“writers who claim to want to help you or make you better or claim to want to do anything other than make something are full of shit and shouldn’t be trusted. nobody has any idea what it’s like to live even three seconds of your life. wanting to ‘help’ someone means that you close them off as a concept, with an arbitrary goal. you make someone into a fucking idea. you make his/her life into an idea. if someone’s writing helps you in some way, thank him/her and move on. i’m thankful whenever says something i wrote helped them or made them feel better but that’s not what i’m trying to do. writing barely even helps me understand my life, let alone anyone else’s. i have no idea how to help people and i also have no idea whose life should be made better or what that would even mean. mostly, i envision the whole writer/reader/living process as an endless dark body of water where everyone is always sinking and sometimes you get close enough to someone to see them, but they’re sinking too and you both just shrug and keep sinking. the only kind of writers/writing that can help you, is ‘how to’ books on like, building a cabinet or something science related, and that’s only if you are building a cabinet or trying to do some science. not trying to be a ‘salty-ass dick’ here but like, whenever i read writers ‘getting their bullshit on’ during an interview it’s really ignorant. at the same time, this is coming from someone whose best friend is a cat._Sam Pinkhttp://www.impersonalelectroniccommunication.com/2013/05/no-friends.html”

(Source: neatomosquitoaltlitfireworksshow)

“when you dont have a lot of spending money, the city feels like a shitty videogame you accidentally found a way to enter yourself into. but there’s no goal. no way to ‘power up’ or get a ‘free guy.’ the only thing you can do is walk around looking at things. every store, restaurant, art gallery, yoga place, dance place, carwash place, etc, they just look at you like “fuck do you want.” and you walk by scowling at people enjoying themselves. but you don’t even want to be there with them. you want to ask them what they’re doing. like, you can see what they’re doing, but no, like, really, ‘what are you doing.’ and you start thinking you’d trade a million friends for one or two solid, indestructible enemies. a war. you think about how if a war suddenly broke out in chicago, you’d immediately know what to do. you’d have a purpose. people would follow you. they’d look at you and you’d go from ‘shithead scowling on street’ to someone they needed. and after you won the war, you’d put everybody back into the restaurants/stores and lock them in, to be looked at by people passing by outside.”

“For a second, I felt confused about who I’d been at any point before this.
And I focused on the feeling.
It thrilled me.
It made me realize I’m an individual, but not because I’m special, or unique or any other empty idea, but because I could never share my thrills and disappointments.
It was all mine, but in a way that wasn’t by choice.”

(Source: clevermeat)

“Only god can make you cum… just to clarify, I’m god.”

NSFW: Sexting with Sam Pink | The Outlet: the Blog of Electric Literature

Maybe the best Valentine’s Day promotion ever.

(via therumpus)

“Sometimes I’d be walking down the street and get a sense that it was about to happen.
That it was my day.
That the universe had arranged itself perfectly around this very day, for me to get shot.
That the universe’s creation supported one final moment in a long series of other seemingly important moments, and it involved bullets in my head and chest.”

(Source: clevermeat)