Moving to Tumblr!

I'm trying something out and am moving to Tumblr!
You can find me here: http://mozltovcoktail.tumblr.com/
See ya!

See you Bin-Later!

Osama Bin Laden is dead. Headshot, bitches.

Location:Windsor St,Cambridge,United States

Fingernails

It's strange the way in which fingernails pass the "too long" threshold. They're fine, they're fine, they're a little long, and then one day you wake up and you have orange rind and weird dirt stuck under them, they're hitting your keys when you type, and you look like a creep. What gives, nails?

Sure, a shower, jacuzzi, or other prolonged wetting can catalyze this process, pushing you over the threshold in a more comprehensible way, but sometimes it happens with no extra-ordinary event whatsoever.

It's like getting old. You're young, you're young, your knee hurts, and then all the sudden you have to worry about what you eat and start grunting when rising from a seated position. What gives, life?

I've also learned that salad CAN be a delicious treat. See? Old.

Get over it.

A pwem:

Lauren is my wife. Life.
I can't not tell a lie, which means something.
Isn't that just the most?
If your skin was a business suit, I'd dirty it with my sweat.
Launder that shit, raw dawg.
Do you love me?
Don't even know me.
You say goodbye, but I say mellow.
Eat pie for your taste, not your health.
Get over it.

My Life As Meat With Hands

I am Google Reader.
I am Kotaku.
I am my iPhone.
Gmail. Me. We are the same.
I live in settings and preferences.
I exist in options.
The sky is up there.
I can smell it.
I like to look up on nice days and think, "Breathe. This is what it's all about. You are so relaxed and appreciating everything right now."
But I am Words With Friends,
And I am Chess With Friends.
I am checking the Apps Store for updates, and I am disappointed with iterations that have two decimal points before them.
I am sort of Facebook, but I hold onto the pretense that I am am not.

I am shortcuts.
I know my properties and extensions.
I live in folders and archives,
and my clock is ticking.

A Pwem

This night, it is not Passover
Tonight it is was band practice
Today it was crunch
Crunch wunchy
Blue whales are so big
So so big, and yet
I wish they were bigger
Wishing they were gods, I wish
There were gods

Here
At one point
We believed in gods
Gods that could be crazy shapes and ways
We still do
Who's we?
Me?
Nope. Pro'lly not

Yes, Virginia, there are vaginas
Don't tell me what to do, Devil Woman
Loved life lost is lovely life lived
No?

Getting towards the end now
Gas tanks have fumes
Is red pie the best kind?
Doubtful
Maybe
For some
Sing a song
Night night

A glass of my own spit

I’ve always been a little weird about germs, but it’s getting worse with age. I can tell that it’s’ getting worse because I’ve started to get a little weird about my own germs, not just others. I still like pooping at home. That doesn’t really gross me out, but stuff like my own spit is becoming borderline gross to me.


At some point in my life somebody asked me a “would you rather…” question about whether I would rather do something (I don’t remember what), or drink a glass of my own spit. That got me thinking: Why would it be gross to drink your own spit? I knew it would be, but I didn’t know why. Is it the sheer quantity of spit in a glass that is gross, or is it something else? Personally, I wouldn’t even want to drink a teaspoon of my own spit, and I think it’s because once it’s outside of you, it’s not really yours anymore. Like poop. When poop is inside of you, it’s not gross, but you wouldn’t want to play with, or even really spend too much time near it once it’s outside of you. It’s like an annexed part of yourself. An alien.


Here’s where I know I get weird: I’m not really that ok with the idea of my poop being inside of me anymore. It’s like a gross foreign object that’s still inside of me! If I think about this sort of thing too much, it makes kissing, sex, and all sort of other normal acts that involve the exchange of body-stuff seem strange, and sometimes even a little gross. The funny thing is that I’m not really grossed out by blood and guts and body parts. It’s much more about the products of the body for me. It’s the parts that fall off, come out, shed, leak out of you, etc. that rub me the wrong way.


I think I need to do some accepting of biology in my life. I need to realize that dead skin cells, poop, saliva, hair, and stuff like that aren’t toxic or bad (well, poop is pretty toxic...), it’s just bio-stuff. But maybe I’m also just a little strange and need to do some accepting of that as well.


As a side note, this definitely ties into some questions I’ve pondered in my life about the relationship of subject to object. Where does the line between me and the world blur? When is my spit no longer mine? I doubt that genetic material alone is enough to qualify something as “me”. I truly believe that there's no tangible boundary between me and the world (I'm still not sure if there's a less-tangible but equally real one. Soul? Who knows? Not me.), but there's definitely a mind one. The conscious. The self. The poop-stick-problem-causer and person-giver.


The moral of the story is that we’re all gross and life is gross and nature is gross (she’s the grossest bitch of all). But I love her. I love nature, I love life, and I love myself, so whether or not I have a bit of a glitch about body-stuff, it’s ok. Maybe it’s the mind fuck of some part of me (subject) becoming part of not-me (object) that makes this whole thing weird to me. IDK, my BFF Rose.