White flowers
Flowers at sunset
I don’t have the wherewithal to manage complete sentences. I’ve been reading fiction. 700 pages of it, all moving continually in a blur, and I’m finally toward the end. Life has never been better. In light of my current distraction, here’s a few interesting bits while I get my act together. 

Here are ten things. I will maybe try one or two of them, because to try do everything is to make yourself miserable. Ten options is a nice number to choose from. You can think of it as choosing your own adventure.

Here’s a man who likes to write straight and clean. I believe in doing the same. You do not allow your reader to look up from the page. You do not punish your reader by making them take out the dictionary. You reward your reader, you bedevil, you enrapture, you capture, and you enslave. 

Way back when I used to write papers, I had to include citations. The most reliable citations, the ones we were encouraged to use, were to books, while the least reliable were to wikipedia, or some sketchy website on the seventh google search page that may potentially also have been a link to a virus. There is an implied integrity in a book, it implies that someone, somewhere, took the time to thoroughly edit and fact check every tiny piece of minutia before it would ever be allowed the privilege of publication. Well, that assumption is wrong. We are all screwed. Books are like people. They can lie.

This Outfit, because I’m a fashion sheep at heart.

This is a video. You might want to relocate yourself to a more appropriate location for this. It’s often thought that the creative mind is prone to bouts of depression. When you are creative, you move about on the fringes of the known (where the act of creation can take place, yes?) and as a result, I believe, are uniquely vulnerable. Hence, depression. That is my theory.

I have an empathy problem. Whenever I think about what it must be like to have naked pictures of yourself circling the web, I want to vomit blood. I hope people join together in a silent protest that involves not looking and not discussing, so that interest can die. I’d rather reflect the light onto the perpetrators instead.  

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