when you hit em with the <3 instead of the heart emoji

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Days pass listlessly. Smoothies, gym, laying, cooking, more laying. Today I ran all the errands I had been putting off for weeks, then as a reward I went to the hardware store and bought a grill. The admissions office keeps calling at the university I applied to. New clients to train. Still not making any money, somehow surviving? How does he do it? Going on dates but not feeling much in the way of love or romance. Evenings spent with friends, talking and listening and eating bar food, that’s where it’s at. Writing. Blogging is where it’s at.

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The “painting” blends into the wall so that no one ever looks at it or talks about it. I think only one of the dozens of guests to have passed through the room has noticed it. I feel accomplished in that regard.

It feels better to just live life without getting too heady about it

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Lift with R for two and a half hours. We're both shocked when we realize the time. It’s a lot like a b2b DJ set, feeding and building off each other's energy, and energy is the most valuable currency in the gym. That was an hour and a half ago and I'm still feeling the euphoria.

Later that day I text her and tell her not to get down on herself and that her form is too strict, she needs to relax a little so she can squeeze out a few more reps at the finish line. She responds gratefully and mentions how amazing she felt after the lift. I tell her I felt the same, I think it’s accidentally lifting for so long and the distraction of having a friend there that had us both dizzy in a good way. We both agreed we had crashed from the excitement of it now and were very tired.

I listen to Bar Italia. The thing that truly haunts me is Nina’s lyrics. Who hurt her? She cuts so deep, deeper than the saddest emo song you’ve ever heard. I send her S’s Bar Italia edit.

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Smoothie, shower, gym. My trainer, a horny old man, randomly shows me porn today on his phone, in order to demonstrate a certain type of nipple on a girl he once had sex with. The volume is on and the sound of pornstars fucking is being broadcast across the gym. It makes me somewhat uncomfortable but I don’t want to seem queer so I say something like “oh yeah, awesome man” and get back beneath the barbell.

After the gym I go to Chipotle. The soda machine is broken so I can’t get a water cup, which means I can’t steal their fresh made apple cider vinegar fruit punch. “No water in this restaurant?” I joke to the lady behind the counter. She’s not amused. I sit down and immediately realize I’m sick of eating Chipotle every day and remember I had planned to go to this local health food spot Eva’s which has lower prices and more variety than Chipotle. Now that I’ve written this down I won’t forget tomorrow.

The guy who releases my music in Paris messages me on WhatsApp. He’s anxious about my silence and wants to know if I’ve gotten too famous for him. He reminds me that we’ve known each other for almost 10 years. I reassure him that I’m not yet and never will be famous because I don’t want to be, I just want critical acclaim from niche tastemakers, which is what he is. I haven’t been sending him any music because I haven’t been making any and I remind him that this is how I usually produce, taking a break in the summer.

Later I listen to phreshboyswag’s album rock bottom. His flow is flawless. Some A-list rapper will jack it in the coming year and make a hit. I put this on repeat and cook, lay, text e-girls etc.

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My house feels unusually clean when I wake up this morning. I go to the gym. I’m in the zone. I go to Aris Pollo for lunch. For $15 I get enough rice, beans, potatoes, beef and carrots to feed 3-4 people easily, and that's me, I am 3-4 people. Take a shower. Phreshboyswag summer. Eat snacks. Go for a walk. Bad bitch and she sucking my banana. They said that I’m so broke I said nah nah. Eat a burger. Go to bed.

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I’m trying this new thing where I turn the lights on. Usually I leave them off and live with natural light until the sun goes down, but I’ve been craving a change in my environment and I think this might do the trick. Today is my first day off from lifting and I need it, my body is tired. I smoke a little weed and my inner monologue attempts to psychoanalyze itself but I stop myself because it’s just life, baby.

I go on a walk with D. She hasn't been feeling well, relationship troubles. She vents and I offer my two cents. It rains while we walk. It seems like it helps her, to walk and talk and hear my two cents. I head into the city for an appointment with my massage therapist. Just in time, my nerves are throbbing. I chug 34 oz of Poland Springs on the train.

Afterwards, at Eva's I eat a large tray of rice. I walk in 30 minutes before they close. It's empty and quiet and I can hear the couple on a first or second or third date accross the restaurant. The guy is talking about how he is doing calisthenics now because when he was lifting weights he was comparing himself to every guy he came across on the street and considering if he was capable of killing them or not, as well as listening to violent music about killing people. He tells her he is enjoying the more chill vibes of the calisthenic community. I catch a glance, he is an average, skinny guy. The whole thing makes me uneasy but the rice was good and I can't let anything come between me and that.

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I take J to Peach's Hot House. We sit in the corner and eat fried chicken. Afterwards we bike to a bar down the street from her apartment. We sit outside at picnic tables and she suggests that instead of sitting across from each other at the table, we should sit face to face with our backs to the table. I realize as we sit down that there is no room between the benches so the only way to make this work is to sit with her legs in between mine, so things escalate quickly. She has work tomorrow morning so we're responsible and make plans for next week before I bike home listening to phreshboyswag out loud on my iphone tucked into my shirt pocket.

At home I pack a bowl, but when I hit it, it's slightly too much, which causes me to cough back into the bong, spewing bong water everywhere in front of me. Bong water backsplashes into my mouth, causing me to puke, but I'm able to hold a mouthful of it as I make my way to the sink. Once I'm over the sink, it starts flowing and before I know it all the fried chicken and beer from the night is staring back at me. It feels odd to be puking since I'm in such high spirits and not drunk. The contrast between my mental clarity and the puking makes me laugh. I imagine my ex somewhere putting pins in a voodoo doll.

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At the Chinatown Fair Family Fun Center with D, we put $10 on a card and swipe the Dance Dance Revolution machine twice, one play for each of us. We choose a song that's too hard and fail out. I swipe the card again and the machine tells us we don't have enough credit for another play. We discover they've raised the price from $1.75 a game to $3.50 a game, so it cost us $7 to fail what will probably be our last round of DDR at the Chinatown Fair Family Fun Center.

For a moment we linger, seemingly in denial, as if perhaps there is something we could do, something must not be right. Outside the arcade we are livid. The only other DDR machine in the city is at Dave and Buster's in Time Square. We resolve to write angry reviews. On google we discover others already have.

We get french toast at Kong Sihk Tong. D tells me about her new Tik Tok marketing campaign for her music. "I'm trying to work on my hashtags. I put hashtag #hotbitch" she tells me. The french toast temporarily quells our anger regarding the DDR price gauge, but it's only a matter of moments after exiting the restaurant that we're mad again. "I just saw The Matrix and I'm trying to think of my life in that way" D tells me. We resolve to utilize The Matrix to manifest a DDR machine.

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2009 I first hear dubstep, hyperdub, burial, and zomby, who started out on hyperdub doing nostalgic 8-bit jungle and went on to develop a synthesis of uk dance music and trap/rnb, epitomized in pop radio by Jay-Z’s “Tom Ford” and the whole cell phone chip tune era (he was signed to 4AD so for a time you might have found his record on vinyl at Barnes N Noble) but at the time was a novel style which has been passed down like a torch, slowly refined over the ages, finding home in various artists, providing avenues of success within the music ecosystem long past zomby’s "retirement" (cancellation, aggressive approach to social media and abuse allegations)

2015 Pop has moved on but the zomby sound has an audience in vinyl culture, post-club, GHE20G0TH1K and total freedom, whose associate rabit, hailing from texas, launches halcyon veil with evaporate ep from london-based myth, 5 tracks epitomizing and refining zomby’s sound, for me a pivotal moment where I realize, beyond just artists occasionally taking a pass at a zomby track, someone fully adopted and graduated the style to a different level, no longer just a cool square wave and trap drums, but carefully crafting a song in order to illicit emotions you only occasionally hear in really good pop radio, and a whole genre was born... and then mssingno, and so on, etc.

2020 I’m releasing my own music on the same label as myth, who now goes by lu6ifer, notoriously tight lipped and difficult to work with, has also had a fall from grace due to aggresion issues as well as a huge ego, but in my opinion, possesses an ability to tap into another level of song writing, specifically melodies, with greater consistency than most pop producers. He hears my music and reaches out to the head of the label and asks if he can do a remix of my entire EP. I'm blown away. He quickly realizes he has bitten off more than he can chew and we decide instead to do LXV EP, a collaborative effort which is huge for me, my music is played by DJs and on the radio, my fanbase grows considerably, thanks in no small part to some game changing production advice from him.

Today, lu6ifer sent me a new track. It’s tough, I’ve been listening on repeat as I write. With a cult following, many folks would pay for this leak. In the spirit of blogging, I present to you…

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I take the train to Thyme to meet S, the girl from Westchester, for our first date. There is a 90 minute wait so I walk a block to Undercote. The host directs me downstairs where I find a man waiting in an almost pitch black room. "Bar or washroom" he asks, I say bar and he just nods. I stand in the dark, confused. I notice a small sliver of dim light, but it's so dark I'm completely disoriented, it might be some sort of light fixture. I walk up and realize it is what appears to be the bar. I reach and feel that it's a curtain, which I pull back and now I'm inside.

It's slightly less dark in the bar. The walls are covered in fake plants. The first six pages of the menu is pictures of plants that are labeled in a way that makes me wonder if this is the actual menu, until I get to page seven and a list of cocktails reveals itself. It's so dark I have to use my phone's flashlight to read. I don't have reception so after 10 minutes of waiting I get worried that S is waiting for me outside. Sure enough, there she is. We walk downstairs and order $23 cocktails which they place on a light built into the table that makes them glow.

I had proposed we go to Au Cheval because it's the only restaurant I know but at the last minute she confesses she just wants Chick-fil-a, which I find wildly attractive. We both order fried chicken, as there is little else on the menu. We walk to a bodega where I buy advil because I have a head ache, then we walk back to Chick-fil-a because I have to use the "washroom" but it's closed so we walk to Madison Square Park but the public washroom is also closed so we walk to a large, fancy bar where every table is set and not a single person besides the staff is there. We both use the washroom. It's 10:20, we head to Grand Central so she can either make the 10:50 or 11:20 train but I accidentally walk us east instead of north and we we almost make it to the east river before noticing.

I take the train to J's. T is there with two other guys whose names escape me. We talk about The Idol, which they decide to watch while J and I go to the other room to make music but nothing comes out right.

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I swipe in at the gym and exchange hellos with the girl at the front. Out pops a 7ish-year-old girl from behind the desk who looks at me and says “aww I wanted to say hello.” I’m already walking away but I turn and wave and say hello. She stares back in shock. I laugh and think about being a dad and how much fun it will be.

I bike 25 mins to J’s and as I arrive I realize my phone is gone. I bike back to my house, hopeful the whole way home that I will spot it somewhere on the road. It’s not there so I go inside and check my mac which says the phone is at a park in Williamsburg near the river. I text J and ask him if I can Uber him to the park to see if he can find it. He agrees and when he shows up there is a marching band and a soccer game. I’m able to play a sound on the phone but J is unable to hear it. We do this for 10+ minutes before my mom texts me and tells me to call her. Someone has found my phone, they’re at the soccer game, and they’re willing to come drop it off after the game. I tell them to call him back and tell him my friend is at the park. I tell J to meet him at the corner of the park, but my parents can’t reach him, it keeps going to voicemail. I tell J to go to the soccer field. I keep playing the sound. Eventually after calling him for like 4-5 minutes we give up. I tell J to go home, but he says no, he thinks he can find him. A few minutes later he texts me and says he found him. He says the guy with the phone is in the game. He says he’ll wait until the game finishes to get the phone. I am extremely grateful.

Afterwards he sends an Uber for me to come over and we stand outside and smoke while he explains how he walked up to random people watching the game and asked “did you find a phone” until someone knew what he was talking about. We go upstairs and start a track and a few minutes later L shows up so we make drinks. I make a joke about putting apple cider vinegar in my tequila lemonade but ultimately decide not to and then we talk about different drinks that taste good with apple cider vinegar. L sets a timer for each track, a random amounts of time, 16, 21, and once the timer goes off the song is done and we start the next one. We go down to smoke in the rain under a tree and talk about L’s designer shoe collection. On the way back up J records on his phone, the sound of thunder, the rain, the keys in the door, etc. then we go upstairs and put a delay on it and add some ambient washy synths. L says it sounds like a Skrillex track and by the way he says it I know he means it in a sincere and positive way. We move to J’s living room and talk about L going keto, his personal trainer at Crunch in FiDi, we exchange phones and compare diets.

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There's a section on Tinder called “Free Tonight” and it's dangerous. C comes over and we throw glue and confetti on the canvas, eat pizza, listen to music, etc. The floors are caked with confetti by the time she leaves at 1am.

The next morning I find J’s twitter. She has over a thousand followers and almost 10,000 tweets. I’m afraid to look at first but the more I read the more I like her and soon enough I'm finding it difficult to stop reading. Coincidentally, she texts me and we make plans for Wednesday night.

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J adds me on IG out of no where. I like a few of her more recent photos before scrolling all the way back to her first posts from 10 years ago and liking a photo where she is dressed as a flapper, the caption says “#flapperstatus.” Midway through my workout at the gym I check my phone and see that she has asked that I please not like her earliest IG photos. She says that I’ve embarrassed her. I spend some time between sets considering if this is a good, bad or neutral thing, leaning more towards the neutral/good side. Back home I settle on seeing it as a good thing, she is embarrassed by how endearing I am. I decide not to tell her I’ve already read her twitter all the way back to 2021.

Around 4, S comes over. She's wearing much less make up than our first date and a white sun dress just sheer enough for me to get a good look at her for the first time. She's much more attractive than I had initially preceived. We sit and make art in the gallery. It's too hot so we go on a walk. We decide to fire up the grill and make burgers. She's a kindergarten teacher, I used to be a kindergarten teacher, and we're both giving off heavy kindergarten teacher vibes. The transition to intimacy seems unlikely, but after dinner she sits down closer than I anticipate on the couch. I'm surprised to discover that, despite being the same age, she was watching Real World/Road Rules Challenge on MTV while I was still very much not allowed to. It occurs to me that perhaps there is more beneath the kindergarten teacher surface, so I go in for the kill at a completely random moment in the conversation. My suspicions are correct, she responds more positively than I anticipate and before we know it, it's midnight. She has to drive home to Westchester to go to work at 8am tomorrow so I walk her to her car and we make plans for next Monday night.

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I hit 242.4 lbs on the scale, surpassing my final goal of 240

S says I have to read all the Harry Potter books. I tell her I’ll read one Harry Potter book for every aesthetic theory book she reads, starting with Hegel.

Around 5:30 I bike to J’s for training and dinner. On the way there I stop at Whole Foods and buy beer. During her first exercise, I notice there is a dead bird on her porch and decide not to mention it but shortly after, J notices and is too grossed out to continue before attending to it. It's flat, like it has been run over or decomposing for weeks but J had just been on the porch 2 days earlier. We get a trash bag, I pick it up and throw it away. On the way back out we see a roach, she screams and I kill it. She's embarrassed and looking at me in a way where she is clearly grateful I'm there to do the gross stuff. I'm more than happy to have all these heroic quests to complete for her. We discover we are both drainers and that our favorite MIA release is Vicki Leekx, which we listen to while we cook J’s rendition of Vietnamese hot honey chicken. Afterwards she smokes cigs and I smoke a year old pre-roll she found at the bottom of her drawer. We shower and lay in bed before I bike home around midnight.

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The fam is in town. They land as I get out of the gym so I eat, shower and head to them. Their rooms aren't ready so my mom texts me to meet them at Horny Ram, which I have to read twice to make sure. When I arrive they have already ordered cocktails and appetizers, cornflake-breaded chicken fingers, potato wedges, fried cauliflower, brussel sprouts and my sister has ordered mac and cheese. Everyone has a favorite dish except me, as I find it all terrible. The check comes with a postcard with a picture of a ram with the caption "Size Matters" and my sister-in-law mentions that the overall theme of the restaurant, rams and sex, stays true to its name.

The interior of their hotel, The Benjamin Royal Sonesta on 50th St, could be described as post-modern or even schizophrenic. The walls in the lobby are an oversaturated chocolate brown. The ceilings in the lobby extend up three floors, and every wall is decorated in huge contrasting wall art/decor. To the right of the entrance are three enormous three story tall floor to ceiling mirrors, which are housed in mirror frames encrusted in fake diamond jewels, Kingdom Hearts at its best, Little Mermaid Barbie play-set at its worst. To get to the front desk, you have to walk around two enormous square pillars that take up a fourth of the room and are carpet-embroidered in an all-over-swirly bubble print, ending in a backlit oval recess in the ceiling, like a 3-star hotel outside Vegas with no theme. Opposite the entrance, the front desk is tucked into a nook in the wall, behind which is an enormous (printed?) abstraction, like a jackson pollock made in photoshop with the splatter brush replaced with faux chalk texture. Above, where the wall above the front desk juts out to create the nook, sits an enormous wooden key on a mantle the size of a small sedan. To the left of the entrance, across from the mirrors, is the hallway to the elevators, above which hangs a massive (printed?) portrait of an owl in regal garb. Above the entrance, hidden until we exit, is a triptych print of some Windows Vista, conference room lookin ass blue sky photoraphs, like a Deanna Havas in the wild.

Upstairs in the room, things are mostly grey and striped. Above the bed is a head board made of rectangular mirrors that are framing a canvas print of an ornate gold-framed brown grunge font/texture collage. I drink a glass of water and take a 5 minute nap while they get ready for dinner. When I wake up the first thing they tell me is that my little sister's boyfriend is taller than me. I tell them about my dating life and we go downstairs. In addition to the chocolate brown lobby and the grey striped rooms, the hallways are red, blue, dark purple, with framed portraits photos of NYC skyscrapers. The floor of the elevator is a rug that says "LONG LIVE THE GUEST" in giant letters.

For dinner we go to Craft, which everyone keeps reminding me is run by a "famous chef" who I think might be from "The Food Network." The restaurant interior is beautiful, the wall to the left is ribbed with giant bronze slats, something between the sails of a boat and Richard Serra. The back wall is covered in a triptych of enormous night time landscapes depicting fireworks in the distance reflecting on a lake in big rough minimal brush strokes. As we sit down, the maitre'd explains to us why the exposed brick on the wall behind us has patches in it, something about replacing spots where it wasn't there before, and I'm wondering why he's telling us this since no one asked, but I enjoy a fun fact regardless.

Our waiter had to have been a John Lithgow impersonator at one point in his life. He explains that the menu is printed daily, we should split the starters and sides because they're large and that the steaks are 32oz for the smallest cut of steak, 51oz for the largest, which feels like he's telling us "steak is off the menu." For starters we order burrata, risotto, and arugula. For sides we order pureed potatoes, gnocchi and mushrooms. For the main course I order a duo of grilled and torchon foie. The grilled foie I love, the torchon, not so much. The pureed potatoes are so smooth and buttery you can practically drink them, the highlight of the night. Everytime our waiter asks us how we're doing and we say "good" he says "keep up the good work."

Afterwards I walk my parents to the subway and twice have to call and tell them they're not following us and have turned a random corner. At the subway it's late and I don't feel like going back up to Midtown so I say good night and take the train home.

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James Blake lookin ass

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I meet my family on High Street, they walked the Brooklyn Bridge. My brother leads us to our brunch destination. We walk by Wegman’s, which I’ve been telling my mom about, and our route takes us by the entrance. My mom looks at me and asks “can I go in?” and I say “of course, why not?” so she steps inside and says “wow.” I point to the left and say “that’s the grocery store,” point to the right and say “that’s the food court,” she says “it’s massive” and I say “it’s all so good.” My dad walks in and sees steaks near the entrance. He points at them, “they’re all ready to go." An astute observation. I wonder how long our walk to breakfast will be. We continue to walk for about 20 minutes along the east river until my brother reveals we are walking to Sundays in Williamsburg, we still have another 40 minutes to go. My family gets an Uber which can only seat six so I take a Citi bike. I get there before them and I’m starving so I go to a food truck and get a chicken wrap which is much larger than expected so I can only eat half before they arrive. At Sundays, we are seated outside in the miserable heat. J texts and asks how long my family will be here, I tell her Sunday, she says her brother leaves then too so we make plans to go to Rolo’s Sunday night. The breakfast in amazing. Fresh squeezed orange juice, brick oven roasted home fried potatoes, cheddar scrambled eggs, a massive, juicy avocado, and the best part, a maple hazelnut praline pancake.

After brunch we walk to the Marcy J and transfer to the M to see Georgia O’Keefe at the MoMA. I comment that we should get water outside the museum. I ask the man selling hot dogs for four waters. He hands them to me and I hand him a $20. He says “20” and I say “what?” He says “$5 each” and I say “$5 for a fucking bottle of water?” and he says “next?” and someone buys a hot dog. I’m embarrassed to have cursed in front of my family but am mostly mad that a bottle of water costs $5. Inside the museum, I tell the ticket lady I’m a security guard at the Met so I get in for free. We head straight to the O’Keefe’s, but it’s terrible, it’s just an over-hung room of tiny sketches and two or three smallish paintings. I head to the “70’s - Present” exhibition and I’m even more disappointed. There is no art, just wall text manifestos and the most humorless conceptualism, even more didactic than before. The closest thing to a Painting painting is a Walter Price and it’s terrible. And the video art… I have to look away. I go to the sculpture garden, take my shoes and socks off, prop my feet up on a tree and look at the beautiful women. My brother shows me a photo of an enormous stack of hay in the Latin American exhibition. It’s actually good, I like it. My sister wants to go to Zara so I head back to Brooklyn to change into pants and a button down for dinner.

I take the J to Peter Luger’s. We all agree that nothing beats the basics done right, and despite the rough and tumble of the service, the steak does not disappoint. The french fries are fried in beef tallow, my mom notices before anyone even tries them, she just smells it. After dinner my family has a small crisis about which bar they read about on which food blog do we need to go to, and how far? I recommend we just walk down Bedford, but most places can't accomodate seven people. We eventually land on Hole In The Wall, which is the opposite of what the name implies. We listen to Disclosure again for the third time this week and discuss the etymology of “cocktail,” there are a multitude of origin stories.

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My family is at a musical theater so I go to the gym. Afterwards we meet up for dinner at Osteria Accademia. They told us when we made the reservation due to the size of our party everything besides the entree would be prix fixe and wine is bottomless. Everything is fine, nothing exceptional. I drink four glasses of wine and feel a slight buzz. Afterwards, I head to Bossa to meet J and E. I text J2 and invite her, she says she might swing by. Around midnight, I’m the first one to arrive. I tuck into a corner of the dance floor and dance. J shows up and finds me on the dance floor. We go outside to me E and her friend whose name I can’t remember. He gives J a book signed by David Foster Wallace for his birthday. Inside we take shots to celebrate. We see K and N at the bar, go and talk to them. More people whose names I can’t remember show up. K says she’s moving to Paris but she also says she’s been saying that for four years. I say we should take a friend-cation to Paris. I go outside with J and E and another friend whose name I can’t remember. J lights up a cuban cigar and passes it around, it tastes great. E goes to the bathroom and K comes outside but she has a beer so she has to tuck around the corner but J doesn’t want to leave his post for when E returns from the bathroom so I walk with K out of sight from the bouncers. She tells me about kick boxing, how she loves hitting things but is scared of fighting full grown men, and reveals that her and her siblings still physically fight each other even now as full grown adults, which she doesn’t explain and I don’t full comprehend/understand. T and N2 show up and then everyone’s outside. I say I want to dance so E, J and I go into dance then shortly after T and N2 follow. N is already there on the dance floor, everyone is there, it’s great and we’re dancing. At some point E and I step out to get a drink at the bar. She asks when J2 is showing up, I tell her 5-10 mins. She asks about my blog, and says she is shocked by how much I’m willing to write about. I say there is a lot I don’t write about. She quizzes me on which of the two girls I’m dating I like more, J2 or S, but I really can’t say, I like them both equally for different reasons, which is true but is not the answer E is looking for. J2 shows up. She came from a Barbie theme raved so she’s wearing a bright pink Barbie costume. I walk outside to get her, pay cover, then walk back outside to say hello to everyone. Outside, we’re mostly talking to N2, then T shows up and I mention that I want to dance so J2 and I walk back inside. We find a spot and it’s not long before we are “that couple” on the dance floor. She keeps going back and forth on whether she wants to walk home with me or bike back to her place. Her brother is in town and tomorrow will be his last day. She eventually settles on coming back to mine so at 3:30ish we say goodnight to everyone, walk home and fall asleep as the sun rises.

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J2 wakes me up at 11 and says she can stay as late as we want because her brother is going rock climbing with his friends but then she wakes me up 5 minutes later and says she wants to be home before he wakes up at noon so I walk her to a Citibike then head to the gym. Afterwards I put on black sweatpants and a button down and meet her for dinner at While in Kathmandu. I get there before her so I order a bottle of water in a bodgea and find a spot outside where I sit and enjoy the breeze.

She arrives in a short black dress on her bike. She’s not hungry so I eat most of it, but it’s extremely spicy so I’m not able to eat as much as I’d like. Afterwards we bike back to my place and watch Dr. Strangelove before she bikes home to say goodbye to her brother.

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Gym with my trainer. S comes over around 6:30pm. She's wearing all black, midrif with a shawl. I'm wearing an extra large paint stained grey t-shirt and paint stained black basketball shorts, my go-to look. We walk to Arepa Guacoco and order sweet plantains, tostadas with mountains of cheese, she orders an arepa and I order a plate with rice, beans, beef and more sweet plantains. Back to my apartment, she leaves around midnight.

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20 days until my exhibition with D in Oslo opens. After the gym, I head to Eva's where I order a mexican Coke with my usual post-workout meal. Later that day I take the L to Broadway Junction where I transfer to the C and get off at Liberty Ave. I walk in the rain to Quest Diagnostics to get blood drawn for a full panel STD test, as J requested. Instead of checking in at a front desk, there is an iPad, where I enter all my information and am told my appointment doesn't exist. I stand in the open doorway leading to the office in a position where I can be seen by a nurse who stands on the other end of the hallway hiding his head behind a corner, seemingly to pretend he hasn't seen me. Eventually after standing there long enough he acknowledges me and tells me to sign in at the iPad. I explain I've already paid and he grills me from every possibly angle on how I could possibly have messed this up but I have proof of my appointment at this address on my phone so he caves and allows me to step into the open doorway. I walk down a hallway and he passes me off to the doctor. Once I'm seated a new nurse appears and starts grilling me for possible reasons as to why it's my fault that my appointment wasn't in the database. I sit there, smile and nod. I paid $250 to be here. Long live the American healthcare system.

The doctor asks for my arms. "Big guy with small veins" she says. I laugh, caught off guard. "Look at mine" she shows me her arm and points to two large blue veins. "Wow," I say, not sure what she's getting at. It takes what feels like forever for her to draw three massive vials of blood, then I pee in a cup and wait in her office for five minutes before she comes back and says "oh you're still here? you can leave now."

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I don’t have any STDs. That’s the first thing I discover as I wake up and check my phone. J comes over after work, we grill steak and vegetables and pick up where we left off on Dr. Strangelove. In the morning I tell her that she’s a bed hog and she responds by telling me I snore, which I already knew, but I apologize for anyways. It’s 96 degrees outside. She bikes off and I head to the gym. I decide to go to Five Guys after training, and on the way home J invites me to her friend’s rock concert on a roof in Bushwick. I arrive a few minutes before her so I sit and drink a glass of water in the bar with no A/C. She shows up with three slices of pizza for me, sausage and red bell pepper. She pays my cover and we go up on the roof. She introduces me to everyone in the band then we go downstairs to eat the pizza. The band comes down and we chat for a bit, then we head to a smoke shop to buy a Puff Bar. I’ve never bought one before but J wants nicotine and I’m willing to pay the $20 for it just to have an excuse to go on a walk with her, away from everyone else. She tells me how the drummer in the band just got married and his wife’s grandfather was Marvin Eder, a world renowned bodybuilder from the Silver Age of bodybuilding in the 50’s, and that they inherited his house in Sheepshead Bay which Eder had custom fitted with work out equipment like pull up and dip bars built directly into the walls of the property. The band is, as J puts it, “part Fiona Apple, part Led Zeppelin.” They’re all very talented and enthusiastic but it’s hot as hell on the roof and they didn’t promote the show so there are maybe 15-20 people there. We move to the bar after to congratulate and chat with the band, then I bike home and J catches a ride with the married couple back to Park Slope.

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I’m sitting listening to music and I have to admit Bar Italia is a buzz kill, something I’ve always felt inherently, from the first time I heard them. Maybe it’s me, maybe this is why I’m quitting weed. My brain is so hypertuned to extract serotonin from high energy rap and dance music that whenever I play one of their songs it kills my high. I enjoy a lot of the song, so much so that I have to make sure not to accidentally listen to a favorite too early in a good mood because I know it will just dampen the vibe. I don’t know how else to explain it. It’s just downer music.

J texts me around 4 to let me know that the play she invited me to last night seems “sus” but they’re meeting at the Chinatown Fair Family Fun Center afterwards. I message J2 to see what he’s up to. J2’s friend’s band, Something Debris, is doing a show around there, maybe we’ll meet up after. Around 9:30, J texts me that she’s leaving the play. I get ready and miss the J train so I have to wait 10 minutes for the next one. I get there at 10:45. They’re done by the time I arrive but J and I play a few rounds of DDR and I beat her even though she’s on medium and I’m on expert. Growing up, DDR was one of the finer things the suburbs of Tampa, Florida had to offer and if there’s one thing I’m good at it’s DDR, but not as good as I used to be.

Outside the arcade J and her friend whose name I can’t remember tell me that the play sucked because it was misogynistic and sexist. Her friend calls the play and everyone in attendance fascists. The play, directed by their other friend’s ex-girlfriend (supposedly a fascist, and who is still inexplicably a part of his life [supposedly they are going on vacation together next month]) written by Matt Gasda (“definitely a fascist”) is about two female friends, one who is anorexic, and they both want to secretly have sex with each other. J and her friend are excited because the director will be at the bar and they want to tell her why the play was bad and ask her not to invite them to plays that will offend their feminist sensibilities. Her friend is really worked up and talking about how everyone in “Dimes Square” is a fascist and anyone who is apolitical is secretly a fascist. I decide now is not the time to reveal to them that Trump will complete the system of German Idealism.

At Clockwork, no one from the play shows up. We are talking about her friend’s attempts to get laid, there are three different guys she’s currently juggling over text, when some middle aged drunk walks up with a camera and starts talking at us and taking pictures. I’m eventually able to point him in another direction by convincing him to go take pictures of different girls somewhere else in the bar. J’s friend gets a text back from one of the guys and she starts screeching like an animal, everyone in the bar gets quiet. The drunk photographer comes back and I think I hear him ask us if we think any of the women at the bar are being sexually trafficked. I tell him he’s being rude because we’re having a conversation that he interrupted and he can’t just walk up to random women at the bar and start talking to them about sexual trafficking, so I ask him to leave. He says he wants to punch me in the face and throw a bottle at my head and then gets up and walks away while I laugh at him. J2, E and T show up for a moment and we decide to follow them to Alligator Lounge but first we have to wait for J’s friend’s hook up.

At one point J gets up to go to the bathroom and her friend tells me "I don't know how to state my political opinions without being judged" and I ask her "judged for what?" and she says "being a leftist" and I say "it's important to be critical" which excites her, but then I say "it's important to be rigorous" and she changes the subject. J returns from the bathroom. We're still talking about how everyone in Dimes Square is a fascist and I say what I've been thinking all night, that this conversation has been tired for years now, reactionaries want your attention and you're giving it to them, which effectively ends the Dimes Square fascism conversation.

On the way out of the bar the girls decide to tell the bouncer about the drunk photographer. He points us towards the bartender and tells us to report it to him, which I offer to take the lead on but a few moments later J is saying "let's just forget about it." Outside she tells me that he was actually saying "sexually graphic" and they agree that is worse than "sexually trafficked." We meet the guy her friend is hooking up with and I text J2 who tells me Alligator Lounge is a no go, they’re going to sleep. We head to Upstairs but the line for karaoke is too long. The hook up, his name is M, has just returned from seeing Rick Ross and Clipse live. We talk about which songs they play and the reunion of Clipse. J starts talking about food so her friend and the guy get hungry and head to some vegan spot. We sit and finish their beers before biking to J’s, shower and bed.

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I wake up at J’s around 10 and we make plans to go to the grocery store but at 11 I decide to head home to start my day. I sleep from 2-5pm.

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S comes over around 2 and we head to the Brooklyn Botanical Gardens. It’s breezy in the mid 80s, a perfect day. S stops to read the names of every flower and has me read the more exotic, european-sounding names, which I do with silly accents that make her laugh every time. We stop to smell many of them and she’s careful to make sure we haven’t skipped a section, no flower in the garden goes unturned. We find a spot for her to buy a bottle of water and a slice of pizza catches my attention so we sit while I eat and we discuss which trash pizza chain we like more, Pizza Hut, Domino's or Papa John's. S chooses the only wrong answer, which is Papa John's, and I explain Jet's to her, which if you've ever lived in a city that has Jet's, you know that Jet's is the secret fourth correct answer. Afterwards we walk to Cornbread where we order ribs, cat fish, mac and cheese, yams and cornbread. Everything is decent, the cornbread is exceptional and the ribs are below average. We head back to mine before she heads back to Westchester around midnight.

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On the way home from the city around 6pm, a seemingly homeless man says "how are you" as we cross paths and I respond "good morning" with such loud, bold confidence that he responds "good morning" without missing a beat, as if nothing is out of the ordinary.

Pirate with J. Highlights include "Cotton Eyed Joe" mash up with Skepta's remix of the "Wii Shop Channel Theme," as well as Cascada's "Everytime We Touch" mash up with Dizzee Rascal's "I Luv U" instrumental. To close the set out, J's remix of Coldplay's "Yellow" with a vocal performance by your's truly, alternating between yelling "Coldplay" and "Radiohead" at the top of my lungs for 6-7 minutes straight.

Afterwards we sit in Irving Square and I fill J in on all the news that isn't fit to print. The conversation wanders to Triest, the general consensus being that the space should attempt to run more like a gallery, and the idea of R taking over as director. J takes a look at my paintings before they're sent to Oslo and I give him a painting I did that was inspired by a painting he did in the infancy of our friendship.

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I dreamt that I met a girl on a bus, we were in NYC but there were hay fields. We were making eyes then got off at the same stop, walking in the same direction, we struck up a conversation. It was cold so we ended up walking with my arm around her. I was sad when I woke up, the hay fields gone.

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I dreamt that I saw my ex J in a Publix in South Florida. She saw me and shook her head in disgust, tried to walk the other way, but I ran up yelling her name. I said “hey, can’t believe I ran into you! I’m sorry we never got to say goodbye and I’m not sure I’ll ever see you again, can I give you a hug?” Visibly annoyed, she raises her hands, filled with groceries, “sorry, my hands are full” and walks away just as I wake up.

I head to Union Pool to meet whoever might be there. I show up the same time as J, then L and A shortly after. The bouncer doesn’t accept the photo on my phone of my driver’s license. J plots a way to sneak me in the back which I will take no part in, I would rather go home than break the law to get into a Jack Callahan concert. I go to the bathroom in a Chinese restaurant and J goes to the bathroom in Union Pool then we reconvene outside. We sit and chill in the park across the street, I pose for an impromptu iPhone photoshoot and J comments on how I’m bad at remembering names, which is true. I head to a barria food truck and order three tacos. I return to J who has purchased 6 beers. Two of J’s friends come out, I really like them and I want to remember their names but I just can’t, even now still, after spending all night with them, like that part of my brain just doesn’t function as well for some reason and then my anxiety around the situation intensifies it and my ability to remember names feels hidden behind an objective imposition. J is doing a show at their gallery, and they tell me they opened after visiting Triest and thinking "we can do this," which blows my mind and makes me feel like my life has a purpose, like I'm doing something right and good for the world. E and L2 show up and E is turnt from recently viewing Casino Royale, her James Bond enthusiasm newly born and peaking, she describes the movie and its sensations in detail.

At the door, there’s a new bouncer and he doesn’t give a fuck. Inside, I see L2 and T, as well as B off to the side, who I never get a chance to talk to. L2 is and has always been a huge Lizzo advocate, so of course he is saying “Free Lizzo” “Lizzo Did Nothing Wrong” “Je suis Lizzo” etc. but a different music starts in the concert, so he goes to watch and we find a place to sit, it’s Nina Night Baby. L2 and I discuss all-you-can-eat sushi, I am showered in sushi recommendations and we all agree to get sushi together soon. R shows up with a friend. After they get a drink, I talk to R but she says she doesn’t want to talk here in front of so many people and assures me that she is serious about what she is proposing so we make plans to meet next week. Her friend says that I look like their old PE teacher who was a retired olympic athlete. R looks him up on google images, I don’t really see the resemblance but he’s handsome and jacked so I take the compliment. R says that her friend is also into training and that we should train together sometime. I ask how long is she in town and she says only tonight but she’ll be back and she says when she comes back she wants to train.

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S came over with her dog ｡:ﾟ૮ ˶ˆ ﻌ ˆ˶ ა ﾟ:｡
It was so cute!!⌒･:.｡. .｡.:･゜ﾟ･*☆૮ ♡ﻌ♡ა
So much fun! —̳͟͞͞♥ ૮ ○ﻌ ○ ა ━✿✿✿✿✿✿☆゜・。゜・。゜(ﾟｰﾟ('-'*)ゝ。゜・。゜・。☆

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Went to McDoanld’s ヽ(o♡o)/
Ate ~2 double cheeseburger ೕ(•̀ᴗ•́)ﾟ+｡.｡+ﾟ’ﾟ+｡.｡+ﾟ☆
~2 six piece MxNugget™ ೕ(･ㅂ･ )·̇·̣̇̇·̣̣̇·̣̇̇·̇ ••୨୧┈┈┈୨୧•• ·̇·̣̇̇·̣̣̇·̣̇̇·̇ ••୨୧┈┈┈୨୧••
~4 small fry ヾ(〃ﾟーﾟ〃)ノ –,–`–,{@
~1 Oreo® McFlurry™ ॱ॰⋆(˶ॢ‾᷄﹃‾᷅˵ॢ)ӵᵘᵐᵐᵞ ♡♡♡♡⑅ॱ˖•. ·͙̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥̩̩̥͙·̩̩̥͙̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥̩̩͙‧͙ .•˖ॱ⑅♡

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                                                     ✫


                                                      ★
                                                                ✦

                                                                                                                                                                                     ✬
                                                                                                                ✰


✫                                                                                  ★                                               ☆


                                                ✬

                                                              ✦


                                                                                                                                   ✫
                                                                                       ✯



                                                                                       ✰

✧
                                                                                                                                      ✫
                                                                                                            ✫
                             ★

                     
✦

                                                   ✬

                                          ✰


                                                                                                                                                      ✫
                                                                                                           ★                                                                                                                                           ☆


                                                                                                                                               ✬

                                                             ✦



                                                                                                                                                             ✫
                                                                                                                                                    
✯



                                                                                                                                                             ✰

                                                                                                                                                    ✧
                                                                                                  ✫



 

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shouts out e-m-b.x

FREE LIL TAY

saw Barbie,

it's Lit!

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went to the t swift exhibit at the m.a.d. with S

On the way home, heard the news re: lil tay still being alive

Relief Washes over me in an awesome wave..

new nosgov

We['re So Back

mtv93

in studio all day

making sick beats

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Let me tell you about a girl named J. The type of girl to send you a nude everytime she's alone with a mirror, look you dead in the eyes and tell you "I want to be yours" one day, and the next day has you to travel all the way out to her after you've told her your boy J2 is DJing the same time she's trying to hang, has you buy her a drink, sits and talks for an hour just so she can tell you she's not interested in seeing you again.

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only the most exceptional, terrible, or intensely middling art is interesting

if u consider artists that peoplehate i think it's cause they're just B-grade artsits, not bad enough to love, not good enough to hate

Triest is a C- gallery

the coolest kid in school is always a C student

buddha would have been a C student and all of buddhism is about comnig to terms with being a C student

Queuing for lunch... feeling very british

the queue is growing... we got here at the right time

watching the britney spears scene from spring breakers... still so good

I tought S the word "misandry" today and she's obsessed, she said she's so excited to go home and tell all her friends about it #Peak #Rizz

S has been trying to gaslight me into believing zebras are horses. She made me post a poll on my IG and now all my female friends are agreeing with her, yall are this close to turning me into a men's rights activist

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In E's absence, I just wanted to state that she and R bought an entire Lego Rock Band instrument set, along with the game, with no console to play it on. That level of derangement is commendable and I'm impressed.

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S's dad worked in music and it plays a big part in her life, i.e. Taylor Swift, Harry Styles, John Mayer, etc. I’ve been pretty stead fast in insisting that my favorite artist is Phreshboyswag, which is honestly the truth, so I realize I don’t have a favorite artist. I explain to her how every 6 months the trends change and so then does my taste. I realized the other day while taking a piss that I can explain to her the soundcloud canon, so I do, I explain Bladee, Drain Gang, drainers, but insist that I don't listen to any of that anymore because I’m the last of the dying hipsters. This leads to Yung Lean and the Baron Machat phenomena, so she asks if we’ll be going to a Museum of Sad Boys when it comes to M.A.D, which isn’t far off from reality, and I say no because we don’t need bladee, there are now even more potent strains of bladee, and she asks which are the best, and I say Phreshboyswag, but she has seen through the meme and somehow knows that Phreshboyswag didn’t exist, on this level at least, until very recently, so shorty wants to know who my ride or dies are. I introduce her to Nosgov and Spaceghostpurrp and she likes the former but not so much the latter. Maybe if she sticks around she’ll get to know Sickboyrari. (Uzi, Capoxxo, Certified Trapper, [she already knows Sexyy Red because she's on Tik Tok], Dean Blunt/Inga Copeland/Bar Italia, James Ferraro, Hippos In Tanks, Hyperdub, TMT, Lu6ifer, etc.)

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E is in town from Basel so he stops by to pick up his photographs. He tells me he's been on vacation after working a grueling week at an art fair where he also had a book launch that went well. He hosted the event in a park, we reminisce about the sanctity of public spaces, and he tells me about a recent trip to Sunset Park where he stumbled upon what he probably exaggerated as 1000-2000 old chinese ladies doing a choreographed dance class in the park as the sun set. Afterwards I head to the barber. On the way J texts and asks if I'm free to DJ tonight. I say that I'm in the neighborhood and he says he won't be available until 6. It's 4 after my haircut so I walk to ABC 99 Cent Plus and buy a portable phone charger, but the charger comes with the wrong cable, so he sells me a cable and the charger $10 off, "because it's fair," he tells me, which I don't understand but I wish more people would. I go next door to C Town and buy some fancy cane sugar sour gummy worms, which I open and start eating without pause as soon as I walk out the store until half the bag is gone and decide to share the second half with J. At J's my phone is only kept on its last leg by the portable charger and dies shortly after 6, but not before J texts and tells me he's coming home from 8th ave so I ascertain I have enough time to buy weed. I head to Grand and spot a place called Smokers Zone. Inside I ask for a pre-rolled sativa. He hands me a joint that's about half the size of my pinky. I could maybe take two hits off this thing. I ask him for a full size joint. He brings out one that is maybe half an inch longer. The second smallest joint I've ever seen, behind the first one he showed me. I pay $10 and head back to J's. I hop into Williamsburg Pizza and buy a fire ass slice. It hits the spot. My phone is dead so I sit and look at the headrest inside someone's car which has been airbrushed with a portrait of someone's cat in a tropical setting. J shows up and tells me he and E2 will be going to Cuba with his boss's nephew because his boss doesn't want to go anymore. I'm excited for him but J seems apprehensive, something about rules and getting arrested. Inside we eat carrots, hummus and gummy worms and J explains to me how true fascism has never actually been attempted in theory. Finally we get to town on the CDJ. A few hours pass, we take a smoke break then pick up where we left off. At some point later in the evening E2 comes over. She and J make dinner while I continue spinning tunes. I take a break and E2 tells us all over dinner how antisemitic her roommates are, J explains why he will never go to Israel, and somehow we get on the topic of E2’s boobs not being big, and apparently J's penis isn't either. Then we take turns between E2 DJing while J and I heckle her, then J and I take over while E2 takes turns between quietly laughing to herself and inhaling massive clouds of the Puff Bar I have left over from my fling with J2. I head home at 1am and we realize we've been DJing for 7 hours.

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I get on the train in Grand Central for Westchester around noon after an unusually leisurely time getting there, unmarked by your typical travel-day rush and anxiety, until I sit on the Southeast line and my cabin is swarmed by a herd of frat/sorority types, and they're all talking so loud in that voice. Two girls sit down directly next to me and are talking about LSATs and med school and "yeah I was gonna be a doctor but now I'm gunna be a lawyer" and I’m doing everything I can to express my antipathy at them with my body language, face in my palm, squeezing my eyes, deeply sighing, until I can't take it and move towards the front of the cabin and find a spot. But their presence has seemingly infected the entire train, and now I'm behind one, a male with an even worse, dumber voice, who is explaining how Taylor Swift is cancelled because she represents traditional female values but also why Taylor Swift is actually not cancelled because feminism says it's ok to have traditional female values and if you disagree you're cancelled. I look over at the middle aged woman who is also being subjugated to the torture with a face that expresses "are you hearing this?" and she looks back at me with empathy and understanding.

I get up and move to the very front of the train car, where someone has propped the door open so that I can only hear the sound of the train running over the tracks, all the idiocracy has been drowned out, and furthermore I find a spot with leg room directly by a window where I sit and stare and try to fight back tears at how strongly the trees flying by my window give me nostalgia for road trips which feel like lifetimes ago. My phone dies early in the trip so it's just me and the feeling at the bottom of my stomach that life is too short when something as simple as trees flying by my train car can be so beautiful, there must be some way to hold onto this feeling forever, it's not fair that it ever has to end.

I arrive in Plesantville, and S is there to pick me up with her dog Mila. Before I get into the car I walk up to Mila's window which S rolls down and Mila is so excited, she can hardly contain herself, she's showering me in kisses and I love her for it. I get in the car but before we head out I decide to grab a sandwich from Sundace Deli at the train stop, but it's not a sandwich, it's a "wedge," as they call it, which is endearing, and also delicious. We get back in the car and drive to the woods. We pull off onto the side of the road and head into the woods and emerge onto a gravel train. S tells me there is a parking lot you have to pay for but locals always park on the side of the road. I ask if she’s going to murder me, and she says no but Mila might.

Stone Barns were designed and built as a family dairy operation in the 1930s under the direction of John D. Rockefeller, Jr., whose family purchased hundreds of acres in the lower Hudson Valley, and is now home to Blue Hills, a high-end (price fixed at $350-400 a head) farm-to-table restaurant by Dan Barber serving tasting menus in a refurbished barn. There is also a cafeteria where you can make a reservation to spend $50 on a muffin. The grounds are astonishingly beautiful, several moments through out the landscape seem crafted specifically to create picturesque views, crawling with fat white tourists.

Mila drinks from a creek and gets the zoomies. We drive to her mom’s condo (she lives with her mom and her step dad) and drop off Mila but I wait in the car because we both agree this is not the trip to meet her mom. We head to a restaurant that I can’t remember the name of. We both order the pulled pork sandwich, but it’s not very good, we both agree it has way too much BBQ sauce. Afterwards we head down to the Tappan Zee Bridge, and S is impressed that I know that’s what it’s called, as she explains to me that in 2017, a year after I stopped working as a truck driver who was all to familiar with the Tappan Zee, they renamed it the “Mario Cuomo Bridge,” which she tells me is a forbidden name to the locals, no one calls it that and if you call it that they will correct you and tell you that it is actually the Tappan Zee Bridge, and honestly? Tappan Zee is a sick ass name, so I don’t blame them.

We head to the apartment she’s dog sitting at and I meet Winston, who is old as hell and has cancer but we don’t know where the cancer is so we refer to is as “dog cancer.” He seems chill as hell, but S tells me that’s because he’s on dog drugs, but we don’t know what kind, so we call it “dogocet.” The only give that something is wrong is that he walks kind of like a frog with his legs tucked under his butt, but it’s cute as hell so I fucks heavy with Old Man Winston, and he likes me too. We take him for a walk and then head out for dinner, which is frozen yogurt. I get cake batter, cookies and cream, brownies and gummy bears, but it’s mostly a cup of gummy bears. I can’t really remember what we talk about, but I will say that when I talk to S, we have both agreed we feel like we have known each other a lot longer, conversation is very easy and comfortable, we’re both silly and optimistic and so we get a long really well. I’ve probably said this earlier but it’s worth saying again, she is one of the most kind-hearted people I’ve ever met, a very soft sweet soul, and I find myself constantly stopping and checking myself, trying not to be overly cynical or pretentious, less sarcastic, so that I can get on her positive wavelength, which is very forgiving and infectious.

We go to bed around 11pm because I’m exhausted but S gets hyper and tries to keep me up to no avail, I’m out. The next morning we wake around 10am and have sex and fall back asleep, I take a 45 minute nap, but S sleeps until 1pm. I make her a cup of coffee and try to whisper her awake while gently massaging her feet but she’s out cold. I gently shake her and she’s still out, so I shake her harder, and she wakes with a startle. She tries to pull me into bed but I tell her what time it is and she’s shocked and embarrassed. She gets up and drinks her coffee while I eat tortilla chips. In the parking lot S is convinced she can run faster than me, which I try to explain to her is absurd, but she insists on racing me and is sure she can beat me. We race and within moments I’m far ahead of her and she’s asking for the race to be over, but she promises that soon she’ll be faster than me.

Leg day, S was a prodigious high school athlete and did some Orange Theory a few years back plus she was born with a very athletic frame which is the polite way to say she has wide hips and a thin waist so she hits the squat rack like a seasoned professional with perfect form and depth despite it being her first time. Afterwards we head to get greek food at this place called Lefteris. It’s phenomenal, so clean and fresh, some of the best greek I’ve ever had, and I grew up around really good greek food. Afterwards we walk down the street to a home made ice cream parlor, I get a cookies and cream milkshake and S gets a cup of honey lavender ice cream, which is good, but my milkshake is better. We walk down by the water and sit and talk about her dad’s record label and my new tactic of giving absurdly unbelievable excuses to get out of doing things, such as “my girlfriend’s toaster exploded” or “my client’s appendix burst.”

Back home I admit I’m feeling restless and that I wish I had packed some weed, so we decide to walk to Walgreens and buy some beers, but instead decide to buy hard seltzers that aren’t white claw but then they turn out to taste just like white claw, so we sit with Old Man Winston and drink our white claws and S tries to convince me not to leave but I have training tomorrow so I leave around 9pm and I’m sad but the train is express so it’s fast, like a band aid being ripped off, and less nostalgic in the dark.

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pussy from a girl who is kind and emotionally stable

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I spend a single day away from S, she texts me around 3pm the day after I get home from Westchester and tells me to come back which at first I take as a joke but after a moment of culling over realize it’s perfectly doable, so I pack a few extra things on my way to the gym the next day and call a cab to Grand Central where I hop on the Croton Harmon line to Scarborough. She picks me up around 6pm with Mila, and we go to a little lake front park by the train station where we play fetch and I roll around in the grass with Mila. From there we head back to Lefteris, the greek place I went last time, which I’ve been thinking about ever since, and it’s even better this time. It can’t be understated how easy it is to get lost in another person when you have the same sense of humor as them. S notices that we have very few similar interests but I point out that food, working with kids, and dogs are pretty major ones and also that my parents have absolutely zero similar interests whatsoever and they’re the happiest couple I’ve ever seen. I’m a firm believer in the “opposites attract” theory, but pretty early on in the weekend I remark that I’m happy to have found someone who is “as weird as I am,” she agrees while adding that “you’re just a little bit weirder,” which at first bums me out, that I always have to be the weird one, but almost like a curse, the next day S is at her absolute silliest, just a total goofball, so we agree that we are equally weird in different ways.

We exchange “ex” stories. She had been dating the same guy for 7 years, known him for 10. At first he was her roommate and best friend and then, as she put it, he “broke her down,” which is to explain why she was with someone who looks like the columbian Elon Musk, which is generous, and also apparently not a very nice person, but my story is considerably worse, there was some serious psychic damage inflicted, and it’s hard not to laugh at how mean J could be, from calling my mom fat to hoping that I get raped and die from AIDs, she really takes the cake, and I always have to explain that every other long-term girlfriend I’ve had besides her was completely fine and normal. We had also known each other for a long time but not as long (7 years) and I think she may have had BPD which is just complicated, S wishes her light and love and I do too but if she reaches out to you, dear reader, I advise you to proceed with extreme caution.

Our days are consistent, I wake up and drink protein, eat nutrigrain, she pre-orders her Stabucks with milk and sugar, we go to the gym, she walks on the treadmill then joins me in the middle of training to do a little bit of whatever I’m doing before going back to the treadmill. We switch back and forth between caring for Mila and Winston, both sweethearts in the opposite way, Mila bursting with smiles and energy, Winston on his last dying leg, all cuddles and sad puppy dog eyes. She takes me to a diner for lunch and tells me about the school year starting in two weeks. She tells me the story of a co-worker who has a boyfriend that works in Rhode Island and she doesn’t know what she’s going to do, teaching license are by state and once you find your spot in a school you usually stay with it in order to accrue benefits like retirement. She’s sharing a glimpse into what could be a future decision for us to make, and I’m split because on one hand, Westchester is far more beautiful than Florida where my family lives, but my family is much larger and more concentrated in Florida, it would be much easier and more affordable to live there than Westchester.

S was born and raised in the same town, she still sleeps in the same room at her mom’s house at 30, so it’s easy to understand her attachment to knowing everything and everyone around, her friends are here, her favorite pizza, ice cream, and there’s no shortage of homemade ice cream in Westchester. At one point we’re talking about fast food and how Westchester is strict about keeping the majority of businesses local, she comments how she loves the landscape of Westchester and detests the typical suburban highway strip mall aesthetic of the rest of the country, which I take as a direct attack on Florida, and she’s entirely correct, it’s bleak and uninspiring, sometimes even soul sucking, while the air and water and trees in Westchester leave me feeling somehow that my hair and skin is rejuvenated after a week of staying here. Besides the surroundings, it’s just the time spent with S, who is so easy to get along with, inquisitive but never judgmental, an enthusiastic bouncing board for jokes and ideas, her modesty and humility inspire me to take my city cool off and I feel like a younger version of myself. Simple, happy times.

S drives me back into the city on Saturday, her birthday is on Monday so her friends are throwing her a party in Williamsburg. First, we stop to get a wedge, and in the moments between the car to the deli, S runs into 3 former students, an older student that recognizes her, and her best friend’s older sister. It’s a small town so the kindergarten teacher is something of a local celebrity. On the way home S professes her love for Ja Rule’s music and nearly kills us by driving off an overpass, but only once. I head to J2’s and he tells me about Cuba, then I realize I left my USB at home so I take an uber home but the uber makes me sick so I take the subway back. J2 and I go to a deli and get empanadas and alcohol then head back to DJ. Around sunset we decide to take a walk and after seeing the skate park we decide to head back to grab cigars J2 bought in Cuba. We buy more alcohol and sit in the skate park but there are cops looming so we move to a different park and sit and smoke until it gets dark. We head back and decide to do one last hour of DJing for a Nina release, but it starts out terribly, we can’t find a groove between our vibes, and so I take out my frustration by spamming the noise effect, which in turn frustrates J2, but then, through the sheer will of two adult men getting frustrated at each other over a CDJ, we push through, I load up Coldplay’s The Scientist on both decks, J2 loops them a bit while I continue to hone my skills with the noise effect, and the results are surprisingly heartwarming and “recalling Stockhausen” as J2 puts it.

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I wake up and make a preshboyswag beat. I go for a cute little walk to the flower store and buy S flowers for her birthday and then sit on my couch. J texts me and we release the song we made last night. S’s iPhone has every piece of music she’s ever downloaded since she was a teenager, and I remember that I also have a massive archive of all the music I’ve ever downloaded, from my college days of tech house and stoner rock to my high school days of french house, dubstep, indie rock, and even some middle school emo, all stored on an old Google Music account which has been transferred to a Youtube Music account in a private “uploads” section that is practically impossible to locate, but filled with hundreds of thousands of songs, and I hit shuffle and am immediately taken back to 2009, Diplo for Mixmag, and then a UK bassline compilation. I’m struck by the graphic design, the idea of what was cool at the time and now feels cliche, but also cool again. I feel nostalgic for 2009, when culture still felt like it was moving forward, or maybe it just felt that way because I was younger, and the mixing and mastering, like it was urgent for every aspect of every sound to be pressed directly into your ear at maximum volume.

I send my preshboyswag beat to S2 and he digs it so I ask him to send it to preshboy, who follows his twitter. S comes over after getting brunch with her friends and tells me that last night in the uber someone asked what I was up to and she said “making beats for phreshboyswag” and the girl said “I don’t know who that is” and told the uber driver to put phreshboyswag on the bluetooth, so somewhere in Williamsburg last night was an Uber XL full of 30-year-old sorority girls listening to phreshboyswag, whose entire aesthetic happens to be based around 30-year-old basic white girls, so I’m sure he’d be proud. J recommends we go to Superiority Burger for desserts, and on the way there we run into L, who I had already explained to S when, on the day Trump's mugshot came out, L suggested we go see Bill and Hillary's house, which was only 3 minutes away from where we were dog sitting in Westchester, and throw a doggie bag at their door— and yet he is also a professor at Columbia. He recommends we check out Il Posto, exchanges astrology signs with S, and we head our separate ways.

Superiority Burger doesn’t disappoint, I order the boisenbury shake and S gets some sort of pie with a scoop of ice cream on top and everything is exceptional. While in Westchester I introduced S to the concept of “honk shoo mimi” which is a Tik Tok aesthetic based around Ebeneezer Scrooge’s sleeping outfit, the hunch-backed little old man in a night gown with a triangle sleeping cap and a candle stick holder. She’s been obsessed with it, and has dug deeper into the lore to find a Scottish phrase from the 1800’s, “hurkle-durkle,” to lounge in bed long after it’s time to get up. S has committed herself to the honk shoo mimi aesthetic and the hurkle durkle lifestyle, so we search amazon for triangle sleeping caps and commit to finding a review written by someone who earnestly wears them on a nightly basis, not just as a one-off costume, and sure enough, we find someone even better— Tyler, a quirky guy who writes in flowery language about buying the cap for a costume and subsequently deciding to wear it on a nightly basis. Apparently, his wife finds it “adorable.” His review is passionately verbose, so we check his history to find a treasure trove of essay-length reviews about all sorts of bizarre products, the majority about a category of food I didn’t know existed, “edible cheese paper,” and Tyler has put in thousands of words for each and every review on what I assume must be every edible cheese paper on the market.

S drives home and I take the J back to Halsey. On the platform at Essex I see T in the distance, but he's swaying heavily, brown bagging it, I can tell he's heavily intoxicated and that he sees me too but I leave it up to him to walk the length of the platform if he's the social kind of intoxicated, which he doesn't, so we're just two ships crossing in the night. At the Halsey stop it's a little after 10pm and I'm still hungry so I head to Popeyes and order a small cajun fry and two biscuits to eat on the long walk from the subway to my apartment, but when I get home I'm still hungry so I resolve to order a large fry and three biscuits next time. I made a beat the other day which I realized could be stripped back into a bling-era cell phone rap instrumental, which could be perfect for D's Cute Door project I'm ghost-producing for. We already have three or four songs nailed down, and a handful of additional instrumentals that D has been writing for. I lay down some beat boxing and snaps for the drums and strip away all the VOOR-project haunted house synthesizers, leaving only the chiptune melody, drums, and 808s, and send it to D.

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D texts me back, she loves the new beat. I throw on some clothes and throw myself outdoors. Maybe it’s all the dog walking, I don’t feel like sitting inside to start my morning. I hop over to the smoothie shop on the corner and buy a small black coffee for $2, recalling my covid lockdown habit of waking up, making a Kuerig coffee and going for a 45-90 minute walk across the clearwater causeway bridge. Something about forcing yourself to get out into the sun and moving around with a cup of coffee immediately makes me feel like I can do anything and nothing can stop me. Back home on the couch, S texts me a Tik Tok of a man protesting inside a Costco to keep hot dogs $1.50, he’s yelling “enough is enough,” but after diving down the rabit hole of Costco hot dog discourse, we can’t find anything that says the price has changed from $1.50, so we figure maybe he’s just protesting to make sure it stays that way.

On the way to the gym I’m walking the same pace behind three kids— an older, maybe 12-year-old, and two little guys, maybe 7 and 8, and the little guys are kicking each other backpacks and pushing each other into the street. I’m reminded of my two younger brothers, each born 2 years after the other, and how we used to goof around, but we’re not really close anymore, and whose fault is that? Probably mine, they’re still close. But I decide not to think too hard about this before working out, good to keep the vibes uplifting. Mid-work out S2 texts me about my blog, commenting on the positive tone shift since S has become more prominent, and I add that I’m practically down to zero on my journey to cut back on weed, so I can remember more to write about.

After the gym I walk to Fansway Teriyaki Kitchen, the finest dining establishment in Bushwick, and order chicken teriyaki with fried rice, mixed vegetables and what they advertised as “fresh made lemonade” but I realize upon drinking that fresh made doesn’t necessarily mean it’s made from an actual lemon. There is a middle aged couple that can barely speak English, the man is wearing very tight shorts and has a rather prominent butt, much larger than his wife, and I realize this is probably what I look like to the outside world, especially when my laundry is running low. The dining room in Fansway Teriyaki is something of a temporary autonomous zone, in part due to the structure of the restaurant, the kitchen and register heavily partitioned, the staff docile, non-confrontational, so I’ve seen multiple instances of Bushwick locals come in and set up camp in the dining room and, sometimes peacefully, sometimes not, refuse to leave when asked. A guy comes in and sits down without ordering anything, takes out his cell phone and starts watching a video with the volume all the way up— various construction noises, such as blades cutting metal, and hammers, but no dialog. He’s probably waiting for a Seamless order. Another guy comes in, a fat guy with no shirt on, and holds the door open like he’s not fully committed to walking in the restaurant and yells something a few time at the staff that I can’t understand and I don’t think they do either because they just stare back silently before he leaves, unphased.

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trigger warning: sexual assault

I wake up and get a black coffee for $2, the barista is nicer today than yesterday’s barista. I walk around a bit and then head back home, take a small hit from the bong, listen to music, make a smoothie, take a mini-shower in the sink, pack my bag and head to the gym. After the gym I meet S at Chick-fil-a, they just released a new sandwich with pimento cheese, honey, and jalapeños, as well as a new caramel flavored shake. I’m not sure if it’s leg day fatiguing my senses but I’m generally unimpressed, S is more enthused. Afterwards we head to Harry Potter world because S loves Harry Potter and on the way there S teases me for being a hipster, asks if I consider myself an “oppositional” person, if I get a kick out of disliking things that others enjoy, which I try to explain to her, no, I don’t, but she continues teasing so I tell her I don’t appreciate being other-ed and she says she’s sorry. Then she buys these insect shaped chocolate covered pop rocks and tries to tell me it’s good, it’s a candy in Europe, but it’s not good, it’s just chocolate covered pop rocks, and “they call them sweets” I tell her.

Back home we lay in bed and S looks at my bookshelf and pulls out a book, Authoritarian Socialism in America and asks what I thought of it. I open to the page I bookmarked, the bookmark has a drawing on it- something one of my students gave me, “this must have been the book I read in class.” I notice another one, The Road to Serfdom. “S-U-R-F?” she asks. I have to move around some clothes to see the bookshelf, and S asks about them, they’re clothes that don’t fit anymore. She asks me to try them on, mostly shorts that don’t go up over my butt anymore, and she’s delighted. I end up going through my whole closet, trying on all my clothes as she laughs and cheers. At one point I put on my white Sean John T-shirt which says “UNITE” in bedazzled letters, she tells me to try on her white linen parachute pants, and I look like the coolest guy in LA.

An hour of failed attempts to leave the bed pass by, S needs to get home but is having trouble. She shares some of her insecurities about her last relationship and is curious as anyone would be as to what events led to the horrific fights I had in mine. I explain to her how J, from the beginning, based everything around comparison, competition, and jealousy, constantly asking me loaded questions about my past with other women, and if I gave her the wrong answer, I would pay the consequences with her judgement and anger, which knew no limits, and whenever I would refuse to engage and try to end things, she would flip in the other direction and profess total devotion, never accepting responsibility, always alluding to some abstract concept as a scapegoat, the most absurd being that she had “negative spirit energy” which she had gone to a “spiritual healer” to have “removed,” kind of like a new age soft-exorcism, and after paying $250 for someone to wave their hands over her body for 45 minutes, she was ready to date again and things would be different this time. Except they only got worse.

I warn S that there is a strong chance I haven’t heard the last from her, as she’s known for popping back up every 6-8 months, but I’m at the point now where I just delete her messages as they come, they’re filled with so much vitriol, and S tries to encourage me by saying someday I will be able to read them and laugh. But there are things she knows about me that I wish she didn’t because she uses what she knows to say things that are so severe, it can physically hurt me. S is trying to process what I’m saying, she says that she could understand how, for example, if someone was raped and someone were to say something about that, it would be painful to hear, and I say “that’s it” and she asks “you were sexually assaulted” and I say yes and she says “as a child?” and I say “yes” and she says she’s sorry and gives me a hug.

Before I dated J, I had seen a few therapists about it and they all agreed that I was a rare case, fortunate to suffer no apparent signs of trauma from such a traumatic event. I had always held a very "damn that was fucked up but I'm ok" attitude towards it, and was able to talk about it with anybody, even people I didn’t know well, very openly and freely. When I first told J about it, she got mad at me, and asked why I didn’t stop it, why did I let it happen, which was the first time I had received an unempathetic response to my story. When she was mad at me she would tell me that it was only a matter of time until the rapist gets out of prison and that she hopes they will rape me again. I can honestly say the things she said hurt more than the sexual assault ever did, and I held on for years just hoping that she, who claimed to love me, would apologize and show remorse, but S and I agree that forgiveness is a gift you give to yourself, so we send J light and love and S was supposed to leave hours ago but she stays an hour more.

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Reviews for Blog The Movie

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Whenever my phone stops working with the internet I develop Gen X vibes. I'm different. I don't need that shit. I don't need anything. Then I get the internet back on my phone and the rush of the new millennium is surreal 🤖

new favorite music: Classic Selena, 2hollis, DJ Orbital, DJ GYROTTA ZAO
track of the week: Drake and Timbaland - Say Something
current youtube algorithm: montagem, tik tok looksmaxxing playlists, zyzz hardstyle
most hype project: Classic Selena - VVS Lemonade

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Fall Ins and Outs

In
-Lists
-humming songs you can’t remember to your friends for them to identify/using your friends as Shazam
-Threads/micro-platforms
-tik tok poetry
-going retard-o mode

Out
-prestige television
-"X"/all major social networks
-the soundcloudification of the art world/feedback loop content to rip your friends off for $5-10
-city cool

When I open the door for G and C, G doesn’t recognize me, she hasn’t seen me in over a year since the last time she was in NY, and my beard has grown considerably. We chat about C’s apartment in Harlem and how her tenant is a slob, her apartment is infested with roaches. We install and get tacos. C is quiet, G does most of the talking. She tells me about the internal structure of Gallerina, N wants to show young artists, M wants old. They tell me about things they have coming up and we talk about the similarities between Gallerina and Triest, they’re surprised anyone in NY knows what Gallerina is, and I’m surprised anyone knows about Triest at all. J comes over to help cut the wood, then H comes over shortly after. I catch up with H, show him a highlight reel of style column e-girl whisperer tik tok productions, and he tells me about his plan for a new collective of artists, which is essentially just me, him and J + whoever else is down to join us, setting up shop in a bar for a night once a week, pop-up exhibitions/performances, concept based, new concept every week, and we just rock it, we just go ape shit. H sits and talks to G on the phone and J, G and C smoke outside so I join them, listen to J and G talk about fashion, or rather not talk about fashion, J and C realize they both went to RISD, but shared no mutual acquaintance. H comes out and admits he knows no one from London, we talk about food in London, G and C say it’s bad, H say it has gotten better. We talk about fried chicken and H tells a story about a time he was eating fried chicken in the back of an uber in London when the uber driver went on a rant about how fried chicken has ruined the city, teens are getting fat and leaving chicken bones all over the streets, and he’s getting upset about it while H and his friend chow down on greasy crunchy goodness. G and C go home to recover from jet lag, J suggests we go to a party, H wants to find a bar to host our pop-up exhibition collective, and I want to go to J’s to DJ. I seem to be pretty convincing on the DJ front but just as we’re about to leave they decide to go to the party. I decide my best bet is to appeal to H’s desire to find a bar for the pop-up, which will buy me time to convince them to DJ with me. We can’t decide if we want to take the bus to H’s studio to walk around and find a random bar or the L to J’s apartment to go to Alligator Lounge, and so I swoop in on the opportunity and recommend we take the L to J’s apartment, go to Alligator Lounge and then pre-game at his apartment, bringing us one step closer to DJing. They agree and we walk to the subway. While entering the subway H suggests that J should have sex with G and C, which J demurs, to which H starts describing his fantasy where J is in a three-way with both of them and one of them is licking J’s asshole, which both J and I are not enjoying hearing, J asks H how he would feel if he were to talk about G like that, to which H gets quiet and says “that’s not funny.” We decide to play basketball instead of going to the party, and H says we have to play with our shirts off. J tells us about his friend from the midwest who gets drunk and beats up his friends, and I say I too have a friend from the midwest who gets drunk and beats up his friends, which we agree we don’t understand, although we both concur it’s giving closeted homosexual. H asks if people try to fight me because of my size. They do, but I’m pretty good at embodying complete and total pacifism, like a monk, or a saint, and that’s managed to rebuff anything I’ve ever encountered. I admit if anyone were to ever come at me, I would definitely hit the flight, not fight response, but I also recall the night with J2 and her friend at Clockwork where I big bro’d a guy away from our table who threatened to throw a bottle at my head. At Alligator Lounge, H is hesitant, as the bar already feels very aestheticized and is apparently “too crowded,” although it’s practically dead by NY standards, and I’m not sure what kind of white walled deserted bar he’s trying to find in one of the most densely populated cities in the world. Then J tells him that you get a free pizza with every beer, and he does a 180, he’s in love with the bar, he thinks the pizza is so cute and funny, and we laugh about how disgusting the fabric seats in the back are. On the way to J’s, he tells us about Nathan Fielder’s connection to the bar, which I say we should prominently display on our flyers for our events, then H tells us he is going to “tell us something he wants us to do and we have to do it” and of course it’s crypto related. He wants to do some Spiky DJ bullshit, which J seems uninterested in, and I’m completely opposed to. I suggest instead of Spiky DJ, we do Soft DJ, or Anti-spiky DJ, where we cut off all his spikes. On the court, we practice our lay ups and free throws before joining a group of what appear to be mexicans for 5 on 5. We are obviously the three worst players on the court, and the only point we score is by one of our latinx teammates, before one of the opposing team members drives in for a lay up a little too hard on H’s defense, knocking H over and fucking his bad knee up, so we take him to the sidelines and opt out of the game. Back at J’s we ice H’s knee, I give myself a paper towel wipe down, then the night devolves into fraternal humor. Eventually I’m allowed to DJ a few tracks, H is obsessed with Alligator Lounge, and J finds everything melancholic even though it isn’t. We try to go to Williamsburg Pizza right as it’s closing, so we walk to the J-train and everyone goes home.

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Blog Summer

summer of blogs

spring/summer 2023

the end of an era

they had to come for Paul's life to stop his blog (no P)

saw a group of Puerto Rican men smoking cigars on my morning walk

is this blogging?

a niche anomaly of platonic love

across the street the man who sits outdoors takes a break from saying "hello" to passerbys

snoring over his composition book filled with who knows what kind of equations

this is probably more accurately blogging

is it possible, after reading bad poetry on the MTA

to ever write a poem

without it feeling like bad poetry on the MTA?

the SIM card reader on my phone is still broken

waiting on that new iPhone drop

one thing is clear

end of blog summer

what a bummer

this fall

we ball

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Song of the Year

10. Florian Kupfer - bubi
9. Snow Strippers - Fake Smile
8. MC BF - RITMADINHA MAGNÍFICA (DJ JOTA)
7. Nettspend - Take you out
6. Raja Ranks - Higher
5. Nosgov - I thought we would glo but I’m not in the mention
4. Phreshboyswag - that’s a shame
3. Anasthesia - torn (feat. Nosgov)
2. Sexyy Red - SkeeYee
1. LU6IFER - OVERDEW

Album of the Year

10. Cute Door - Revenge EP Remixes
9. Park End - SNKRX013
8. Maz G - 27th Oklahoma to 5th Keefe
7. 4LSP - Price of Yen
6. Raja ranks - Raja Ranks EP
5. VVS Lemonade - Classic Selena
4. Xaviersobased - Bath & Body Works
3. Maz G - Baseline on 25
2. Veeze - Ganger
1. Phreshboyswag - Rock bottom

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