Apples & Oranges

I’m on the train going home, and my phone alerts me to some BTC news; it’s a smart phone with a lot of ideas. Anyways, some corporate soul selling fuckstick named Charlie Munger decided to give his opinion on trading cryptocurrency. He said:

Suppose you could make a lot of money trading freshly harvested baby brains. Would you do it? To me Bitcoin is almost as bad. I regard the whole thing as a combination of dementia and immorality. I think the people pushing it are a disgrace. There ought to be some things that are beneath you, that you just don’t do, and this is one. I think people who are professional traders that are going to trade cryptocurrencies, it’s just disgusting.

The fuck? A complex series of algorithms that make up a digital currency which provides value, unlike fiat currencies used today (namely the US Petrol Dollar), is akin to harvesting baby brains and trading them on the black market. He and his old friend George Soros would know so much about that.

His response to cryptocurrency is fueled by fear and the growing realization there is nothing he or anyone else on Wallstreet can do, but accept the tides of change, and adapt or die.

Change isn’t just neccessary, it’s inevitable. Comparing peaceful alternatives like cryptocurrency to horrific inhumane acts of baby brain harvesting isn’t even in the same stadium.

This is very much the same as people who wish for a nuclear holocaust just so Trump isn’t awarded a Noble Peace Prize for ending the Korean war; what the fuck is wrong with you?

We all have our own rituals, this is mine.

I tried to spark up conversation with you, again, and it went no where, like always. Sometime a few weeks ago, I saw something on your Instagram that struck the final chord and I snapped. Those were the last tears I will shed over you. I see the hole where you use to be but it looks more like a door now, amidst a field of poppy blossoms.

[My mindpalace is pretty magnificent, if I do say so myself.]

I’ll always know to find you in the pines.

Goodbye, Sweet Dixie.

I didn’t know it then, but I wrote something for the occasion, a poem no less. I’m only just a wordsmith.

These thoughts circle like wolves.
Predators. Tooth and claw,
blood and bone; until the soil is saturated.
From this sanguine fluid,
the anemone blossoms,
in the memory of us &
I am laid to rest.

am writing…?

Writing came easily to me, albeit poorly, as a young tween. “Of course it did!” I think to myself now; I had a lot to say about the events of my young life to date. School did little to improve my crude art. Actually, school did me little service, so I withdrew into books, and of course the aforementioned internet. Inside these chatroom’s I found a world of writers that called themselves roleplayers whose writing talents ranged from novice hobbyist to undiscovered novelist and everything in between. Some channels featured entire original content while others were more like fan-fiction channels dedicated to the latest blockbuster hit in theaters; I enjoyed a bit of both.

During the first decade of the new millennium, I found solace from the chaos and hell that was my home life in books, and writing. Over the years I improved considerably, mainly to keep other player interested in writing stories with me. Competition helps refine any skill. My source of creativity was fueled by the hell and demons of my waking life which made it easier to spin tales of great conflict and turmoil, but always to a happy least in the beginning. As I grew as a writer, fairytales seemed less satisfying if they were always told for the tender hearts of children, so I embraced realism and finality; I also embraced the macabre.

Eventually though, the pain and sadness became too much, and even anguish can’t write the words; there was nothing left to say.

I haven’t written substantially in years, which had left me wondering if I was a fraud, and if my mindpalace is as grand as I believe it is. I’m still not sure. I haven’t produced anything, yet. I haven’t written the next binge series. So focused on what I haven’t done to even think about doing anything else…

Well, that’s going to change.

I have so many stories both long and short that I want to share. Even if it’s only ever here on this WordPress with no distinguished name or editor; I will produce many somethings, and I will write.


In February we moved from California to Canada after one startup project failed (as so many do), and another one beckoned. It was very fortunate timing to say the least, despite the ill timing of seasons. The startup here has been years in the making, and already demonstrating its superior team cohesion, vision, and execution. It’s all very exciting, especially having had the privilege to observe it’s growth from the ground up, but a break from business, and the city would be so fucking loooovely [long sigh].

I have a lot of “wants” and “ideas” or “projects” I’d like to accomplish but focus and self motivation are not my strong suits. I need to figure it out, and what is most important to me; the desire for friends/local friendly acquaintance, the idea’s that need to be put to paper, or the projects that need execution. There isn’t anything stopping me from having or doing all three, but my own self imposed limitations. I also spend way too much time in my head and not enough in the present with people, which I’m sure contributes to the longing I feel for friendship. It might be more accurate to say I desire a tribe, despite my independent nature.

tl;dr- I need to get my shit together, preferably some place tropical.

quiet thoughts. [2015]

You are most vulnerable when you read.
Preoccupied, submersed and lost
to the words on the pages
you turn with consideration.
The way your fingers run along
the papers edge like a lovers caress;
I’m captivated.

Naive wonder provokes licentious thought;
I begin to question my own virtue.
To see in your eyes the desire that
aches between my legs would be my undoing.
I wish you would look up at me just now;
flushed, anxious and starving
for your ravenous appetite.

I have tasted fire from your lips,
felt the possession of urgent fingers
bruise into my skin without remorse—
but only in these depraved daydreams of mine.


I miss sharing the events of my life with friends. I’ve done very little in the way of cultivating a large circle of friends in the last few years. When I left my ex-husband, I disconnected from everything, including the largest source of my socialization; the internet. The greater majority of my social sphere during that time had come with me from my early teen years. It was a group of misfits and social outcasts that found community, and a sense of belonging in online chats. We fondly referred to ourselves as “internet elemental’s”, the first generation to grow up with the internet inside their homes. This new, unexplored digital frontier provided a freedom we did not know outside our homes, and a community that would accept us without hesitation.

“The internet is dark and full of terrors!” shrieked every parent of the turning millennium, “You don’t know them, they aren’t real people!”; and yet to us, they were just as real as the neighbors next door. Usernames became the genuine identity of the average chatroom user, and age was something of a grey area. We could be whoever, and whatever we wanted to be, and no one to question it; the ultimate freedom, and the only autonomy I personally knew at that time. I think a lot of internet elemetnal’s would say the same.

Everything I had, all personal possessions were lost at the end of my marriage. I had been stripped of material things, but more costly, my pride. I felt as if I were free-falling for months. I had no backup, no safety net, and no master plan; just a blank slate and no direction. Of course I had my community online, but even that seemed to be in the past, and shrinking into the backdrop. Despite the loss I felt from the group, I was more free than ever and looking unto the horizon; I was on my own journey, a spirit quest if you will, to discover my own identity, which was something I didn’t know I had been lacking until then.

[I cannot stress the importance of knowing yourself. I could argue it’s the first step in self care. Having a profound interest in what drives you, what interests you, and what you want to stand for is essential for a peaceful mind, and healthy relationships.]

In this pursuit of self discovery I learned how different I was from my online friends, which inevitably made me question if I had always been different; had I been pretending all this time to be something I wasn’t? This kind of thinking will lead to strange places, some of which is good, but mostly it was just purgatory, and I was Virgil. I still don’t know if people change, or if we just evolve into our better/best selves; that argument is left to bigger heads and wiser minds than mine, but I dare say your self approval rating is paramount.

During this period of metanoia, I reconnected with a friend which led to a new introduction. I never imagined the older friendship would burn, and through that destruction came a strong and soul-resonating friendship with someone else! While this unique fish still swims within my social waters, we are separated by land and imaginary lines. I miss companionship outside my wonderful life companion, whom in my personal opinion is the real cat’s meow. I miss having coffee & conversation with a friend, and the occasional day of shopping. Friendship has been a significant cost to a more traveled lifestyle. I’m not sure that I’d give it up just to have a more frequent social circle though.

tl;dr- I miss having friends 😦