Michael Kindt's Blog, page 151
February 8, 2015
It's after 9 AM on a weekday. You're in business. Answer your goddamn phone.
There was ABC Storage, Stowaway Storage, Vick’s Storage, Exit 8 Storage, others. Again and again I was sent to voice mail. I called every listing, the classifieds open on the passenger seat next to me as I drove. “Leave your name and number and we’ll get back to you.”
I managed to conjure up three actual human beings and sat up times to look at the units. Then I called in sick to work. I was supposed to be there at two, but I was on a mission. At a red light, I went into my phone and changed Sweetie to The Ex. I almost thought about calling her, almost, but I wasn’t going to ask permission again to go and pick up some of my personal shit.
At twenty to ten, I pulled into the Paradise Trailer Court and drove down to lot 26. Two days ago, this was my home. The trailer which used to be ours was some beige greenish off-white color, a pastel like all the houses in this country. The American love of pastels is matched only by its genius for conformity.
I didn’t know whether to knock or what, so I didn’t. She was in the kitchen by the window. She saw me drive up and was not surprised to see me standing there on the fabulous linoleum of the entryway. I was pumped and ready for a fight on the drive over, on the walk up to the door, on the step over the threshold, ready to throw down for some towels or books or whatever else I might need, but as soon as I saw her it all evaporated.
"Hi. I’m just here to get some things. It’ll only take a few minutes."
There were tears in her blue eyes. Her arms were folded tightly across her chest. She was trying to be closed, but the tears gave her away. “Ok.” She walked into the living room and sat down on the chair. I could smell her as she went by and it took effort not to reach out and touch her.
I felt awkward standing there on the fabulous linoleum of the entryway. I didn’t know where to put my hands. I didn’t know how to start moving. She sat in the chair, folded in on herself, her arms and legs crossed, her head down, tears on her cheeks. I tried to not look at her.
I spotted my phone charger on the coffee table and put it in my pocket. The movement broke the tension and I got to work. I went down the hall to the closet and pulled out a large quilt and brought it back to the living room, where I sat it on the couch: This will be my pile of stuff. I grabbed six or eight random books, not even looking at the titles, and sat them on the quilt. A magazine, some pencils, some notebooks, my Marvin the Martian tea mug.
I went into the bedroom to get my pillows and discovered something terrible. The bed was empty—no blanket, no comforter, just the fitted sheet and my two pillows. It looked naked and larger than normal that way. On the floor on the other side of the bed were her pillows. She had a whole little area set up there between the bed and the sliding door closet. There were blankets, the pillows, a book she was reading. Even her alarm clock was sitting on the floor. She’d been sleeping there on the floor next to the bed.
In the bathroon, I grabbed a few towels and washcloths. I picked up a random bath product and looked at it. They were everywhere, these bath products, all over the bathroom, covering the back of the toilet, the shelf above the toilet, the sink, the counter, the shelf above the counter, all along the sides of the bathtub, dozens upon dozens of them.
This particular one was called Feeling Beautiful Facial Clay Mask With Avocado & Oatmeal. I flipped it over in my hand and blinked away tears. What makes you feel beautiful and polished? it wanted to know. New shoes? A great haircut? Natural ingredients for clean, soft, smooth skin? I sat it back down, stumped.
There was a strange comfort in knowing that everything I owned in the Universe covered less than half a couch. “I’m going to run this out to the car,” I said. When I came back in, she was in the kitchen making tea. “By the way, I took a couple of towels. Hope that’s ok.”
"You didn’t take the yellow one, did you?" We had this huge, thick yellow towel that she loved.
"Of course not."
"Where are you going to stay?"
"I don’t know. Why are you sleeping on the floor?"
"The bed smells like you."
Whenever she was sad or hurt or upset, I wanted to stop it, to fix it for her. When she cried it was even worse. It was like she was on fire and it was my duty to put her out. When she had a bad day at work, I had nothing for her but ideas, suggestions, solutions. She just wanted me to listen. That would have been enough. That would have been the solution.
"Maybe you could try washing the covers with a little baking soda."
Jesus Christ.
February 5, 2015
It doesn't matter if we turn the internet into a utility or not. We will still lose control of it.
Whether it’s controlled by corporations or the government…who do you think has your best interest in mind?
That’s right, fucking nobody.
Tumblr can plead all they want to “save the internet”, picking one monster which will control the internet over another monster which will control the internet.
But they’re Tumblr. They only seem like they’re hip. That’s, like, the entire story of Tumblr political views. We’re Tumblr and this is what we believe. Ain’t we hip and cool and MODERN?
So what do you propose to take or keep the internet both outside government control, and outside the monopolies’ control? Because “doing nothing” is not an option. (I’m not being sarcastic, I’m honestly curious).
It’s simple: the government or the corporations will control the internet. Full stop. I don’t know in what way exactly, or in what ratio. I don’t know how they’ll spin it for our benefit. Whatever.I can tell you one thing, though. You, my friend, are not in the picture.
The Wipers - Doom Towncover by Hadrian Kindt
The Wipers - Doom Town
cover by Hadrian Kindt
Whatever. Check out this typewriter I bought. Fucking sweet.
Whatever. Check out this typewriter I bought. Fucking sweet.
mentalextensions:It’s weird to think I’ve been on tumblr long enough to see someone slowly...
It’s weird to think I’ve been on tumblr long enough to see someone slowly transition from likeable critical thinker, to insufferable blowhard. That’s the journey into middle age for some folks I guess.
She’s talking about me here. ‘Critical thinker’, according to her, is someone who thinks like her. ‘Insufferable blowhard’ is someone who doesn’t.
It’s all good and no hard feelings. That’s how everyone defines everyone else, at least intellectually.
In my defense, I am terribly insufferable and I can blow harder than she can any day.
Bring it.
shadow-writer said about: I don’t think you hate feminists, I think you hate tumblr.;;;;;;A long...
shadow-writer said about: I don’t think you hate feminists, I think you hate tumblr.
;;;;;;
A long time follower who hasn’t unfollowed me for the vagaries of politics, says a mouthful.
And the weird thing is, I have been on Tumblr since 2009. November, 2009 I made Early Onset of Night. Tumblr was a much freer place. Since, it has definitely become regimented. This annoys me and I will behave appropriately.
No, I don’t hate feminists, but I do hate Tumblr feminists. I hate them with the fire of a million summer suns. It’s almost as much as they hate me, a white male.
I know the game here now. The Tumblr game.
I will not let it stand unfucked with.
It doesn't matter if we turn the internet into a utility or not. We will still lose control of it.
Whether it’s controlled by corporations or the government…who do you think has your best interest in mind?
That’s right, fucking nobody.
Tumblr can plead all they want to “save the internet”, picking one monster which will control the internet over another monster which will control the internet.
But they’re Tumblr. They only seem like they’re hip. That’s, like, the entire story of Tumblr political views. We’re Tumblr and this is what we believe. Ain’t we hip and cool and MODERN?
Blah, blah, blah.
It’s all bullshit and not even a real crisis because either the government or corporations will control the internet. Whatever. And corporations are even in control of the government.
I can tell you right here and now, in 2015, that the last person to control the internet will be the user. Whoever ends up running the internet, it sure as hell ain’t gonna be you.
Feminists will tell you that when a white male makes an uncomfortable joke, to get out of it, he will classify it as satire.
This attitude toward humor and free speech is how you know feminists deserve to be run over by a dump truck.
I'm starting to suspect satire is beyond a lot of people on Tumblr.
Which is cool.
[Hello as I float above you, all brilliant and shit]
Maybe I'm done with feminism. Maybe you ladies should rub my fucking feet
and then give me a blowjob. Maybe instead of thinking about the patriarchy, you should think about the sandwich I want made.
Is feminism really the best way to go? Why is it good? Everybody has always insisted that it is good, but nobody has told me why.
Feminism: two thumbs up!
But why?
Hook me up…
