Virtual Flaneurism

This blog has some kind of personality disorder: immature sex post, immature sex post, REALIST POETRY, gif of Mila Kunis deep-throating her fist. No wonder my readership is growing by the threes every month!

Imagine me trying to explain this crapfest to my mother. "No, no, you're not getting it. There's isn't a reason for the blog. That's not the point. . . yes, yes, it's supposed to be ironic. SHEESH, mother, what is it about tumblring that is so difficult to understand? You clearly haven't been reading the Wired subscription I bought you."

And let's not even get into the fact that I'm supposedly "tumblring" (if that is truly a thing) on blogspot. The internets might implode.

(And, PPS.,in case my mother does read this, and so as to dispel the possibility of some unintended offense caused by the above imagined monologue, let me clarify that the funny was intended to be on me for having an unreasonable, nonsensical and absolutely unproductive pastime. . . not on my mother for wondering why I spend hours upon hours a day doing it.)

Click to embiggen, as this shit looks pixelated.

I like this, but would be more excited if they'd thrown in a non-human character or two. Seeing a graphically explicit Mr. Potato-Head pull a flail from his ass-compartment to beat down some tryclop aliens would've been rather epic.

Sigh, I miss literature. And actually doing something that matters.

Let us spend one day as deliberately as Nature, and not be thrown off the track by every nutshell and mosquito's wing that falls on the rails. Let us rise early and fast, or break fast, gently and without perturbation; let company come and let company go, let the bells ring and the children cry — determined to make a day of it. Why should we knock under and go with the stream? Let us not be upset and overwhelmed in that terrible rapid and whirlpool called a dinner, situated in the meridian shallows. Weather this danger and you are safe, for the rest of the way is down hill. With unrelaxed nerves, with morning vigor, sail by it, looking another way, tied to the mast like Ulysses. If the engine whistles, let it whistle till it is hoarse for its pains. If the bell rings, why should we run? We will consider what kind of music they are like. Let us settle ourselves, and work and wedge our feet downward through the mud and slush of opinion, and prejudice, and tradition, and delusion, and appearance, that alluvion which covers the globe, through Paris and London, through New York and Boston and Concord, through Church and State, through poetry and philosophy and religion, till we come to a hard bottom and rocks in place, which we can call reality, and say, This is, and no mistake; and then begin, having a point d'appui, below freshet and frost and fire, a place where you might found a wall or a state, or set a lamp-post safely, or perhaps a gauge, not a Nilometer, but a Realometer, that future ages might know how deep a freshet of shams and appearances had gathered from time to time. If you stand right fronting and face to face to a fact, you will see the sun glimmer on both its surfaces, as if it were a cimeter, and feel its sweet edge dividing you through the heart and marrow, and so you will happily conclude your mortal career. Be it life or death, we crave only reality. If we are really dying, let us hear the rattle in our throats and feel cold in the extremities; if we are alive, let us go about our business.