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Bloganuary writing prompt: List five things you do for fun.

Sure, why not!? I did say I’ll look into more prompts.

Video Games

Video games span across so many genres, so it’s not hard to find something you like (unless you just hate fun). Despite capital-G Gamers trying to ruin it for everyone else, I still enjoy this medium! Stories unfold at your fingertips, and it’s a great feeling to clear a difficult puzzle.

My favorite types are Role-Playing Games, Platformers, Rhythm Games, and Cozy Live Simulators.

And Pokemon.

Runner Up: watching other people play them, especially if they’re more skilled than me. And especially if they’re speedrunning; I love watching them exploit glitches if they’re not just outright Really Damn Good At It! I like hearing their opinions, whether its about the game itself or what’s going on in their lives.

Fanfiction

Honestly, writing in general (especially journaling and poetry). But when I think of fun I think of fanfiction.

I love looking at something and going What If? And I love putting a different spin on things. Remember when the Internet was (and probably still is) obsessed with turning everything into some Grittier, Edgier, Darker (GRIMDARK) version of itself? I tend to steer the opposite of that (though I admit, I can get angsty). I also follow the ol’ adage: If you want something done, do it yourself.

Let Tietra live! Turn The Joker into a coffeehouse owner that makes lattes! Have the silent protagonist actually speak and be snarky about it! Do not close that love triangle and have a happy and healthy non-monogamous relationship!

Reading

Reading is a legitimate hobby. It takes hours of your time and it costs you money. The eReader I purchased last year was an excellent investment, and a lot easier on my wrists– I can pour through some serious door-stoppers.

Thanks to Octavia Butler in ASIMOV magazine in my formulative years, I go for the science fiction first. But one of my resolutions this year is to expand into other types of books: more poetry, nonfiction of topics I’m interested in, and autobiographies of my favorite people. Oh, and looking into those things called COMIC BOOKS. Regardless, getting comfortable with a world or person to explore is absolutely exciting.

Be Annoying

I pester.

I pester.

I pester.

I pester.

I pester.

Did I mention that I pester? I get it from my dad. He would do some stupid thing and then chuckle at my expense. And now, I’m going to do that to you! I come from a family of dry humor and bizarre in-jokes. Think Eric Andre without none of the wit, and all of the befuddlement.

A serious spin on this would be being silly and humor. I joke so I don’t cry. I use the absurd to point out the weirdness of life. And on a good day, I could even employ satire correctly!

Nothing

You read that right.

Probably the most favorite thing to do in the world is NOTHING. Nada. Zip. Zero. Blame laziness if you want (and I will certainly own that; Capitalism hates it when we share, and hates it more when we’re being lazy by its metric). But I see it as a moment of rest. I see it as a moment to just stop, take in the scenery. I feel like the older you get, the less schedule gaps you have (until you retire, at least), so I revel in the pure bliss of not being busy.

Sometimes, I simply do nothing. And it’s marvelous.

Especially if I can get a nap in.

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When you’re a kid, dancing fell between two categories: stuff you tried to emulate from music videos and friends, or dances you learned at school. I typically made do with the latter since I lacked MTV and dancing friends in my immediate vicinity.


In elementary school, there was a period where we could choose a fun elective to partake in. I can’t even recall what all the options were, but I felt like I needed to forfeit The More Fun Stuff to know how to work my two left feet with the remedials. What were the Cool Kids doing? They already knew how to dance, I guess, and took up other things. My friends and fellow nerds were the ones lining up on the outdoor patio, taking instructions from the teacher. I did feel awkward, but I did have a little fun– and the small confidence boost of doing the right steps after a few tries was worth it.


Unfortunately, that was the exception to how the academically-sanctioned dance classes usually went. And most of the time, it was under duress for Participation Credit– where they won’t call your parents for being a difficult punk destined for the electric chair. (Hey! I’m cool! Did you get that reference!? And now that Prince song is stuck in my head…)


Cue gym class, the bane of BLERDs. We were taught the waltz (where would I use this?), square dancing (where can I use this?!), and whatever popular line dance was happening. But unlike the outdoor patio scenario, that was humiliating. My bullies and crushes alike were watching me go “AYE!” in the wrong direction. (BTW, If that VHS tape of me doing The Macarena for extra credit in gym still exists, please dispose of it. Or post it on YouTube. You cannot kill me in a way that matters.)


So. I have a (mostly) negative association with dancing. Understandably. I guess.


I didn’t try again until high school, when I complained loudly that no one was dancing– specifically, no one was dancing with me. And thanks to my big mouth I found myself rooted in place, swaying side to side with a boy who I had a major crush on, and I didn’t dare move my hands past his shoulders until the last bit of the song. My friends cheered me on and hollered when I got brave enough to move them down to his hips.


Everything was mortifying at that age. But it’s funny now, and I did eventually find it funny the next day (and I touched my crush! I was giddy for days, honestly).


I declared myself strictly the wallflower type through college and beyond. I have all the excuses and methods (and observations):


  • You’re too busy people-watching– but don’t make eye contact, or Rinoa will find you.

  • If you’re a mosher, you cannot be caught dancing.

  • If you like un-dance-able genres, you have no obligation to do so.

  • “Sorry! I’ll be behind the bar! All night!” If that’s already covered, bring a hookah or something flammable that must need babysitting.

  • Be outside and away from the dance floor as far as possible… even if you don’t smoke.

  • Find a plushy couch (or, with consent, a lap to sit on) and be so darn comfortable you don’t wanna move.

  • All dogs (and cats) must be petted and/or chased around constantly.

  • Speaking of chasing constantly, you can always seem to be looking for somebody that you just keep missing!

  • Wear heavy, heavy platform boots. Can’t possibly dance in those! (You can always take that as a challenge, should you change your mind.)


But in spite of those, I have been caught:


  • dancing with my best friends because I know they won’t (maliciously) make fun of me as they help me out,

  • being upset when declared having “rhythm like a white girl,”

  • dancing in my room when I have too much energy,

  • participating in those crowd-pleasing line dances where you just follow the directions (and there’s a ton of people messing up with me so I blend right in),

  • following workout videos that were suspiciously like dance lessons, and

  • that one time I danced at that wedding. We’ll blame the open bar.

  • And that other wedding.

  • And the one where my aunts dared me to.

  • And that other wedding where I rehearsed The Wobble with my relatives.

  • And my friend’s wedding where I was terrified I’d drop my date on the floor as I dipped her but did it anyway!


But seriously. You get the idea.


I am still jealous of the people that can just… move. Without a guide, or knowing enough of the basics that they can cobble something together. Let the music flow through them and not worry about how silly or how stiff they look (or do, and just don’t give a shit).


I can count on one hand where I’ve truly felt that. But soon, it’ll be two hands.


In the last pit I was in, I didn’t dance too much– like a goldfish, I wasn’t acclimated to the water (crowd) well enough and I promptly froze for the rest of the night, to be around too many people too soon. So I was watching others, taking notes, hoping I’ll learn how to do that. I was too self-conscious to let go of my dance anxiety, too worried I’ll look like that ultra stiff and awkward lady from the vine (the one in my mind’s eye, anyway; in retrospect I’m reconsidering that she may be taking the piss but any rate, let the woman dance!).


But the last few times were great. Once, I heard a favorite song and moved without thinking! Then, a show was so good that I couldn’t help but two-step and sway the whole time. I wore wedges in the mosh pit! I fell in the mosh pit, because you don’t wear wedges in a mosh pit, you two step-in those! I’ve brought partners to shows and sometimes we’d dance. Sometimes, together! And I’d touch them, all dance-like! From our last date I was giddy for days (hell, I’m still giddy)!


As you get older, you stop giving a shit about things. I hope that’s what is happening to me when it comes to this dancing stuff. Maybe I’ll even get the hang of it.


Or not.


But I’ll continue to have fun regardless whether I’m shy two-stepping or being an introverted wallflower, people-watching and staying close to the exit.

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This man knows not of how this information has affected me

But he knows the color of the car I just drove away in

“Flinch,” by Alanis Morissette


Triggers and C-PTSD are a motherfucker. I’m not sure if I’m using the correct terminology, so let me just paint the scene. At any rate, my reaction was as visceral as those song lyrics.


You’re mindlessly scrolling on your social media of choice, when you come across a thread. It seems like a cool idea, an outing or event, and you’re actually free that weekend. So you scroll.


And you see a familiar name. It takes a moment, but you remember.


And you want to throw up.


Because this name is no longer a friend of yours; you stopped speaking to each other after a heated argument. A major one, you can say; that was no pineapple-belongs-on-pizza debate.


I remember that morning.


I tried to explain how wrong it was to post and share the murder of a Black person, even if it was for a supposedly noble cause, because institutionalized racism even affects how our deaths are portrayed in the media a mere trauma porn– no dignity, all spectacle. It is about Impact, not Intent. But she doubled down, screaming about so-called justice. She did not listen. She ignored nuance. And somehow my concern translated to “you want those cops to get away with murder.”


It has happened before. And I have a feeling it will keep happening. Because to those so worried about justice, the end will always justify the means– and if that means my pain is a stepping stone to a slap on the wrist for a cop, then so be it. “Justice is served! Sorry about your mental health, though. Have you tried thinking about the bigger picture?”


I’m tired of that racist shit, the same conversations.


And I’m tired of this coming from people who I thought I could rely on.


I cried that morning. “Why are people like this!?” I wailed on my girlfriend’s shoulder.


I’m tired of my pain not mattering, and it hurts.


I saw her name, and it came flooding back.


So what did I do?


Before logging off for awhile for a nice bubble bath, I let a few people in that thread know. Some understood, others opened dialogue with me and respected boundaries when I ran out of spoons.


Only one said she “understood” my point of view but didn’t see it that way, and hoped that I didn’t hate her for “partying with this person once a year.” I said I didn’t. And it wasn’t a lie. But I thought, if you’re willing to overlook such gross thought patterns for a giant bonfire and booze, how long will it take before you reveal something heinous of your own? Would you have my back if The Pattern asserts itself? Could I cry on your shoulder?


I didn’t know.


Since it’s been proven time and time again that I’m just unimportant collateral damage to the culture at large, I have to find my own ways to protect myself. On the outside it’s callous, unforgiving, with ghosting tendencies, and kinda mean. But for the people that have been burned like this one too many times– for those on the margins who would rather not risk their safety for the possibility of friendship– they get it.


And with my adult life punctuated by moments like this… is it any wonder why I just wouldn’t bother? It’s not a difficult choice when you frame it like that, and I’m saddened that it has to be this way. Sad, and resigned.


It sucks.


I didn’t stick around long enough to find out if she knew that the company you keep could be a yellow or red flag for most people, and to be honest, I didn’t explain either.


At the end of the day I didn’t hate her. I just couldn’t trust her.


So I lost her number.

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But seriously, I’ve been riding that high since I saw her in concert.


…maybe I should write about that. Meanwhile, a poem.


floating, almost


I want to feel that again,
The wonderful ache in my heart
To mirror floating through water
Into a dream of not-home-anymore
But you are there
Loading the car, because
I’m just dreaming.
Fantasy and reality collide here:
The sky is a meteor shower.
The grass bends into waves.
The house, odd angles, and comes in threes.
We’re characters who loved each other and will again,
Once I write 100 words
For each of the myriad orbits
In flying, or string ensemble, or sinking.
So reach for me while you’re dreaming,
Remember the last time we fell together,
Kissing away nightmares
And content with this magic,
Almost floating like she does.

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This still counts if I post it on the very last day of October. Happy Halloween. I was hesitant to post this. Depression is a bitch.


Whether it’s pure coincidence, metaphysical weirdness, brain chemistry, or yet another example of my moral failings, the roughest time of the year is upon me again. I have a pretty good previous month to look back on, but that doesn’t matter. The veil is thinnest here, the one between my insecurities and happiness. I’m haunted by my mistakes, supposed and otherwise.


But, I wrote a poem. And it started off with


Between Deftones and an oat milk latte and still flying high from Janelle Monae

I stopped caring.

“I Wish I Could Float”


And maybe it will stick this time. The Not Caring (Too Much).


I thought it funny to have my birthday party on the last day of September, technically Libra season, but I also declared that month my Birthday Month so y’all can’t be mad anyway. I suppose it’s my way of demanding space from a lifetime of feeling like I’m always someone’s backburner afterthought: whether it’s being dehumanized by society, de-prioritized by algorithms, simply ghosted, left on read for a month, or the consequences of setting myself up as the Low-Maintenance Person Thing.


Some of it I’ll just have to live with. We all have busy lives, some more busy than others, and as I keep saying: the years since COVID-19 hit the scene have been particularly tough. Answering texts isn’t exactly as important as trying to survive. I allow grace for that; to not would be hypocritical of me. And some folks just don’t think about me as much as I think about them; I can’t change that but I can adjust accordingly.


But I can be mad at say, Facebook, which only exacerbates my loneliness.


Because I’ve forgotten that we are alone by default.


Perhaps this is just me rationalizing my sometimes-crippling desire for closeness. But– hang on– wait– you can find a whole buncha quotes that have a more positive spin on that concept. A quick Ecosia search spits out a few by, like, important people or at least people with really recognizable names. I especially like Welles’ thought on the subject. I even reblogged it on my Tumblr once, with a graphic from Final Fantasy XIII. Trust me, that combination worked.


We’re born alone, we live alone, we die alone. Only through our love and friendship can we create the illusion for the moment that we’re not alone.

Orson Welles


I’m currently in the process of crystalizing my own “spin” on being alone and/or lonely. Put simply,


I’m open,

Show up

or

Don’t

“I Wish I Could Float”


That is definitely a work in progress. It’s just a touch too flippant. I need to convey something softer, too, and that not everyone gets such an invite– only the ones that give a shit about my existence.


I was an only kid for the first decade of my life, so I’ll be alright. And I’ll be okay in the end, because in the end we’re all alone anyway. But that doesn’t mean we all can’t keep each other company.


I’ll let you know where I am– especially when the “being alone” is revealed as “loneliness”. I’ll reach out when I can, from off-hand “I’ll be here, tag along?” to “We haven’t got lost in IKEA for awhile, now” to “date me, you walnut.” If you’d like to spend time with me, that’s awesome. If no one responds I guess that’d suck.


Keep me company. If you want to.

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CONTENT WARNING: death, death mention


This weekend, I saw someone die on the shore.


The asterisk: it was very likely they died on the shore. But I hope they didn’t.


I was distracted– trying not to lose the hat I borrowed– when my partner noted a crowd gathering not too far from where we were . When I saw someone laying on the sand, not moving, I stopped frolicking.


I stood there, unsure, not wanting to stare but concern grew in me. I checked it carefully for any hints of morbid curiosity. The waves crashed at my back, pushing me to return to land and I do so; the higher waves weren’t fun anymore. I look around self-consciously, and I was not the only one to leave. Maybe they thought the same that I did– that being in the water still having fun while someone was dying seemed… wrong.


I sat where the shore was dark-wet sand, a compromise between needing the comfort of nature and the Wrongness I felt if I stayed in deeper waters. Two women walked by, asking of anyone else knew CPR. I apologized for not knowing. People were taking turns. The crowd grew. This Someone still hadn’t stirred.


I focused on the sand-wave combination burying my feet.


I tried to fit the experience to my intrusive thoughts earlier in the day: don’t go too far, remember the riptides, don’t go too deep, I can’t lose you.


I thought, how would the world be like if everyone stopped what they were doing and acknowledged a life in peril or a life possibly lost. Overt, Obvious, Empathy.


I thought of that Buffy episode where she couldn’t call her deceased mom “The Body” and I also refused to call Someone “The Body” holding out for as long as I could while people were still doing CPR.


Someone started waving their arms; the medical team arrived with their direction. Minutes after, the police were on the scene as well. We decided to leave. Our beach bag was almost in the way of the med’s four-wheeler. I felt guilty, and promised I would not have been mad if they ran it over. I couldn’t help but say, “I hope they’re okay.” And there was an apology; because it was likely they really, really weren’t going to be.


But I was compelled to hope. Hope that Someone would pull through.


When we left, they were still doing CPR. I think. I saw a stretcher. I don’t remember much else.


At the back of the resort, we rinsed off our feet. Someone at the gate asked questions.


And then I hear it: “She was my friend.”


I can’t say what hasn’t been said before, already. About death, I mean. But my experience is still uniquely my own, at least through only my eyes and the thoughts attached to what I saw– my personalized reminders of our morality.


A morbid, juxtaposed footnote for a wonderful beach trip celebrating our birthdays.


It isn’t as haunting as I thought it would be. But maybe “haunting” is just too strong a word for the effect.


The day after, I checked online for any news of the incident. And two days later it did float into my mind as I was rinsing my grapes. And it is the sole subject of this post.


I suspect it will come up again, the next time I visit the beach. Or I’ll give into the urge to resume my news search.


I’m wondering if I am the “right amount” of haunted.

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We rest, but still worry how


To live in the mountain,


How to carve the walls thick enough


And climb up, inside– stone-made steps.


We got here from following our mother’s torches


Illuminating novellas.


Old tales, probably impossible,


Of industrial gods defeated


Yet the earth mourns– still metal, after all.


But still– don’t destroy yourself, we plead;


Find the house and stop fighting.


Everyone is tired.


My fingers know repetition


From minutes of execution.


And I will make mistakes.


So I will not rush.


I just want to make parallels, callbacks, bookends, music;


Now with the lights out there is nothing to see.

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I’ve had not much to blog about, other than the vague yearning to fill up a page with little old-school gifs and stamps. I’ve also been craving to create and I’ve made good on that craving, beyond poetry. There’s VTubing and taking immense joy in noodling about with the lore. I’m finally kicking off two fanfiction ideas that have been in the back of my mind for years. I may even get into pixel art. And at the same time, this blog has been quiet. I’m (trying) not to stress (too much) about it. Sometimes things happen on other platforms, sometimes privately, sometimes in progress, and sometimes things are just still.


But hey.


I’ve found something ancient.


It’s an account I’ve had since high school, if you can believe that. It’s pretty neat to come across things that are over two decades old, still floating around. I guess that’s true for anything posted on the internet; it’s just a matter of if you can even access it. (The more embarrassing pieces are very well Lost Media. So the hope goes.)


On top of this discovery, I’ve been feeling pretty nostalgic lately. A recent trip to Hot Topic had me obtain a few tees:


  • Linkin Park’s Meteora 20th anniversary edition
    Meteora was my go-to album just starting college and figuring my shit out. I still bump to it when I’m feeling particularly emotional. My girlfriend has seen me drunkenly sing and mosh along to the entire album, once. I destroyed all video evidence but if it pops up on MySpace I wouldn’t be particularly mad about it.

  • a panel from a Junji Ito manga
    Tomie, specifically. That was the first horror movie series that I really got into, thanks to the local video rental store that had a lot of different stuff on its shelves.

  • The Sonic the Hedgehog tee does not count; it was not Archie!Sonic. And the round belly 90s Sonic did not have any in stock in my size.


Cue pondering my current draw to the things I grew up on: the usual. It’s fun. “I know that thing!” It reminds me of happier times when the world didn’t seem to suck so much. Maybe, even something profound on how history marches on but at the same time, falls back. It’s comforting, like the childhood blanket lovingly folded up in the closet– except it’s unfolded on my bed.


“This was something I loved as a kid, and is still important to me, and even a codifier to who I am today.”


Revisiting stuff reminds me of my mindset, and it’s wild to compare/contrast the then/now. “Faint” is still a personal favorite, but at least I have a support network that does not make me feel like that (those work emails, on the other hand…). And as I start sliding back into my Goth phase, maybe I’ll be creepier this time around. I’m certainly building up the makeup arsenal to pull it off.


The current Sonic comic run is okay. I’m enjoying it. I miss Princess Sally.



I should probably say something about The Old Internet. A lot of people have said it better already, and I will certainly link to some of ’em later. I miss it, and I don’t mean in the Eternal September sense– that’s some cynical elitist bullshit. What I mean is, an Internet before things became about content, content, content, c o n t e n t in front of as many people as possible using the most intrusive algos. Wait– I have content? Yeah, but that’s a technicality. And you don’t see me shoving it in your face and I’m not trying to sell you something. I’m just hanging out over here.


And here’s the kicker:


The Old Internet never left. Some of it is abandoned and/or archived, but that is the nature of most things. When there isn’t a revamp, revival, or a “classic” spinoff– it’s here, continuing, slowed down perhaps but hasn’t stopped. Pretty obvious, if you look beyond the big names. You know the ones. They usually have apps, maybe a Material theme, and are just geared to enrage you unless you did some tweaks. And install an adblock.


I’m compelled to quote/cite Ploum, who also penned this excellent teardown as to why Facebook Entering The Fediverse Is a Bad Idea, Actually. But I digress:


It feels like everyone is now choosing its side. You can’t stay in the middle anymore. You are either dedicating all your CPU cycles to run JavaScript tracking you or walking away from the big monopolies. You are either being paid to build huge advertising billboards on top of yet another framework or you are handcrafting HTML.

Maybe the web is not dying. Maybe the web is only splitting itself in two.

“Splitting the Web“


I’m also in danger of repeating myself. In short, the dusting off of old habits and a more engaged involvement of my media consumption. And, how I spend time online. (Some updates: Pocket was reinstalled for the edge cases of articles I didn’t come across in RSS. Tildes ultimately won out and kbin gets a visit when I want a TLDR news cycle and the urge to be snarky.)


But, here is a list of what I mean:




Nostalgia? Old Internet? 1


eeeeeeey tiny button!

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A part of me still daydreams


Of what could have happened to you


If you kept music theory and frequented the stage,


The audience of mismatched furniture and beer,


Not discovered, but to just be known.


You used to be so beautiful, two things, raw


Not made for me but ultimately,


That doesn’t matter.


You could have been


On a tiny screen, big enough for


People to know the words.


Do you, still?

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So anyway. I love being silly. There is no intro paragraph and I’m not gonna hit you with the Thesis/Main Idea and Three Reasons Why. I’m not going to drag this out with citations and lengthy examples (okay, maybe some examples). I’m just going to braindump on why I enjoy being so damn silly and preface a codifier with a question that has haunted me since middle school:

What's Normal Anyway?
Read the webcomic about being a trans man, or even better, buy the book! 

Everyone’s "normal" is different, when they’re not confusing it with other words like "standard," "straight," "middle," and "white." Sorry for getting political (end sarcasm; I ain’t fucking sorry), but you pick up the shorthand if you stick around long enough. Lemme tell you (in my opinion, but I am stating it as an absolute fact!):


It’s some boring shit! Normal is conforming. Normal is what’s expected. Normal votes red or blue. Normal is binary, has rules and criteria, and other things that feel dull and uninspired. Normal is alla that.


Until it isn’t.

Two panels from a Penny and Angie page; Mary-Ann is diffusing a tense teen situation by cracking jokes, causing Michelle to laugh. KatyAnn: Are shawls... schmalz? Michelle: Pff ff ff ff ff ... Do you work at being this weird? KatyAnn: It's God's gift. I have the frock of mockery. In the second panel KatyAnn also has a halo while she sticks her tongue out, smiling. Two angelic smiley faces float above her head, too.
This pink-haired white girl and her lines here live rent free in my head.

My normal can be different from the normal of someone else. My normal can involve the pills I need to take and how many ants I see in my windowsill (which should be ZERO). My normal also includes a daily joke in my morning routine and sending memes to my loved ones. My normal is non-sequiturs that only make sense to me– sometimes. I dance in my chair. I say goofy things to take my coworkers off-guard. I have the same three tired jokes in rotation but damn it, they are played out for a reason!


How did the fire fall in love? It met its match! While you groan at that one, rethink normal and be weird. Or is weird the normal? Meditate on that!


"Why are you like this?!" My nesting partners exclaim when I set down a large shriveled seed of some sort onto their belly button as they mind their own damn business.


Because it’s fun, duh.


And, sure, to be serious a moment (just one), it could be a defense mechanism of some sort. Obligatory "was the weird kid in high school" (ask "M," we kicked trees during our lunch break). I definitely leaned into it the older I grew and… at some point, you realize that being weird is pretty okay. Even better when you find a support network with a bunch of other weirdos. One person’s weird is another person’s normal, and vise versa.


You know those old folks who do weird shit and just don’t give a fuck? That is real. But why wait? Be weird now. Be silly. Or… I dare say… you can even dare to be stupid.


You know the song! It was even featured in my favorite toy commercial, that 80s Transformers movie. At some point the cast was moping around until this mustached robot weirdo of a self-insert character pops out of the wreckage and distracts them with a cycle brawl– with, I assume, that song blaring out of his speakers– until Hot Rod showed up and started to speak his language because he’s also a goofy bitch. The punches died down, everyone eventually made up, the Optimus Replacement got put together, and with their powers combined they rocket off that junk planet once they were done dancing on it.


Weird Al (Wreck-Gar) and Hot Rod swapping Energon rocks.
A Genius annotation stating the obvious: Weird Al is telling you to do stupid stuff.

So, it’s also kinda like that. I guess.


Maybe I can…


    • bring a smile (or grimace) to someone’s face,


    • diffuse a weird and tense situation (by just making it weird),


    • defang bigots (putting the demon in Pride Month),


    • be the kid I never got around to being, and to be the kid that I was,


    • make the child across the aisle giggle.



When I can can, when I want to, I be silly and smile about it. Because holy shit, do we have a lot to frown about lately. So Imma dance a bit, draw hearts on my face, then get to work putting a spaceship together out of wreckage and stuff.


Or, you know, just because. No reason. Don’t think about it, Morty.


…


I’m still leaving a tip when I get sushi, though. You wrong for that one, Al.