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I work grocery. I get decent pay and benefits. For us, this pandemic has never really hit us because we're still going in for 40 hours a week and who knows what we already had before everything hit the fan.

I had a lingering cold for two weeks in February but didn't think anything of it. Could it have been COVID and we didn't know it? At least three other people in my department had similar. The treadmill keeps going faster and faster - "a cart apart", my dumbass of a governor seeing reusable bags as a culprit, masks, health checks, people with part time gigs going AWOL for unemployment as a chunk of my department has - and for what? To stall the inevitable?

There is no quarentine for us. And all of this is theater for what, to keep some people's agony going further? Maybe it's Kobe or my uncle's recent death anniversary or my grandmother-in-law having dementia or death in general, but is it really that bad?

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I'm writing things. Perhaps you should read them.

It Was A Person On The Internet: April 2020 Camp NaNoWriMo Project Introduction

The year of 1994 was a year of transition for myself, then a boy firmly planted in the awkward state of life better known nowadays as the “Tweens”, growing up in a pair of small towns along the New York/Connecticut border. My Dad finally found someone to settle with, conveniently the daughter of his then-landlord and the sister of his neighbor/best friend while at the same time my Mom had broken up with her boyfriend of several years. Mom’s breakup came for good reason, she was dumped while she spent a month in rehab for a drinking problem. A quarter century later, I can safely say that Dad is still in the same relationship - married in all but legality because why mess with a good thing - and Mom is still sober. On the heels of this, on a cold, snowy Sunday morning, I flew off a sled while on a camping trip with my Boy Scout troop and crashed into a tree stump with a set of gruesome injuries: a broken nose, a chipped orbital bone, a blood clot in my cheek, and as years have passed by I’m sure a traumatic brain injury that was under the radar.

In the missed month of school that followed after surgery to set the nose, fix the orbital, and remove the blood clot, I became a bit of a loner. While I got plenty of attention at school, getting to meet with anyone outside of school was a task given my odd living situation: Mom and Dad swapped me a week at a time, Mom lived on the fringe of one town, Dad in a tiny apartment in the other. I craved attention and companionship the time I was not at school but good luck for me trying to get it. Even my altruistic want to be friends with the token special needs kid in our district, the child of a teacher who had Down Syndrome and also dealt with incontinence, fell flat as my oddly formal proposal got a dismissive “I’ll think about it” by said teacher.

As the year went on, I ended up on the emotional back burner between Dad’s newfound relationship (aided once she relocated from an Atlanta suburb to New York) and Mom’s newfound sober lifestyle which had me spending many a night in assorted dining rooms or church basements reading or doing homework. At one point during this, I realized that a computer might be a great learning aid especially that my own handwriting was a bit of a mess. Getting Mom to bite was a bit problematic, it didn’t help that she spent much of the year on half-pay due to her rehab trip and a later month in an outpatient program, but Dad seemed open to purchasing a computer. Between the lack of friends out of school, my inability to return to Scouting, that the fallout from the accident led the troop to fold, and the general lack of things outside of forty channels of cable television plus some more on antenna, a computer would have the net benefit of getting me to tap into my creativity and my passion to learn.

There wasn’t much else I wanted for Christmas so outside of a couple small things and some books, the computer was THE gift. An old Best Buy ad from Christmas 1994 that has made the rounds details largely what Dad sprung for: A Packard Bell “Multimedia Package” with a 486 processor, a 720MB hard drive, 4MB RAM, 16 bit stereo speakers, a CD-ROM drive, an internal fax modem (at a blazing 2400 kbps), a printer, and $800 worth of software. Total price Dad paid for this setup: $1800, a considerable amount less than the $1999.99 in said Best Buy ad. Everything was gingerly set up while I had been sent to Christmas Eve Mass with my future stepmother and assorted other future family members, Dad having made a stealth exit early in the service to set things up. To say I was enthralled was an understatement. Once the initial joy wore off and 1994 turned into 1995, we spent time testing out the early walled gardens of the Internet - remember Prodigy and early AOL? -  with only one bit of advice from Dad: “don’t look at porn.” An easy request for my tweenage prudish self.

Twenty five years later, I have met countless people on the Internet, in venues going from the system of newsgroups that predated the World Wide Web to message boards to chat rooms to the ever changing world of social media. Some people I’ve met, fallen apart from, and met again, sometimes more than once. Many of these people are near and dear to my heart, be it people I see as the additional family I wish I had or people whose time on the Internet was a springboard to real life. Whether connecting to them came via a pay-by-the-hour ISP on dialup or instantaneously via a phone more powerful than that 1994 setup Dad spent over $3000 in 2020 money on, some of these people have left indelible marks on my life, usually for good but sometimes not. These are thirty, or so, of their stories, told mostly as I remember them with some details and most names changed for good measure. Stay Tuned!

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Well, this stupid state of affairs has me back here so...hi.

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I’m the biggest prude, and I’m out

I have never willingly consumed porn. But I’m a staunch supporter of free speech and truth be told Tumblr’s latest act banning adult content is my final straw with this site. I may not like it, but what Apple is forcing Tumblr to do is a violation of free expression and will hurt them financially.

If you want to find me elsewhere, here's where you can try to reach me.

Twitter

Instagram

Telegram

Snapchat

Facebook

It's been real guys. See you around!!

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Thursday September 20th: Part 1 of 2

[b]Genre: Personal. Very thinly veiled fiction.[/b]

The last time September 20th was on a Thursday, I woke up feeling very optimistic. That morning was to be the first morning of a new job assignment I had taken from a small staffing agency, my first work in nearly three months. Eight months earlier, my wife and I had moved to the northern suburbs of Boston, her home, after she had complained of feelings of homesickness and ennui and she felt she had nothing to lose by going back home. While in theory neither she - or even myself, who had been out of work prior - had nothing to lose, in practice we had everything to lose.

On that morning, I awoke in the guest bedroom of her grandparents house, our residence since we had moved as a means of having some place to stay at the outset. Instead, our lives had become what I would refer to as a “sadistic game of Wack-a-Mole” in which our employment statuses varied - first I had a contract position, then she finally got a relevant job four months after our arrival, then my position expired - and kept us from getting a place of our own. When this job arrived, I was told that it was a “sure thing” by the woman at the hiring agency; that while it was at the outset for only one month, there was “a very, very good chance” that it would become a permanent position and that my new employer, a semiconductor startup, was “a very strong operation that liked [my] background.” Over the ensuing eight months, we had become a bit more cynical, a little more than a bit chubbier, and a lot more worn down from having had little privacy for most of our first year of marriage and we were wanting to get a place of our own. After a shower and breakfast, I packed some snacks and a lunch and made my way out the door, walking down our residential street with signs for the upcoming elections littering our street, a byproduct of sorts of toxic political culture. Amidst the signs before reaching the main road came another form of litter echoing an alarming trend, discarded syringes and needle covers left by those abusing injectable drugs such as heroin. At the main road, I waited for a bus into Boston and upon boarding then weaved through an assortment of working class areas that could be seen by some more exclusionary types as the epitome of the stereotype of the “Townie”: rarely traveled, insular, working class, yet also a bit elitist in terms of town status and their defence of local sports teams. This commute is something I had done too many times to count when I had previously worked and on other days when I had taken a day off to ward off cabin fever and to try to have some semblance of the life we had left prior in a compact, accessible neighborhood of Washington, DC where everything I needed was either within walking distance or accessible by copious amounts of transit. We worked out way into Boston, eventually reaching the notorious highway of Route 1, through the twists of the post-industrial Chelsea before what some called Boston’s “other Green Monster”, the Tobin Bridge. At that time, it was a hunk of vaguely green metal pockmarked with copious amounts of rust where we sat stopped as the morning rush meandered its way through the toll booths to be waved through en route to our eventual arrival. After that point, I went through a similarly meandering journey via subway - Green Line to the historical Park Street, then Red Line to the bustling South Station, then a transfer to a confused mode known as the Silver Line, a mode often derided as a “bus that acts like a train” which would bring me to the front door of the building where I was to work. In my two weeks of waiting for this job, a period which my start date had been postponed twice as I was originally to have started the Thursday prior, I had never made the decision to do a dry run to see how this commute would have worked out and once the bus dropped me off I was a bit in shock at the scale of where I was working. I had known that it was in a relatively isolated of the South Boston Waterfront - or the “Seaport District” in modern marketing lingo - but the mass of the buildings once used as warehouses seemed a bit stunning as I tried to find exactly where to go in the linear maze I had fallen upon.

Having a few minutes to kill before my shift, I made my way to a restroom to give a final check of how I looked to make sure I made an excellent first impression. While the email I had received stated that business casual was the code, I decided to side with a pair of suit pants and a nice sweater I owned with a green and red argyle pattern. This choice was giving deference to the weather that morning, unseasonably cool and a harbinger of the coming autumn set to start officially the next day. I then made it upstairs to find an office full of people mainly in t-shirts and jeans, typical for a technology startup but I always liked being one better as to set a good example. After asking for the woman who was to be my boss, Kathryn, I was given the terse word that she was in a meeting and that I should wait a few minutes. Once she returned, someone spoke with her and then brought her my way. Without given any sort of greeting or salutations, Kathryn went immediately to business.

“Can you put together those three chairs?,” Kathryn said gesturing to three unopened boxes. “I’ll give you 30 minutes to an hour to do so. The sooner you finish these, the better because we need these chairs.” I responded affirmatively but withheld the truth - that I had never put office furniture together in my life and that the job description furnished to me had mentioned nothing of the sort. I will gladly say that I am a team player and will go above and beyond the call of duty, the description had been given had a lot of phone calls, emails, editing correspondence such as press releases, nothing of the sort about light furniture assembly. Not wanting to show weakness or failure, I spent the better part of the next hour trying to put together said chairs and succeeded in doing so. After finishing, Kathryn barked another order at me.

“Can you make some construction paper footballs for the football watch party on Sunday?” I had been told at the outset that the entire office had a Fantasy Football league and that they often had day-long watch parties during the NFL season. This Sunday made things convenient as the Patriots were playing in the night game, viewed nationwide and one of a handful of games each week seen all around the world. As with furniture assembly, arts and crafts was never one of my strong points yet once again I did what I needed to do even if it was well outside my job description. While doing my best to get these assembled, both via creation and by writing the names of employees and other guests on them, I started to feel some doubts about the job as twice they had given me duties well beyond what I had prepared myself for; in fact, in assembling the furniture I had started to sweat as I obviously had not dressed for such a task. When done, Kathryn directed me to a computer and left a copy of their corporate compliance handbook with some notes attached.

“We’ve had to update our policy on bringing dogs into the office. Can you edit this in? Here’s your login,” she said while also giving me a piece of paper with a username - my name, last name heavily mangled - and temporary password. After helping myself to some complimentary pretzels and a soda, a hallmark of a startup leaving free food and drink for their employees, I tried to log in only to find the username the had created for me did not work and after multiple tries brought the matter to Kathryn who claimed that she would have it sorted out during my lunch later that day. Logging me into a guest account, I made all the edits that I had been given as well as doing some general copy editing as there were some typographical and grammatical errors lingering in the bowels of that handbook. At around 12:30, two-and-a-half hours into a six-and-a-half hour shift, I was given a request.

“Can you go to lunch?,” Kathryn asked.

“It’s a little early to take my lunch, I was going to hold off until I was completely done working on this,” I responded, knowing that I liked to take my lunch closer to the mid-point of my shift to break up the day easier.

“I really want you to take it now,” Kathryn fired back.

“Okay. I brought a lunch in with me which I put in the fridge. Let me just go get it since I don’t need anything else,” I continued.

“I really need you to leave for lunch. There’s an Au Bon Pain two buildings over. I’m sure you can get there, eat, and get back in a half hour. Your work can wait,” Kathryn insisted.

Under protest, I relented and took the walk over to Au Bon Pain, a bakery cafe with the typical assortment of salads, sandwiches, baked goods, and the like. While walking, I realized that “two buildings over” was a good five minute walk given the massive scale of each building and upon arriving I discovered that this literally was the only viable lunch spot for a pretty large community of workers as there were no other establishments open at that time. Not being a fan of salad and not wanting to hold up the line, I ended up deciding on a container of lobster macaroni and cheese from a small self-serve bar and a baguette as it was the easiest option to get, eat, and run back. This lunch set me back about $10, not much to the established people there but for someone who had not worked in three months was a relatively large sum as by that point I was not even getting unemployment due to a conflict that surfaced right before taking this job. As I ate, I wondered if my being forced out of the office had a ulterior motive to it such as ending the assignment; a prior non-temporary job I had did this to set up a meeting to let me go due to having less resources to support my position than originally thought. “Surely a job would not let someone go after only two hours,” I thought as I finished my lunch and made a mad dash back to to the office. Upon returning, I found a slip of paper with my fixed username and a temporary password. Once again, it did not work and once again Kathryn put me back on a guest account to finish editing the handbook then to add some more names to a mailing list they maintained. By 2:30 that afternoon, I had exhausted all of the work I was given only to find that she was in a meeting and the only advice given to me was to “wait for her”. For the next half hour, I sat and waited while trying to not play with my charging phone, my fear being that had I done so it would be used as just cause to end the assignment. Upon Kathryn’s return, she came with news.

“I think they fixed your username,” she said. Once again, I tried only to find that the username in the system still did not exist. After a couple of minutes, she ended up relenting.

“You can go home now if you want,” she offered. “We really don’t have anything else left here and we can just start fresh on Monday.” Going into this, both she and the agency knew that I had a standing commitment that required I not work on the 21st - we had plans to go to Vermont for our first anniversary.

“Are you sure I’ll be here on Monday,” I asked.

“Yes. As much as today seemed rocky we really will need the help starting next week,” Kathryn concluded. I went to get most of my stuff but I felt confident to leave my lunch - a package of frozen pizza bites - in the freezer for the weekend. After that, I went to catch a bus home, about an hour later reaching my front door before the afternoon rush intensified. As optimistic as my departure that day was, I couldn’t seem to shake the feeling that something might be slightly awry given what had transpired. While packing my clothes for the imminent vacation, I wondered what would happen when the agency inevitably called to see how my first day was and mulled giving them a preemptive all to get it over and done with.

Little did I know what was set to transpire.

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I wish I could do it.

Once upon a time, an aunt of mine made some very poor life choices and after a bunch of demons were released after the death of her own mom found no way out of anything. Her solution: Grind up 200 aspirin in a food processor, mix it with it water, and end it all.

A bunch of years after that, my next door neighbor growing up who later became a step-uncle was dealing with grief stemming from his Mom’s death and having to deal with her estate, a thing he was not prepared for. The stress from this spilled over to his marriage and when he found out his wife was having an affair on him he realized he had only one solution: A hunting rifle to his temple.

Some more years after that, a friend from college found out that the basket of issues stemming from his Chron’s Disease would potentially leave him wheelchair bound and in need of constant care, a total 180 degree turn from the active man he was. What was the solution to possibly needing a chair that cost as much as his car: Jump 200 feet onto a busy interstate.

All three are well remembered in death and to be frank get the better end of the deal. They get to spend the rest of their days in Heaven, a place with no hunger, no homelessness, no poverty, no hate, no money, no racism, no debt, and no Republicans. A place far better than what the Earth, especially the United States, has become.

Why do I bother to stay alive? I’m not suicidal but Kate Spade and Anthony Bourdain are making me think about why I should bother living 40-50 more years when I’ll be seen as old and useless when all that is separating me from greatness is grinding up some Aleve, jumping off a bridge, or putting a gun to my head. I can already imagine the last one, God pushing me away from my pain as the bullet enters my skull. Nobody else would feel my misery, trust me.

If I died, nobody and everyone would care.

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Send me some curious anons or just some asks about anything

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Reblog if you are ashamed of the Boston Bruins and/or San Jose Sharks

This season was a waste and all their players should bow their heads in shame.

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Elder abuse is AOK. There is an old man on Pennsylvania Ave in DC who deserves it. A lot of old people there actually.

Can we talk about elder abuse? I don’t think enough people talk about how unfortunately easy it is for really evil people to brutally torture elderly people and pass it off as delirium or dementia related self harm and how easy it is to blow it off and gaslight victims of elder abuse. I hate how elderly people are hardly considered people especially if they’re disabled. There are nursing homes that won’t even evacuate patients during disasters.

Edit: Also I want to point out that if there is a lot of evidence of self harm and it happens regularly it is still abuse because allowing it to get that bad is neglect.

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I want to be the male Stormy Daniels (VERY NSFW)

How do I get to have a secret gay relationship with the "President" so I can blackmail him into making sound policy decisions and into paying me money? Most white Republican men in DC are closeted gays for the record.

I am heterosexual but I look at that pouty, prissy, tiny mouth and want to ram my tongue down it, biting those lips until they bleed. I want a certain piece of my body in said mouth as I hit his head like a bongo and pinch his fat neck.

I look at those tiny hands and I want them in my mouth, my teeth gnawing on them for my own satisfaction. Maybe get some razor blades in my mouth too for when he does some really fucked up stuff. You want to deport Dreamers? How about I suck your blood first.

I look at his crotch and would kill to see his man pussy. I'd love to grab it and bite it and do other things to jt. It's only fair, we've seen Melania's, we should see his. That pole would be mine, not that Slovenian slut's.

I imagine pegging him from behind and yelling "MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN!!!" as I bite and scratch his back and hit him with magazines with his face on the cover. I imagine thrashing him around like a 6'3" 239 rag doll. The tertiary leader of the Free World behind Merkel and Trudeau reduced to a submissive cuck.

I'd roll tape and use it as REAL blackmail, not like fake kompromat like his butt buddy Vlad. And unlike the pee tape in Moscow I would go public with it, giving it to all media outlets worldwide. And it would save America and I would become a patriot and a rich man for killing the GOP. The GOP base would be figuratively dead once their saviour, whom they already sold out their "morals" for, was seen in video being fucked by a guy.

How do I at least turn this into a porno script?

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who here was on tumblr 4+ years ago

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Another Late Show music clip for you to enjoy as audio only! :D

Here comes Charlie Oh no! He’s gettin’ naked Open robe! He’s a creep!

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It’s payback for Philly exporting Eli Apple to the Giants. @baby-schenn10, one of the few Flyers/Giants fans on record, knows what I speak of.

the circle of life (aka hockey)

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The Sabres kept those asinine front numbers and the dark shade. Fail.

HQ version of all the new jerseys

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My job has no loyalty yet won't let me leave my department. Do I dare quit?