Proper grammar is for fascist pricks.

Say your "Like"s and your "Um"s. Use your bad grammar and your slang. Unless the people around you are not understanding what you are saying, the way you speak is fine. Language is dynamic. It evolves. Modern standards are yesterdays improper speech. Don't deliberately change your speech patterns. Don't censor your fucking expletives. Speak to be understood, not to be proper.

Fuck your free market.

I support the market. I believe that technology, and art, and all industries of creativity and inginuety thrive off of it. But no one should ever be denied food, or home, or health because of it.

No one should ever be denied healthcare because what the market provided for them and encouraged them to take affected their healthcare needs.

It isn't your responsibility to cover people who aren't you? Then what the fuck is your responsibility? You want to not help those in need? You want to not pay taxes?

Fine. You can't use anything the government provides you. No roads, no schools, and when those in need fucking rob you because they have no other way to get food home or healthcare, no fucking cops.

For you anti-progress idiots.

Frankenstein wasn't about the dangers of scientists playing God. It was a metaphor for failed fatherhood and failing to take responsibility for your actions. People need to stop citing it as a reason to stop experimenting. The technology required to make reading this post possible came from people daring to experiment without knowing what the outcome would be. Your fear of science is only holding human evolution (and very likely human survival) back.

Not to mention art and culture which consistently feeds off of and feeds back to human advancement.

Fat Tuesday and the Not Unlucky Die Charm

I love bar drinking on weeknights. Drink specials and friendly lonely drunks all come out on work nights. Every weeknight is someone's service industry weekend. It provides both the freedom to be a quite isolated drunk and to politely interact with other misanthropists. But my freedom provided by my parents issues with organized religion becomes my curse once a year, when I inevitably and mistakenly wander out on Fat Tuesday.

It was one such accidental evening that I was given a gift. This wasn't a unique gift at any sort of first glance. It was one more string of plastic beads. But this particular strand caught my eye. It reflected the light at inconsistent angles in a way no string of round beads could. A strand of glittering cubes, each rotating independently reflects light in such unpredictable and attractive angles that no disco ball can compete with. Given the option of two by an overly friendly bartender, I picked the seemingly random glittering string of silver cubes over the boring standard necklace of linked green spheres.

The necklace was a string of dice all numbered two to five. The string holding the necklace together ran through every die's one and six side. My D&D knowledge saw it as an “okay luck charm.” It was neither capable of a critical success nor a critical failure. All outcomes with this necklace would be neither miraculous nor catastrophic, and given my general pessimistic nature and my occasionally embarrassing superstitions, this seemed like a largely positive artifact.

Fuck Gaia

Attaching intention to the ecosystem is an absurd and naive move. The Gaia hypothesis didn't begin that way, but has become that. Its more recent rebuttal the Medean hypothesis is fun but no less absurd. The ecosystem is a complex system of patterns (which sounds redundant but truly isn't). Their is no magical intention that the system has, it just developed and built on itself. This is a vitally important idea for people to understand, because although the system may seem stable in the moment, it is incredibly easy to disrupt it. In fact our current ecological age is defined by our disruption of it. As such, we need to cease placing our faith in the pattern and understand that it's fragile and we can and are breaking it.

A Superficial Wound

Fell on some ice and scraped my hand the other night. Wasn't bad. It barely bled. A triangle on the palm of my hand barely a millimeter on each side. It didn't cut, it scraped away a layer of skin revealing a pink layer of wrinkled skin beneath. A flap of light skin remained over it. These sort of wounds fascinate me. A cut is a cut, but these gradual peeling of layers seem to show something alien just below the surface. The old skin is less a protection and reminder of what was, and more a nuisance to be removed. I want to reveal what it hides. Even poking it isn't unpleasant. It hurts, slightly, in a fascinating way. As it heals it lightens in color and hardens. The wrinkles remain but become rough and immobile. A pink textured triangle breaking up the pattern of my regular palm print.