#Do NOT like when people insult or gossip or talk about how crazy homeless people are

[downfallofi]

Im all partied out after the last two days 🙃

[beebzly]

I’ve been sitting on these head cannons for a while, not really sure why. Some of them are more thought out than others, guess that’s why I haven’t felt ready to publish them, but I don’t think I’ll ever find the time to fine tune them so I’m just going to throw them out here.

These are “scandal” head cannons for if the Gorillaz were real people, except for the first one about 2D, which is just a nice thought imo lol.

Anyway, here they are.

-2D got into producing during the bands hiatus between getting back from his not-so deserted island experience and Humanz. He’s now a very sought after indie music producer. Won an independent Grammy in 2019 for producer of the year. He loves to do it because it gives him a sense of purpose outside of Gorillaz and helping out up and coming music acts is extremely fulfilling to him. He also loves to collaborate outside of Gorillaz. Bands will seek out his unique vocals for back up singing and occasional covers of other songs.

-2D has embarrassing memory lapses brought on my his head trauma and pill abuse that gossip rags always love to print about. He’s been known to be found peeing on the sides of buildings, ragging on and insulting strangers on the streets or crashing other people’s weddings or parties. He often comes to and can’t remember how or why he ended up there.

-Murdoc has had several write ups over the years for being an abusive boyfriend. He keeps luring women and the occasional man around only to get belligerent with them and start loud, over the top fights that draw crowds. The Daily Mail publishes every piece sent in about him, regardless of if it’s true. Occasionally the stories have a leg to stand on but mostly it’s conjecture from “anonymous sources”. In these times, 2D will always stand up for him, prompting the DM to start the rumors that he has Stockholm Syndrome, a rumor that has the power to send 2D into tirades. Occasionally he’ll be so high out of mind that he’ll go off on nonsense tangents about Murdoc and how these people are just after attention cause he’s famous and that the abuse he’s endured was never “that bad” even though there’s interviews and evidence pointing to the opposite.

-Speaking of The Daily Mail, the love to constantly speculate over the status of 2D and Murdoc’s relationship. Over the passed 20or so years, they’ve been the only publication to run actual compromising pictures of them together

-Noodle has a reputation for getting shit faced out at club and god forbid she’s out with Murdoc. They enable each other to drink more and more. Noodle gets Like embarrassingly falling over drunk and saying wild ass shit. Most of the time though she’s caught shouting in Japanese at paps and autograph seekers. It’s gotten so bad in more recent years that Noodle is starting receive bans from a few of the same nightclubs Murdoc already can’t get into.

-Russel had a reputation in the early 2000s for being caught talking to himself. It became a crazy obsession in the media for a few years, who was going to catch Russel staring at walls muttering to himself and also causing a lot of speculation as to the nature of his relationship with Del while he was alive. Occasionally those times would devolve into him looking spun out an homeless especially after Dels exorcism. He would still chatter like he was there but really he’d just gone mad. Took an extended break as a posh recovery center after the events of plastic beach, his captive stay in North Korea triggered his muttering again.

-Russel is a secret hacker, but for Robin Hood do goodings. Likes to hack into databases to wipe people’s debts or give kids lunch money for school. Almost got caught once leaving a campus getting recognized but managed to bribe the student with an autograph.

-Russ has also been caught buying black market, endangered animals for his Frankenstein-taxidermy. Getting deeper into his hobby, he wanted make the ultimate endangered animal. He claims he didn’t see anything wrong with him, since he was technically preserving the animals and they were already dead when he bought them.

-To that point, his room smells awful. Like fermeldahide and death. Also Murdoc likes to take dips of said fermeldahide to make whet joints to take on adventures. Which usually end up in him tripping his balls off.

-Noodle has mpd. She has triggers for her alters that over the years she’s able to keep controlled but in her teens especially she’d get caught out in public claiming to be someone else and dressing the part. Her alters stem from the abuse she endured as a child soldier. It’s a tactic used to make her a better assassin so her main Noodle personality won’t be able to recall the pain and horror she’s inflicted on people.

-Noodle likes to commit petty crimes for fun, and has been caught on camera several timesSometimes Murdoc will join her, but when they do, the crimes usually escalate beyond petty. The most fun they’ve had together is hot wiring random cars and taking them for joy rides. They always try to return them but usually forget where they came from.

-Murdoc still gets the itch to commit arson from time to time and usually finds old abandoned homes or factories to light up. He’s been arrested for a few but there’s never enough evidence to nail him for the crimes, he’s gotten too good at it.

-Murdoc has several off shore bank accounts and shell corporations. They’ve been talked about in the press marginally but no one really knows what they’re for or where he gets all that money or what he needs it for. “And you never will,” he says, no doubt.

[violetsystems]

#personal

It’s been getting hard to keep track of all the misfortune lately on a microscopic level.  This isn’t to say there’s some miniature secret world plotting against me or something.  Maybe it is really the muons at work.  Maybe it’s just people being collectively disrespectful.  If anything is for sure, people out here in America act in groups more often than not.  In Chicago, it’s easier to paint the picture because of a little known characteristic of my city called “corruption.”  You are made to think you are the problem.  That you aren’t following the rules.  These rules aren’t things you can actually follow like tax law or anything.  If anything my taxes this year extended my time to wait all of this out.  But I’ve been waiting all this out for over two decades essentially.  I was reminded of this yesterday shopping downtown when I wandered past my ex girlfriend.  I haven’t spoken to this person for years.  Never would speak to this person.  I’ve run into my car in the neighborhood when I’m on the wrong side of it.  The car I gave up to walk away and never look back over a decade ago.  I’ve been suggested her as a connection on LinkedIn more than once.  Sometimes through an email at 4:20 in the morning from the service.  For whatever reason the Earth’s magnetic poles lead sharks like me around the city with no plan, I sure run into a lot of people.  This is while spending about 11 months completely alone aside from run ins with goods and services.  I occasionally nod to my neighbors.  The landlord installed a new lock on the front gate which is left unlocked most of the time.  I had a package stolen again a couple of weeks ago.  We didn’t talk about it.  It just seems coincidental that now we have a lock.  It’s not the first time I’ve had my packages disappear.  It’s not the first time for anything in this city.  And again it’s not the first time I’ve seen my ex in passing scowling back at me.  She wasn’t wearing a mask.  Thankfully I was.  I’ve given up trying to explain this to anybody but the internet.  And even in that, this site is theoretically dead to most people in mainstream society much like me.  Gaslighting is tied to a myriad of behaviors that people use to exert control.  Think of all the shitty men out there who neg women to groom, shape and mold them into liking them.  Think of this done in collective way.  Like a mob.  Or a commune.  Whatever you call it, it’s not something you can actively fight against yourself.  Sure I have this online outlet.  But most of us get at this point that I’m not looking to connect with mainstream society after being exiled from it like it was a cult.  Typical cult behavior is to alienate and isolate the victim.  Kind of like the army.  You break down someone’s resolve to the point where they have no choice to give up and accept the way.  That this is your home.  This is your path.  This is your destiny.  That this is all you are worth.  That you are being unreasonable thinking there’s anything wrong.  That you should just give up and assimilate to the group.  Except in my case, there’s no option or way forward.  If my self confidence were lower or my bank account far less liquid I’d be on the ropes by now.  And yet things just keep getting worse when it comes to what this city projects at me.  It’s completely full of shit and not even remotely concerned in hiding it.  I could never prove any of this behavior towards me is organized.  So I don’t.  I don’t waste my time other than writing it out on the internet to show I’m not crazy.  But the city is against me at every step outside my locked gate.  Inside my rent is paid and I have a silent agreement at best.  At least I can be trusted to keep a secret.

Trust is something that can’t be recovered with mere words.  I’ve known for awhile I’ve been held to a completely different standard.  It’s hard to quantify.  As much as I’d like to think this is a dead site, I know those very same people stalk every word I say.  It’s a fucked up situation that just keeps getting deeper into a hole no one can crawl out of.  I’ve spent my time being vague and cautious.  I’ve focused more on my fiscal health through this which is better than it has ever been.  Sans identity theft ever few weeks.  This is a reality that I live that has gone way beyond a line of normalcy.  I’m supposed to just sit here mothballed, exiled and benched.  I’m supposed to sit here and take it while people watch on some scary collective level.  I’m not too paranoid about anything.  Honestly I’m the least paranoid I’ve ever been.  I’m just simply bored with the inefficiency of it all.  You really want to sit here and tell me that it’s my fault.  That it’s about me “getting out there” and getting “out of my comfort zone” when I spent years travelling by myself to Asia, New York and as far as New Zealand.  These are journeys I’ve written about at the level of a fifth grade writing teacher.  And still nobody can bother to accept that I’ve been around the block more than once.  It’s as if I don’t matter unless I reach out to someone.  Which I have for years on this platform.  I’m comfortable with that.  To be this invisible after all the shit I talk is a mindfuck.  I wonder why I even talk shit at all anymore.  I wonder why I don’t just wall myself up in my apartment and never see the light of day.  I wonder a lot of things.  I wonder how deep this pain will get over time.  I wonder why people think this is completely normal to put a person through what I’ve been through.  What does this prove exactly?  To me it proves that I am worth it.  And self confidence in this situation is the biggest mother fucker there is.  Because everyone would rather resort to chipping away at your defenses than getting to know who you really are.  I’d be more bothered if I cared about it.  But we are in the middle of a crisis.  I have been quarantined and isolated from everything alone.  I have been followed, gossiped about, threatened, and intimidated most every day of the week for over a year.  I don’t really care.  I have reached a limit in which I constantly feel like telling the world to fuck off.  I have spent years rattling away paragraphs that are harvested by some future algorithm to mine for some tortured sitcom version of Tenet.  What the fuck is really going on here?  I couldn’t ever tell you.  None of how this has played out for me makes any bit of sense.  I have nowhere to go.  I have nothing to do.  I have skills that are invisible.  I have a professional network that pretends I’m not alive.  I get winks and secret stares like I’m not in on some joke.  That I’m outside whatever privileged simulation the rest of this city enjoys.  I’ve given up trying to explain it.  I never want to explain it.  I never want to look back at all these sorry ass glances.  I live in a city that plays by its own lawless rules and expects you to bow down and kiss it’s scrubby ass feet.  While walking back to the train the other day I took the long way under the metra tracks.  There’s a ton of homeless people living in tents.  I walked past and an arm stuck out from one with a needle in the other hand.  This tattooed motherfucker literally just shot up in front of me.  Like it was some sick expression of freedom.  This country is fucked up.  This city is even worse.  And people think like I’m living some charmed, bargain basement life.  Like it’s cool to be poor.  Like it’s divine to suffer and struggle so that the rest of these people can pretend it never happened.  This is real life in Chicago.  Home of the free and land of the gaslighted.

I don’t know what to say or do anymore.  I know this is some sort of epilogue.  That it really doesn’t matter.  I’m going to spend an entire summer alone again.  Just to prove a point.  Then come September I’m going to have to make the decision to leave.  There are no answers.  No opportunities.  Nobody who wants to see this all happen to me and point a finger back at society.  I’m not tortured enough.  I’m not part of some community other than a dead website people make fun of.  I don’t have a fucking future here.  I get scammed.  I get conned.  I get catfished looking for jobs.  I get sidelined.  I get benched.  I get picked over.  And I get it.  If we really look at the way the entertainment industry and the media work everyone pays attention to two week cycles.  In the last two weeks, people have copied every single idea and claimed it their own.  Just like the two weeks before that.  People make it all about them and forget what inspired them.  And people move on to the next thing to consume.  They have no focus.  They churn around trying to be like everyone else and become more the same.  I’ve been a musician.  I’ve been a rapper.  I’ve been host.  I’ve been a commentator.  I’ve been a writer.  I’ve been a lot of things.  And I’m still completely invisible except even more so.  It’s like a joke to some people.  They get off on cucking me in front of my face.  Like they’re so much better at expressing their freedom than me.  These people are toxic and inefficient as fuck.  You can’t express freedom in one breath at the expense of somebody else’s.  You cannot do that in an organized mob like fashion on the internet.  If you do, the DOJ will find you.  And you will need a fucking lawyer.  And this is what I tell myself when I get really mad.  That I will have the last laugh.  That I will be able to wait it out.  That things will have changed after July 4th when the city reopens.  We can all laugh and dance the pain away.  We can all conveniently ignore the shady bullshit that I experienced up front and center.  This is a dangerous reality.  That after July it will be a year since I was let go.  A year of being invisible taking care of my own shit.  A year of me telling you I told you so only to be gossiped behind my back like I’m crazy.  I’m ok with walking away from all this shit and starting over.  I already did that.  It’s a fucking insult I live every day people thinking they know everything about me and never even asking my fucking name.  And yet I don’t really care.  It’s not worth my fucking time to care anymore.  I don’t exactly know the way forward.  I’m trapped in a situation that would make normal people’s eyes bleed.  I write here out of frustration knowing full well it’s not something I control.  I can’t do anything about this.  So I figure out ways to pass the time like I’m in some sort of jail.  Does it matter?  On a small level yes.  I do understand that there are people out there that care about me equally as much.  This is why I stay down here.  A joke.  Anonymous proof that everyone is pretty much full of shit when they talk about me behind my back.  And yet it gets worse.  Who did I piss off?  I don’t mind that I did.  I’m kind of proud actually.  Because if I pissed you off being me it means I got under your skin.  It means ultimately I’m better than you can ever be.  And you’ll tear your own skin off trying to live in the shadow of mine.  Nobody can ever be me.  Nobody can ever copy my shit and be authentic.  This is what we need to focus on.  Authenticity.  For all the shit people talk about me, I don’t need to say a word.  You can make fun of me in front of your coworkers or friends at the bar.  Somebody will always be in the shadows listening to your bullshit.  And your bullshit is so obvious these days.  I have no choice but to wait it out and watch you eat the shit you’ve been shoveling for decades.  How I’m going to do that should be obvious by now.  Nothing has changed.  Everything else is a secret.  <3 Tim

[nihilisticism]

sábado gigante

Sometimes I think it’s hard to look at the women on TV in the bright orange bikinis with the dark brown beads spinning wild like suns out of orbit. There’s something about Univisión, I don’t know, everything on the channel is very saturated – the colors, the bad acting, the dirty jokes.

Corona in hand, smelling of wet paint, Pipo is singing along to the rhythm of clanging dishes being washed in the kitchen.

My grandmother’s voice cuts through the cover of a song I am hearing for the first time.

“Estás mirando las mujeres esas bailando en cueras con las tetas afuera? Take that shit off. You’re going to turn her into a slut or, worse, a lesbian.”

 “En esta casa, we don’t say that word.”

“Do what you want. I’m not watching you ruin another girl.”

I can’t imagine my grandfather ruining any girl, but he doesn’t have anything else to say. Mima storms out and I follow her out to the marble steps I grew up on, watching her breathe smoke into the humid night. I can smell the tar build up in both of our lungs, but I like it, somehow. I’m pretty sure the only time Mima isn’t talking was when she had a cigarette in her mouth.

 “Don’t ever pick up a cigar,” she says, flicking the ash off the end of her cigarette. “It’s the beginning of the end. You’re turning ten in a month, right? I started smoking when I was just a little older than you are, and I’ve been dying ever since.”

I watch as the smoke swirls off like a dragon in the distance, and I listen for years.

  “But things were different,” she says, and I am twelve. “I started working when I was younger than you, had a family to support. I’ve never not been anxious. You watch out for that. It’s swirling in your blood, mi princesa. And the moment you give in to it, it’s over.”

I don’t like the idea of anything swirling in my blood. I shudder.

  “You’re telling me you’ve never thought a single boy in your class is cute? No te creo. But, I guess, you’ll have time to fall in love.”

Mami said not to tell her about how Rocío stayed the night last week, and especially not that she stayed in my bed. I don’t tell anyone that the first dream I had when I turned fifteen was about the curve of her legs against mine.

  “You’re better off without him,” she said when I broke up with my boyfriend. I never told her why. She’s traded her cigarette for a doctor’s note, threatening her with another hospitalization if she keeps smoking. “You’ll find a better man in college, one who deserves you, you’ll see.”

  My phone lights up in my hand, buzzes.

“Who’s that?”

“Una amiga.” I turn off the screen before she notices the kiss emojis that trail after a pretty stranger’s name.

Something aches inside me, something I have only recently been able to name. Phantom pains of an aunt I will never know, forgotten on the island my family fled, a curse of that ruined woman whispered behind my back for years, la mujer esa con la novia, don’t talk about her in front of la nena, are you crazy? There are enough lesbians in this family.

Without ever knowing her, without ever knowing of her, I wonder if she is happy.

  Right on schedule, la vieja de la calle passes by. We hear her before we see her, screaming profanity in English in the middle of the sideroad that separates our yard from the public park. She is a fact of life, and my grandmother, as she does with all facts of life, pulls me aside and starts gossiping about her under her breath.

              “Pobrecita, la loca esa, do you think she’s homeless? She’s too clean to be but still, here she is, screaming at the people on the street como si fuera nada.”

Though there is no way for the woman to know I am here, almost a half-block away, she seems to turn to me. Her eyes lock with mine and see nothing. “I can smell the lesbian on you,” she says. “It reeks like a fucking disease.”

              And my grandmother is screaming, screaming in a language the woman cannot understand, “Lesbian? Lesbian? No one calls mi princesa a lesbian, who do you think you are?” And I try to think it’s sweet, I really do, but it is easier to laugh at a stranger’s mechanical recitation of homophobic rhetoric than to think about how the worst insult imaginable to my grandmother is the idea that I may not marry a man.

“Go inside, mi amor. Let me handle this.”