February 13, 2018:

Yah, and the college crowd, too.

That open-mouthed narcissist with zero accomplishments. Excuses and advice, pedal-to-the-metal. The Edmonton Oblamov. I have a photo of him from a newspaper clipping. He's leaning with his mouth open on a table before Michel Foucault, who looks befuddled. As well you might imagine.

That silly chick who sexually harassed me for four years. "Ooooh, can I have a nap with you? Ooooh, do you usually nap with all your clothes on?" Fuck you. She turned up on social media with a tang of triumph in her prose, like we were long-lost besties reunited at last after overcoming a world's worth of impossible obstacles. Instant block. We're not fucking besties, asshole.

These people confuse and exhaust me. Those are depression symptoms, where what's really happening is that my neurologically-challenged emotional and intellectual subsystems have only so much wiggle room for bullshit. At some point they go on strike, saying, essentially, "Sorry dude, no blood for vampires." Where there's only so much to go around, and I need it if I'm to successfully place one foot before the other.

Don't take it personally.

Or do.


Just take it and go.