Retail is screwing up my brain and I hate it


I graduated from college just a couple of weeks ago with not a lot of hope in my eyes. I was excited to go to the music festival that I had planned as a vacation with my partner, but the prospect of graduating left me with a deep, existential fear.

I still have that existential fear, it turns out. To help with that, I’ve been writing (not here, obviously) more frequently, trying to read more, and generally trying to find things that make me happy. I’ve been seeing a therapist about my problems with anxiety and depression, which has also been helpful.

I’m not in bad place after graduation by any means, mind you. I have my adult life mostly figured out (I naively believe) and I have a full-time job now, where I once only worked part-time. I work at an organic grocery store here, where I help customer’s find things.

Today something embarrassing happened to me. I was raised in a small town, where the food was mostly ordinary, if that makes sense. A customer came up to me and asked me where the pâté was. I apologized to her and said that I wasn’t familiar with that product, and asked if she describe it. After she explained and I realized, while she was talking, that I knew exactly what pâté  is, she then told me that I should learn more about the “kinds of foods the eat in Boulder”.

It just made me so furious at this customer. It made me feel like I was still a hayseed, even though I went through four years of college to make sure that that wouldn’t happen again. It made me furious about the fucking elitism in the town, but that’s mostly just a fact of life. It made me feel worse than this grown-ass lady going grocery shopping at 10 a.m. on a Tuesday.

Juana de Mary is my only true love


Everything’s a little more interesting when you’re not sober. For instance: while I am here at my home in Rhadamanthus Acres where we whip our elderly, heterosexual, white slaves I must be sneaky with the smoking of my cannabis. So, while I load my pipe which I have named Tweedle Dee which has orange double helices running down its sides with Lemon G, a weak hybrid as hybrids go, I think about my first time entering the exquisite world of THC.

It was early in the first semester of my freshman year. I had decided that I would get over this not having tried weed thing as soon as possible. In truth, the opportunity had presented itself before in the form of my dread-haired philosophy roommate Jacob, who held a Med-card. An annoying roommate, but generous with his connections.

They look like tie-dyed gargoyle penises.

They look like tie-dyed gargoyle penises.

Anyways,  he invited me on an excursion he and the other resident stoner had arranged for the dorm floor. He gave me a chunk of a white chocolate bar, the taste of weed overpowering. Then all the guys on the floor congregated outside, having eaten their rations.

We went for a walk. Our objective was to get to a popular shopping district in town, but we never made it. We were walking through campus, the guys I hated giggling hysterically while I walked with my head down, ripping up the leaves I snatched from bushes. We got off campus and walked down a hill. My roommate proposed that we stop in a bakery called Baked, because irony is a thing.

There were a lot of people inside. Too many. One of our guys walked up to the counter and ordered a box of chocolate chips and a pint of milk. My roommate asked if he could have a “just a little bit” of a cookie. With permission, he ripped out a substantial hunk. The rest of us followed suit.

But all was not right with the stoners. One of them was hiding his face in the crook of his arm and the surface of the table. He was tapping his feet with the beat of a machine gun. Then, as if he had had too much of the place, he got up and slammed the door behind him, the bell ringing shrilly. His comrade followed him at a brisk pace. That’s when I realized I was high.

The rest of us continued, unperturbed. We passed by our school’s theater, which struck fear into my heart with its stark lights and gory red banners, with steps that climbed all the up to the sky like an Aztec temple.

One of our guys commented on the picturesque nature of the school’s library. It lay at the end of a vast green dotted with trees and hedges. It stood at the top of its steps with an air of majesty about its columns.

I opened my mouth for the first time that night: “I see you’re a classicist, eh?”

No one answered, and I shut up until we got back to the dorm.

The door closing behind my roommate and I, I started turning the light on and off as a reality check. When he asked what I was doing, I started rambling about the nature of reality and other philosophical nonsense excitedly. He then told me that at that moment, the only moment where I really felt like discussing philosophy, he could not discuss the only thing he ever talked about while sober.

The next day I woke up late for class, remembered I had an anthropology test, ran like a maniac to the building, failed the test, and giggled about it with my roommate.

OTHER BLITHER AND DRIBBLE: I’ve started an experiment in ornithology and marijuana which I have dubbed 100 Bird Facts. Check it out.

I’m Not Dead Yet!, or A Series of Collegiate Events


In accordance to university tradition, I moved into my dorm room last Thursday. I was disappointed that my roommate Jack, the most daring swordsman in the Western Hemisphere, did not engage me in combat. I feel it would have been the start of a wonderful and eternal rivalry.

Jack does have his interesting side. He’s a proponent of the free software movement, which I only heard of the day he told me about it, and I had to Google it. He also smokes an electronic cigarette, with flavors like bubblegum and strawberries. I was embarrassed to admit that I had been using regular cigarettes, with tobacco leaves.

There was a point during the week where I had to wake up early for my class, and Jack was playing that damned game League of Legends. I asked him when he was going to bed, and he told me, “five minutes, max.” I kept my eye on the clock. Fifteen minutes later, Jack got in his bed, and I could feel my blood boiling.

Then I went to a dubstep concert. Mostly I’m used to being invited to the most prestigious balls of the European gentry, complete with carriages and overwhelming senses of entitlement. But this was completely different. I was headbanging with some comrades in arms, and a strange girl joined us. When the song stopped, she said, “Guys, I’m tripping baaaaaaaaaaalls here. So what’s up with you?”

There was also a small spat for the destiny of my soul. I had enrolled in a Post-Colonial Literature class, The professor was British, which was funny because he was telling us how the Empire had subjugated native peoples across the world. I soon found out that it was boring, boring, and idiotically boring.  My classmates were complete and utter douche-nozzles who wanted to sound as smart as the professor, and they used loquacious statements to illustrate their points.

After the third class, I had a moment of clarity, and I charged to my adviser’s office, and saved my soul from an eternal damnation of discussing economics, capitalism, and the like. Or a semester’s worth of misery, whatever.