Here's my Buddhist Moment

There may come a time when you feel like there isn't a shred or remnant of who you used to be, that your history is irrelevant because that isn't even you anymore.  It could be liberating, being freed from the past to focus instead on the present, or maybe even look forward to the future.

Unless, instead you just feel lost, like you have no anchor and are only left free-floating in a sea with no landscape on the horizon.  The only certainty you know is being inevitably swallowed into the meaningless abyss and forgotten without having left the slightest trace of an impact of a life.

 But at least you're in the present.

Creative Dashboard Gauge

I've done a brief illustration of a concept born from Shane Smith of Vice, which I strongly agree with.  As a creative person, you want your work to be loved or hated.  But as soon as you're reaching that middle ground, you know you're doing it wrong. 

Mon-bullshit-tana

You know what?  I've just got to get this out there.

I don't like Montana.

It's the kind of place that would be nice for a week.
But to live here makes no sense.  Everything has to be shipped in at extraordinary cost, because the soil is dead, nothing can grow here, it doesn't rain, it doesn't storm, the people are uneducated, uncultured, xenophobic gun-hungry vagrants who think they're entitled to "god's land" or some such malarkey.  The only thing Montana has to offer is shit that dies, like coal, lumber, the aging population, hunting licenses for out of state heathens who want to kill "a real animal."  You know what a real animal is?  Something that will fight back.  Like a New Yorker.  You think you're tough, asshole?  Go buy a bottle of liquor on Bedford Ave. without shaking in your little spurs and tell me you're still a legitimate shred of testosterone.  Thing is, I actually respect those fuckers on Bedford, because they're real people.  These pudgy unilingual marshmallows I see around here are such a sad, sorry crime to human potential.  The same goes for the land.  The same goes for its weather.  Or lack thereof.

Montana, you've got some pretty bits.  But you're infested with fleas that bite and suck at your tired skin, while selling the remains to China.  This is a culture with no future.  That's actually what it deserves though, when you look at the sins these marshmallows committed to secure their promised land.




Disclaimer: If you're one of my friends in Montana, I'm obviously not talking about you.  This is very evidently an exaggeration, meant to provoke and also relieve the anger I have about the abysmal fact that I'm still living here.