Category: Wyatt’s Words

I don’t consider myself to be a particularly creative person. I can appreciate creative things and people more knowing that I probably can’t paint/act/sing/dance for shit.

But one feature of creative people I acutely identify with is writer’s block – not when it comes to writing necessarily, but life in general.

Sometimes you have a thousand things to do and accomplish none. The constant math of – “do I attend to this first?” or “can I cross this off the list?” becomes enough to overwhelm the system enough to lead to hour 3 of The Office clips on the couch.

I’m sure the people who wrote, acted in, and directed The Office have felt the same – and I think the reason is – we’re all afraid to fuck up. There’s a palpable grade school mental paradigm of getting an F on a task in life. That shame, which permeates deep into your being, is primal. And paralyzing.

It’s been a journey to admit that I’m going to fuck things up. A lot. And what I didn’t realize was that there’s an inverse relationship to the time I consciously spend considering something and how good the result is.

When it comes to big decisions – the more factors I have to pore through or the more I delude myself into thinking research is moving towards accomplishment, the more difficult and slow and ultimately compromised the decision is. For some reason, it just feels really good to rip the Band-Aid off.

Fact is – some days I just wake up and decide to do something. Buy a car. Move apartments. Pay off a debt. Solve a longstanding problem.

I remember being horrified when my dad saw an ad in the paper for a car he thought looked nice and he just went that day to the dealership, my bewildered mom and I in tow, and just bought the damn thing. He didn’t sit at home and calculate financing payments or compare fuel economy. It was confounding to me that someone could just make such an immediate decision on such a big-ticket item.

I realized recently, however, that he actually did an insane amount of research – subconsciously. He’d read an article reviewing new cars one day. Ask questions at work dinners of his colleagues about the new wheels they bought. See enough commercials and ads on pricing to where his intuition was with what was a good value or wasn’t. He didn’t make spreadsheets or spend hours poring over volumes of books – he just used the sum of accumulated passive knowledge to make a choice.

It could’ve been a terrible one too – the car might’ve been a lemon, or from a particular model year fraught with poor build quality, or something better might have come out a month down the road. But he was comfortable with letting the chips fall where they may.

I get paralyzed by overdecision and overopinionation (and just pulled those words out of my ass, but we’re gonna roll with it). If I’ve got more than two voices to deal with and more than two limiting factors (money, time, effort, expected result, historical example, identity) then I might as well just go back to bed.

I’m learning to listen to the only voice in the room that matters “at the end of the day”, who has to live with the consequences of that action more than anyone else: mine.

As the kids say, I’m “making money moves”.

And Jim and Pam ended up together in the end.

If yesterday was Björk’s Vulnicura, today is Björk’s Utopia.

Long story short, I’m…………

……..happy.

I’m not used to this feeling.

Have you ever been so used to things going wrong that you get wildly uncomfortable when they go right? Like so right, in ways you couldn’t have imagined?

I could start an examination of things I’ve done correctly but that buttressed to yesterday’s piece would leave us, where exactly? I’d rather embrace the things *going* right.

People say to practice gratitude, which is just so strange to me. When your identity is forged by your ability to put out fires, you become used to everything going wrong. Things fall apart, you lose money, loved ones, time. Feeling grateful seems depressing, like taking inventory of wine bottles that haven’t broken after the shelving collapsed in the earthquake.

I’m just entering this moment where I’m telling myself that it’s okay to be happy. That I shouldn’t be guilty for being so, or anxious that it’s all going to fall apart.

I could stand in the middle of the stream and say I want to live in this moment permanently, but the stream is ceaseless and I’d be cheating myself out of wonderful things to come.

Wonderful things could come. And I could be a part of them.

What a novel idea.

Day One.

I think the most difficult realization of the past few years was that I did everything wrong the first time.

I’m not a writer, and I don’t think that what I write is particularly good. It may seem like false modesty, but my writing voice is indistinguishable from my thinking voice. It’s a stream of consciousness.

When I look back at things from a few years ago, it’s pretty cringe. That’s not much of a surprise because I was pretty cringe then too. I don’t look at pictures from high school, and I certainly don’t read what I wrote. I’ve spent so many years trying to run, fiendishly SPRINT from that awkward past of glasses and fake tans and Abercrombie & Fitch.

The only thing I wanted to do was portray on the outside not what I felt inside. I wanted to look *put together*, confident, self-assured, even though at the time I was a million miles away from there. I didn’t know what was happening to me during those years. Undigested trauma, almost losing a parent, only child syndrome, being told what I was instead of figuring it out for myself, crushes on girls, crushes on boys, and the overwhelming sense that I was like a broken piece of pottery that nobody would ever be able to fix in a sea of perfect vessels.

Since then, it’s been a cycle of breaking down and building up, vomiting previous traces of who I was only to binge on who I wanted to be. Instead of trying on new outfits, I tried on new lives as fashion to see what fit. But underneath that crisp jacket was still the same core: squishy, despondent, soft, fearful, asymmetrical.

I think it’s because of that faultline between oaf and oeuvre that I failed at everything, so much.

I failed at being a good son.

I failed at being a good friend.

I failed at being a good best friend.

I failed at being a good boyfriend.

I failed at building a business many times over.

I failed at so many different types of jobs.

I failed at business school.

I failed at making money.

The typical refrain is for someone to look at that juxtaposed with what actually happened and think – aha! – but you didn’t fail! You did (all these things) because (reasons) which are (good somehow). I know that. But it doesn’t take away what I know to be true – that I failed at so, so many things.

The optimist looks at this and says that now I have the experience to not fail.

The pessimist looks at this and says that people change so little, and I’m bound to fail so much again.

The realist looks at this and says that everyone fails and feels like a failure.

The pragmatist doesn’t have time for this conversation.

Up until now, the pragmatist has won out, because despite being wildly unpragmatic in so many ways (hell if I know if that’s a word or not) my mind works off efficiency and fears that if I start having this conversation, I’ll spiral into a black hole of uncertainty and anxiety and never leave the house.

But I think it’s time to have this conversation. I think it’s time to write.

If I write, if I post something every day, it holds me accountable. It also holds you, the reader, accountable, because I’ll be facing some uncomfortable truths and raising topics that will evoke thoughts and memories that haven’t come to mind in awhile.

Welcome to day one.

4th of July, 2017 was a splendid day.

My boyfriend and I went to the top of the US Bank building in Downtown LA – the tallest view in the West Coast. We dressed up in red, white, and blue formal attire. Over a gin Vesper I looked below as the fireworks of Dodger Stadium popped. I felt like Leo in the Titanic, the king of the world, and everything was looking up. It was an American Dream: good health, a wonderful family, an adorable boyfriend I lived with, a job that paid well and was fulfilling.

Making America Great Again

A post shared by Wyatt Torosian (@wyattvision) on Jul 4, 2017 at 10:41pm PDT

3 days later, my dad was dead.

A few months later, I was in a serious car accident.

thank god for BMWs

A post shared by Wyatt Torosian (@wyattvision) on Nov 25, 2017 at 1:42am PST

A month after that, I lost my job.

if anyone wants to learn about ICOs and see me be my goofy self, check out the @startenginela insta story

A post shared by Wyatt Torosian (@wyattvision) on Nov 10, 2017 at 8:59am PST

And a few months after that, my boyfriend dumped me, weeks after our anniversary.

 

None of these events were related other than that they happened to me in one giant annus horribilis, a term applied to Queen Elizabeth’s “horrible year” of 1992.

In 1992, the 66-year-old Queen saw 3 of her 4 children divorced or separated in a fury of embarrassing tabloid affairs, culminating in a major fire at her home, Windsor Castle.

46-year-old Donald Trump’s horrible year was also 1992, where 3 of his casinos filed for bankruptcy and he divorced from his wife Ivana after an embarrassing tabloid affair with Marla Maples.

And here I was, 25 years later and age 26, and it felt like the world collapsed around me leaving dust, blood, and the sting of regret.

Everything I thought was stable was horribly, terribly fragile. I was living under an illusion that these things would last, that I had built an effective and sturdy foundation for the next 5 years and beyond. That stability was something I never had. And that stability made me complacent.

I sit here, on the 4th of July 2018, looking out at a neighbor’s fireworks from the roof. I’m not at the top of the world, but I’m on a stable foundation. I’m back to square one.

As crazy as it sounds – I’m happier now than I was a year ago today. I thought I had everything, but it was all an illusion.

Things change.

Businesses change course.

People change how they feel.

Our bodies are changing, cell-by-cell, constantly.

I thought these changes would break me, but these change allowed me to survive. These changes allowed me to grieve a parent, forgive, hold them in memory. These changes allowed me to find two jobs now where I truly can apply my knowledge and creativity. These changes allowed me to get out of a relationship that was toxic and suffocating. These changes allowed my body to strengthen, regenerate, and heal.

Most importantly, these changes allowed me the opportunity to get out of every comfort zone to do things, just to see if I could.

I adopted a rescue dog who’s sweet and loving.

everyone say hi to my new little rescue buddy, Morgan. thanks to @wagsandwalks – they’re doing great work! #rescuedog #pitmix #bassethound #nklapetadoptioncenter #puppylove #doggydaddy #ivebecomeoneofthosepeoplenow

A post shared by Wyatt Torosian (@wyattvision) on May 31, 2018 at 4:02pm PDT

I spent a month entirely sober.

not drinking for a month was an interesting and surprisingly difficult challenge, but it was nothing compared to what those suffering from addiction in the LGBTQ community face every day. reading your stories and meeting with you has been truly eye-opening. I have so much more to learn, and will make you proud and included through the work I do! as far as everyone else is concerned: it’s still over for you hoes . . . . . . . . . . . #pridemonth #summer #summerheightshigh #sobriety #nofilter #stillsomuchcoffee

A post shared by Wyatt Torosian (@wyattvision) on Jul 2, 2018 at 6:00pm PDT

I’ve been on truly memorable dates.

Ok, I can’t share any of THOSE photos

I’m starting a nonprofit and have so many other exciting projects taking off.

“together, we can reach the highest mountains.” – excerpt from A Gay Tale – my most important project yet. learn more at agaytale.com

A post shared by Wyatt Torosian (@wyattvision) on May 7, 2018 at 9:38pm PDT

I have more irons in the fire than ever, and I love it. None of these were remotely possible a year ago.

I also know now that nothing is stable and nothing is forever. Someday, my dog will die. My mom will die. I’ll get sick. My current jobs will cease. I’ll go through a breakup. My businesses will shutter and my projects will hit a wall.

Twenty-five years ago, things looked dim for people who had everything: family, wealth, businesses, stability.

Twenty-five years later, Queen Elizabeth is the longest-serving monarch in British history, an icon of British culture and beloved by her nation and children.

Donald Trump is a happily-married billionaire and President of the United States.

I thought twenty-five years from now I’d have both my parents, be happily married to my boyfriend with a kid going off to college, be a sales impresario, and somehow manage to not need staples in my head.

But I’m still here, the Queen still reigns, Trump’s still President, and I have the best gift in the world – an opportunity to start fresh and be the Wyatt I want to be.

I’m reborn on the 4th of July, ready to live the American Dream.

I always scan Twitter trending topics every morning as a ritual.  It makes me feel connected to whatever is happening as it happens.  I don’t know why I do it.  What am I going to do about some major news story?  What impact do I have?  What am I gonna do, phone the governor and offer assistance?

ahh hell, not that ginger kid again

I guess it’s a leftover from being a kid and waking up to my mom telling me about a plane hitting the World Trade Center and adjusting to that reality, thinking of how it was probably just an accident, and then hearing about a second plane hitting the towers and realizing it wasn’t.  You don’t expect to wake up one day to an entirely new world.  It just happens, when you least expect it, and you can never prepare for it.

I found that out one morning when I got a missed call from my dad’s best friend, worried that he couldn’t get ahold of my dad.  Unlike most mornings, I didn’t scan the news, I just got in the car and drove.  I drove because I knew what happened, that my dad was gone, that he wasn’t just taking a nap with his phone off, because he never did that.  His phone was always on, whether we were on vacation or it was midnight.  No, he was gone, and an hour or so later I received a call confirming that reality.

It’s not something I’ve talked much about because there isn’t much there.  He’s gone and there’s not a damn thing I can do about it.  He was a part of my life and now he is not and it’s a new reality to adjust to, it changes everything, and everything I do from here on out is defined by a single, horrifying event.

It’s not the first time that’s happened, finding out your mom’s in a coma when you’re in middle school steels you to these types of announcements.  I didn’t let myself cry then and for most of the drive to Fresno, I didn’t let myself cry either.  Both times I felt like something was wrong with me, but I guess I was just in shock – your body has a way of stripping things down to bare, mechanical function.  Each action becomes robotic, binary, on or off, yes or no, forward or reverse.  One thing your body doesn’t allow you to do is to be still, to do nothing.  I haven’t stopped moving since July 7^th and I don’t think I ever will.

I remember a decade or so earlier laying on the floor and watching TV footage of people stumbling out of London buses, bleeding.  I couldn’t stop watching it.  It was horrifying, it was real, it was one of those events that changed everything.  Is this what life is?  A lull between tragedy?

I did read the news this morning as fires consumed Napa in the middle of the night, a place I loved to go on vacation to with my family as a child and then as an adult.  They were across the street from Silverado, the place we always stayed.  Vineyards all through Stag’s Leap were combusting, one by one in sequence, leaving more destruction in their wake than a tour group full of suburban moms.

And in the end there are photos of charred remains.

The flames engulfed my favorite vineyard, Signorello.  We’ve visited there since I was 9, there’s pictures in an album somewhere, the same albums my mom had to put down because they were just too difficult to look at this summer.  They had a gorgeous pool looking out towards the entire Napa Valley, paradise, a place from which you could see the end of the earth.

It also helped that they had a very friendly yellow lab and damn good wine.  On the last trip to Napa I took with my family, I convinced my dad to take us there.  I didn’t know it’d be the last for him or for the place.  Those routine trips and out of town drives are all I have left.  At the time you got swept up in the inconvenience – the packing, the bathroom stops, the dinner reservations.  Now you look at those things fondly, tinged with regret that the scope of your problems then seem so small in hindsight.

My dad isn’t coming back.  The winery hopefully will, but it won’t be the same.  Nothing’s the same, and that might be life’s most challenging lesson – nothing will ever be the same again.  People will die, buildings will fall, cancer will kill, fires will burn, and you must keep moving, unceasingly.

There are two things a Los Angeles resident fears above all else: melanoma and parking enforcement. Earthquakes are a distant third, distant solely because it’s hard to live in perpetual fear of something that can happen at any time without warning but hasn’t for decades.

As I walked down the street, bleary eyed, to move my car on this permit-restricted street this Friday morning, I saw the glaring, pitbull-like face of the parking enforcement officer’s chariot, a mini Toyota Prius. Never has something so silent triggered so much fear. I watched the clock on my dash turn over to “9:00” – which means I’d quite literally made it without a moment to spare.

literally more terrifying than a cop car

This isn’t a dance I want to have to subject myself to, and it seems that the 1 or 2 vehicles who haplessly find themselves parked on the wrong side of the street at the wrong time should at least be let off with a warning instead of a $63.00 ticket.

I saw the two officers pull out to do this to a Mercedes. Gleefully, it seemed. They were wearing the standard uniform of the parking enforcement officer: a grim look, short haircut, cuffed blue shirt, and about eighty extra pounds each. Who were these people? Their job is to quite literally go around and ruin people’s days – people who are driving registered cars (which is a tax), have mandatory car insurance (another tax), pay the highest fuel costs in the nation due to taxes (yet another tax), not to mention are, more likely than not, a taxpaying citizen. These people have ostensibly paid for the roads, the bridges, and big heifers to ride around in toy cars to give people tickets many times over, so why do they need to pony up again?

If you grabbed one of these “officers” (a recently-acquired title it seems, apparently these individuals liken themselves to police-lite now) by their starched lapels and threw them against the wall, demanding to know why they’d take on a job that is designed to disappoint the good citizens of this fair city through every encounter, what reason would they give?

worse vogue photoshoot ever

Twenty years ago (the glory days, it seems) there was the meter maid. You don’t pay your meter in the busy downtown of the city? A lady on a bike comes and writes you a ticket. Disappointing, sure, but informal, transactional, and you feed the meter to keep the bustling downtown going.

Therefore – it seems the reason of “I always wanted to be a parking enforcement officer when I grew up” doesn’t really hold up, does it?

Plus, parking enforcement officers are no longer your friendly downtown meter maid – they patrol your walkable, suburban neighborhood like corsairs, waiting to relieve residents of significant chunks of change.

omw2stealurwages

What could drive one to do something so casually evil?

Casual evil would be the foil to formal evil, the former being something that, by design, is not to harm someone, but in practice and without direct action, does. Formal evil is a process that’s methodically carried out with full knowledge of the consequences – a Batman villain, or an executioner.

Perhaps parking enforcement falls into a third gray area – informal evil. It’s too organized to be casual. It can’t be casual and have its own uniform. It’s also not formal enough to be formal, because parking enforcement officers haven’t, to my knowledge, killed anyone yet, despite meeting the personality characteristics of someone who’s most likely to.

There’s a reason this informal evil is allowed to flourish, and as with all good reasons, it has a profit motive: the city of Los Angeles makes $148 million a year from parking tickets.

As LA City Controller Ron Galperin states:

As much as we’d like to reduce parking fines, we currently rely on the revenues.

The City of Los Angeles “faces a projected $245 million shortfall” according to Galperin – essentially, without parking tickets, our city is broke.

One doesn’t think individual parking enforcement officers go home and tell their children that they provide for that they spent another day saving the city from a budget shortfall, but that’s the situation we find ourselves in.

Our city is like a startup (take note, President Macron) – we’ve monetized neighborhood streets. We’ve even introduced gamification – watch how the residents have to scramble in their PJs to move their cars so they can afford groceries that week!

Unfortunately, our city also pisses away money like an irresponsible startup – its office is in a historic Art Deco building Downtown (City Hall), enormous cash reserves are burned without any kind of accounting, and the whole goal of our city is to acquire more users.

Whenever anyone questions why we need parking enforcement there’s the obvious contrarian bleatings: “you want clean streets, don’t you?!” It’s the same idea at chafing at the necessity of an app that delivers laundry (not dry cleaning, laundry) to your door. No thank you. I prefer the convenience of waking up normally and not having to run outside and move my car, in the same way that I know it will take the same amount of time to collect my clothes so some stranger can take them away from me as it would to shove them all in a washing machine.

The streets above Hollywood Blvd, mind you, are free from the street cleaning mafia. There’s a little dirt in the gutters, but we manage to soldier on. So the “clean streets!” argument is bollocks. It’s for revenue, pure and simple.

Parking enforcement officers should be thrilled then. They can tell their kids they’re part of a hip new pre-revenue company called The City of Los Angeles (or West Hollywood, or Beverly Hills, because despite being independent cities with balanced budgets they can’t imagine an existence without that sweet, sweet parking cash). And we’re left to ponder just what kind of bizarre dystopia we live in while simultaneously deciphering the cuneiform tablets of our age – parking enforcement signage.

we’re diverse!

People ask me why I don’t write more and it’s usually because I don’t have the time or the inspiration but I guess those are both just excuses.

I’m basically my own therapist and get out my anger in memes now. All the voices in my head are in agreement that it’s a good choice, except Chad – he’s a dick.

way to go chad, you drained a lake

Some things are so terrible, though, you just have to write. This is one of those times.

I had the Trader Joe’s “Sushi Sensations” platter today. Mind you – not the little California roll – the full-on supposed-to-serve-five-people platter with two rolls and three pieces of shrimp sushi.

God, it was awful.

And

everyone

agrees.

Dry, cold, hard rice in cubes filled with fakecrabmeat accompanied by putrid orange mayo, sickening teriyaki sauce, and beige wasabi paste. It’s like sushi they’d make for North Korean astronauts.

I knew it’d be bad. I knew I’d eat it, hate it, and hate myself. But I got it anyway.

About once a year I get stomach-dissolvingly hungry and I go into Trader Joe’s expecting to get a sandwich except I’m stupid and they don’t have sandwiches anymore and they haven’t had them for years for no other reason I can think of except that they just outright hate their customers.

 

RIP

They do have “wraps” though, and the difference between “wraps” and sandwiches are as follows:

would you like a sandwich (meat and vegetables with cheese between delicious bread)

or would you like a burrito made by Gwyneth Paltrow (a cold, dry tortilla filled with mushy, minced sandwich ingredients).

Wraps are a war crime.

I’ve never had a good wrap.

I’ve never had a wrap that’s better than a sandwich.

I’ve never had a wrap that’s equivalent to a sandwich.

I’ve had wraps that have been my own personal Srebrenica.

But this isn’t about wraps. This isn’t about sushi.

This is about Trader Joe’s, and the abusive relationship I have with them.

It’s both my closest store and favorite store because they have delicious things: bread, pizza dough, pasta, desserts, yogurt, wine, cheese, produce. They hit it out of the park with those.

And then they follow it up with a ready-to-eat foods section that’s American Horror Story, Season 7.

It’s like a beautiful, smart, charming, voluptuous, kind woman with the worst garlic breath.

“i had greek for lunch”

There’s no excuse, really.

Whole Foods does a great job, with the salad bar that goes on for miles.

Sprouts does a great job, and has the best sandwiches on earth.

Even your local chain grocery store has a good deli.

could i get a pound of human plz

How can you screw up the easiest part of being a grocery store?

A smart person would tell you that due to their German ownership, Trader Joe’s mirrors the expectations of European clientele – food is a thing to be made at home, you lazy American, so buying something pre-made should be a punishing and temporary experience, like being in an elevator with no cell service or writing a check.

Me, a dumb person, sees my relationship with Trader Joe’s much more personally – a dysfunctional, abusive relationship.

When things are good, it’s great. There’s a group of people coming over, I can go to Trader Joe’s and get all the appetizers, the drink, the entree ingredients, the dessert, all for significantly less than a third mortgage (sorry Whole Foods.)

But when times are tough, and it’s 11AM, and it’s not quite lunchtime, and I skipped breakfast, and I need something quick, Trader Joe’s is a cruel mistress, offering the worst buffet of prepared food this side of the Golden Nugget all-you-can-eat.

this was all just a grand excuse to use this nutty professor clip, one of the greatest scenes in cinema history

I know it’ll happen again – I’ll get hungry, I’ll wander inside, and I’ll stare at the prepared food case like the Ceausescus facing the firing squad.

#SpouseGoals

I’ve sealed my fate. Execution is imminent. The Grim Reaper is sharpening his tool.

I’ll choose something. I’ll choose wrong. I’ll pay for it, and make small talk with the cashier. I’ll go outside and eat it, and wince, and grimace, and choke it down.

I’ll no longer be hungry.

But I’ll still be empty inside.

Happy New Year’s everyone, I have a feeling most of our nights turned out the same.

Fans of this site *camera cuts to a solitary hobo jerking it in the back of a Carl’s Jr* will remember that three years ago I wrote a post about New Year’s resolutions.

It was ok.

But it’s 2017, Trump’s gonna be President, and I’ve learned a lot over the past three years.

he’s just so damn lovable

Upon reflection, I’ve noticed that I don’t remember much of the past year.

January 2016 seems simultaneously like it was yesterday and 30 years ago.

I know every day of the past year was obsessively documented, as those of you who follow me on Snapchat *camera cuts to the hobo again* know.

and with ridiculousness like this, why wouldn’t you? (@wyatt_tt)

But what was memorable? What actually counted?

Oh sure, there were the days when I did cool stuff like hike Runyon (ok, well, walk Runyon, the people who hike Runyon don’t take pictures) but the vast majority of days were disturbingly mundane, like rushing to Trader Joe’s at 9:48PM before closing to buy some bread so I didn’t die.

#sext

There were other days that just felt off, that always were justified later in the form of an excuse.

“I was in a weird mood all day” = “sorry for yelling at you and saying the woman who birthed you is literally Hitler”

“I didn’t sleep well last night, I was tired today” = “I stayed up until 3AM watching 90-Day Fiancee clips on YouTube autoplay”

“That [insert thing here] threw me off this morning” = “an expected and rather obvious outcome of something not done correctly yesterday caused someone else to point it out first thing this morning”

this is my new favorite show for so many reasons

There were 365 days last year and I’m pretty sure about 10% of them could be considered “good” days, 10% of them could be considered “bad” days, and the rest were just filler.

That’s a terrible record, and it’s so easy to see how it can happen.

First of all, the excuses to end all excuses: work.

Like a looming blimp ready to Hindenburg above you at any moment, it’s so easy to use work as an excuse.

Missed your goldfish’s Viking funeral? Work.

Don’t want to go out tonight? Sorry, got tons of work to do.

Picked up dinner at Carl’s Jr? Got back late from work, too tired to cook.

this is not sponsored content, but what’s wrong with the bottom bun here tho

That brings me to the second excuse: being tired.

Of those 80% of days of last year that were the equivalent of unflavored gelatin, I’m almost positive I was “tired” every one of them.

Partially because they have full episode recaps of 90 Day Fiancee on YouTube now.

Partially because the amount of coffee I consumed over the course of the day singlehandedly financed a Colombian drug war.

Partially because I allocated far too much effort to something that didn’t matter (getting to Trader Joe’s before 9:59) and not to things that actually did matter (lol work tho).

And then when it came time to do actual cool stuff (interact with other humans) I’m passing out on your couch and drooling on your crocheted pillows.

What do people who have actual problems do?

For example: someone who’s missing a leg. Do they make the same excuses I, myself, with two (gorgeous) legs would?

I’d guess probably not. I’ve never met an uncheerful amputee. I know I’d be an absolute monster, waving my fake leg at people and using it as a beer stein.

ICONIC

I guess people missing limbs are just happy to be alive, and that makes them more positive people.

I know that 10% of the days last year I was happy to be alive, 10% of the days I probably wished I was dead, and 80% of the days I don’t really remember how I felt but it was probably a progression of tired, irritable, on the upswing, anxious, on the downswing, tired, anxious, tired, sleep, with work sprinkled somewhere in there.

It’s such an easy rhythm to get into, and that’s the problem. The excuses of work and being tired are easy. Letting a whole week pass without anything memorable is easy.

The original sentiment of the above post was simple: why wait for a holiday to change your life?

I want to make every day count. Whether it’s doing something enjoyable, or memorable, or even something that’s a huge pain in the balls but is for positive benefit – there’s no reason to drift aimlessly from week to month to year.

I’ve got two (I can’t really overestimate how stunning they are) legs and dammit, I’m gonna hike Runyon.

Tomorrow, maybe.

or at least make it look like I did

It’s the year 2016, and we’ve all given our souls over to the all-encompassing media deity (mediety) ((Madeaty, starring Tyler Perry, coming to a theatre near you this Easter)) known as Netflix.

no one asked for this

Who knew that the hokey mail-order DVD company would take over our lives in such a powerful way? It would be like Waffle House becoming the next Starbucks.

almond milk? almonds aint got no titties b*tch

We don’t watch network TV anymore, we watch Netflix Originals.

We don’t go to movie theaters anymore, we see what’s on Netflix.

We don’t go on dates anymore, we invite over people we meet on apps to watch Netflix and, if we’re lucky, touch genitals.

it sounds so uncomfortable when you say it like that

Which is why it’s baffling we’ve settled for a product as crappy as Netflix.

Before you all call me a hypocrite (and you should, I advocate responsible driving and use the carpool lane with a passenger seat blowup doll more often than I should) I do watch Netflix Originals, I do opt to see movies on Netflix instead of TV, and I do invite potential paramours over for Netflix’n’Chloroform.

this Huxtable Vineyards Pinot is superbkdhwfaehfkfhjd

Do I have a Netflix account? Of course not. Like most of you, I use a roommate’s sister’s ex’s plumber’s login (and brace for the inevitable crushing disappointment when they find out that, no, they didn’t watch 6 hours of Toddlers ’n’ Tiaras and change the password).

Most of you have implicitly reached an important conclusion – that Netflix simply isn’t a worthy enough expense on its own.

And you’re right. Because for every House of Cards (Season 1) there’s House of Cards (Season 3). Netflix Originals is the best attempt at a nonnetwork online streaming platform, but it’s far from perfect. Lady Dynamite is superb, Grace and Frankie is charmingly good, but there are multiple series where it seems like they…cut corners. Perhaps the budget was a little thin, perhaps the writing wasn’t as crisp, but it’s noticeable, and lacking the familiar finished assembly of network TV.

That’s the complimentary part of Netflix, by the way.

Most of you probably aren’t aware of the fact that Netflix has an ever-changing rotation of content they offer. So that movie you’re looking to watch at 10PM on a Friday night cuddled up with your foaming-at-the-mouth date? Oh, sorry, Netflix took it out of rotation last month, it’s no longer available. It’s like a library where a couple shelves go missing 12 times a year.

BURN IT ALL TO THE GROUND

Then, there are the connection issues. Netflix makes up, by estimates, up to 36% of all Internet traffic during certain hours of the day – which means it lags more than the Instagram-fit, IRL-lazy friend you take on a hike.

A friend (it’s true, I have them! *tumbleweeds pass*) mentioned today that it’s remarkable that Netflix is still beating Hulu – after all, Hulu was first for streaming content and had all the major networks lined up. Therein lies the problem, of course. Hulu is actually owned 30% by Comcast (NBC), 30% by 21st Century Fox (FOX), 30% by Disney (ABC), and 10% by Time Warner (CNN/TBS). Every decision they make has to be agreed upon by the majority of these parties. It’s like the UN Security Council of streaming services: rarely do all parties agree, at least one is actively instigating another, and the entire body becomes a joke because of its composition.

In this vacuum lies Netflix, like a purring cat in the afternoon sun – cute and lovable, but lazy as all hell.

I can’t wait for The Grand Tour to come to Amazon Video.

UPDATE:

Not that I’m a prophet, trendsetter, or man who has come from the future to save humankind or anything, but hours after this was published, a Streaming Observer study was released showing that Netflix’s library is indeed shrinking:

More than 50 percent of the shows and movies once online have been removed from the US streaming platform, leaving just 31 of the 250 top-rated titles on IMDB.

It’s almost like Netflix has become as poorly-stocked as the video stores it displaced.

Worse yet, NO GIANT CANDY.

It’s the year 2016, and we’ve all given our souls over to the all-encompassing media deity (mediety) ((Madeaty, starring Tyler Perry, coming to a theatre near you this Easter)) known as Netflix.

no one asked for this

Who knew that the hokey mail-order DVD company would take over our lives in such a powerful way? It would be like Waffle House becoming the next Starbucks.

almond milk? almonds aint got no titties b*tch

We don’t watch network TV anymore, we watch Netflix Originals.

We don’t go to movie theaters anymore, we see what’s on Netflix.

We don’t go on dates anymore, we invite over people we meet on apps to watch Netflix and, if we’re lucky, touch genitals.

it sounds so uncomfortable when you say it like that

Which is why it’s baffling we’ve settled for a product as crappy as Netflix.

Before you all call me a hypocrite (and you should, I advocate responsible driving and use the carpool lane with a passenger seat blowup doll more often than I should) I do watch Netflix Originals, I do opt to see movies on Netflix instead of TV, and I do invite potential paramours over for Netflix’n’Chloroform.

this Huxtable Vineyards Pinot is superbkdhwfaehfkfhjd

Do I have a Netflix account? Of course not. Like most of you, I use a roommate’s sister’s ex’s plumber’s login (and brace for the inevitable crushing disappointment when they find out that, no, they didn’t watch 6 hours of Toddlers ’n’ Tiaras and change the password).

Most of you have implicitly reached an important conclusion – that Netflix simply isn’t a worthy enough expense on its own.

And you’re right. Because for every House of Cards (Season 1) there’s House of Cards (Season 3). Netflix Originals is the best attempt at a nonnetwork online streaming platform, but it’s far from perfect. Lady Dynamite is superb, Grace and Frankie is charmingly good, but there are multiple series where it seems like they…cut corners. Perhaps the budget was a little thin, perhaps the writing wasn’t as crisp, but it’s noticeable, and lacking the familiar finished assembly of network TV.

That’s the complimentary part of Netflix, by the way.

Most of you probably aren’t aware of the fact that Netflix has an ever-changing rotation of content they offer. So that movie you’re looking to watch at 10PM on a Friday night cuddled up with your foaming-at-the-mouth date? Oh, sorry, Netflix took it out of rotation last month, it’s no longer available. It’s like a library where a couple shelves go missing 12 times a year.

BURN IT ALL TO THE GROUND

Then, there are the connection issues. Netflix makes up, by estimates, up to 36% of all Internet traffic during certain hours of the day – which means it lags more than the Instagram-fit, IRL-lazy friend you take on a hike.

A friend (it’s true, I have them! *tumbleweeds pass*) mentioned today that it’s remarkable that Netflix is still beating Hulu – after all, Hulu was first for streaming content and had all the major networks lined up. Therein lies the problem, of course. Hulu is actually owned 30% by Comcast (NBC), 30% by 21st Century Fox (FOX), 30% by Disney (ABC), and 10% by Time Warner (CNN/TBS). Every decision they make has to be agreed upon by the majority of these parties. It’s like the UN Security Council of streaming services: rarely do all parties agree, at least one is actively instigating another, and the entire body becomes a joke because of its composition.

In this vacuum lies Netflix, like a purring cat in the afternoon sun – cute and lovable, but lazy as all hell.

I can’t wait for The Grand Tour to come to Amazon Video.

UPDATE:

Not that I’m a prophet, trendsetter, or man who has come from the future to save humankind or anything, but hours after this was published, a Streaming Observer study was released showing that Netflix’s library is indeed shrinking:

More than 50 percent of the shows and movies once online have been removed from the US streaming platform, leaving just 31 of the 250 top-rated titles on IMDB.

It’s almost like Netflix has become as poorly-stocked as the video stores it displaced.

Worse yet, NO GIANT CANDY.