#measurements again. like 2 weeks agon when i stopped the last project i felt so far past burnout that

[opens-up-4-nobody]

...

[delcat177]

Text in captions, if that won’t read on text to voice please let me know <3

This is a half-year old, but I only paid Blobs Magician to help me out once and I’m fresh out of delicately painted acorns and he gave me commission rights so I’ll be tipping him a ziploc bag of goldfish later

I feel awkward writing about all of this--there was a bit of jealousy when I got my hyst (not projecting, I was told flat by a trans friend), and I worry that I may be making other people feel alone, anxious, or less-than in their gender by talking about it.  If you feel that at all, please, stop right now.  Don’t look in the mirror, because mirrors are scary. Like, really scary, they have ghosts or stuff probably, but also in the genders sense, so instead, look in your head.   Look at your self.  It’s in there, because it is you.  What is happening to me now is a shell upgrade, a hermit crab moving domiciles.  I was a boy once, then a young man, then a oldman, and now I’m a oldman with a society man shell.  Never mistake the shell for the crab, go “hey crab, I like your shell, I hope you find the perfect shell, because you are the perfect inhabitant” and celebrate that crab.  Because we are all crabs, and we are all beautiful, and we all deserve the shells that reflect us as individuals, and anyone who says otherwise can fuck off into a spiny urchin bush and not have a shell.  Or.  Something.  Did I say I felt awkward?  I AM awkward.  But anyway, drive-in movie totals and such after cut, potential TMI, and protect yourself love yourself, you lovely crabs <333

 (with cut ‘cause longtext is looong)

(ORIGINAL POST)

Alt-text: I'm always the last one to know

so uh

I'm a blithe idiot and somehow never processed or dared to dream that this was possible

which makes the timeline look SPECTACULARLY dumb but I was going through SO MANY LIFESTYLE CHANGES

HYST DATE: SEPTEMBER 28, 2016

2017: Me: Man, living in the townhouse has really amped up my leg game, all that up and down stairs.

Me: I'm down ten pounds since the hyst! Megan: That's probably your natural weight. Me: That or getting there.  Not surprising, I'm not feeding the beast constantly.

Me: *punches Megan playfully in the arm* Megan: OW goddammit Del that hurt like SHIT! Me: oh my God I'm sorry I didn't mean to! Megan: It's okay, just be careful! Me: That's so weird I'm sorry D8

Me: man is it just me or am I good in bed lately? oh right I'm the only one here...I guess it's because I'm more confident?

Me: ghghjh my hair's thinning out at the temples, well been expecting that one for awhile, at least it waited for 30

2018:

Me: Holy shit, the stairs plus the shopping is paying off!  My thighs are HUGE!  I wonder if cracking a watermelon with these bad boys is hyperbole.  I bet I could though.  I BET.

Me: Down to 162 and holding, fuck you past doctors!  I just needed ENERGY goddammit!

Me: Wow, I've lost a lot of weight from my face especially.  That makes me super happy.  Anyway better pluck these stray hairs.  ...have I been yanking these more lately?  Getting old is weird.

Me: (struggling with shorts) Megan: Do you need a belt? Me: I'M WEARING A BELT (lifts shirt to reveal belt double wrapped around hips) Megan: Well then Me: I just need to buy new shorts, my ass is just GONE Megan: In the meantime maybe pay attention to what underwear you have on Me: yeah thank God for boxers

Me: My acne scars are heck of acting up.  I wish I hadn't picked at my face so much as a kid, I guess the pores are just kinda fucked, I've read about that happening.

2019:

Megan: New shorts look good Me: I am so bad at shopping Megan: At least you have them now Me: I'm an assless chap is all Megan: Go to bed Del Me: It's four in the afternoon

Me: My throat feels so *thick* lately.  I haven't been hitting the vape that often, why does it feel weird?  And why am I noticing my own voice more?  I NEVER notice my own voice, I make a point of it.  Am I subconsciously pitching it lower like I used to do talking on Skype because I'm more socially active?  What is my brain I'm so AWKWARD Me: UGH I'm falling back into derma habits, I haven't picked in my face in years, I think I need to change cleansers.  But...my face looks...good?  I guess I had this hiding under that baby fat all these years.  ...I guess? Me: Am I getting a hump from my bad computer posture?  Shit. Me: Oh no, it's not a hump, my shoulders are starting to put on muscle!  That's a relief.  That must be from the...laundry?  Carrying...laundry?

AUGUST 5, 2019: Me: (lying in bed) 2 + 2

Me: wait why am I putting on shoulder muscle now?  I've been doing laundry for years, and it's never done that.  And my legs didn't get this buff with a routine job where I was walking three hours a d--

Me:

AUGUST 14, 2019:

New Endocrinologist: We'll test your levels to make sure it isn't a pituitary gland issue or (some syndrome I've already forgotten the name of), and it could be because there's some small element of testosterone in the estrogen replacement, but the brain does produce androgens.  We can definitely look into switching you to T if you want, but if it's facial hair you're worried about...well, once the follicle is there, it's there.  These are irreversible changes.

Me: No on that then but irreversible,, like,, what I have now,, is forever,,,,,,,?

New Endocrinologist: Forever, and I would expect to continue to see muscle gains if you work out.

Me:

welcome to my second puberty please be aware it apparently involves as many mood swings as the first one but i'm tryin'

Since then, it’s been continuing confirm, confirm, confirm. 

My acne turned out to be little follicles growing in odd places--not fullblown hair, just enough to irritate the skin while it was developing. Tiny tufts of 1-3 entirely white, downy hairs have popped up in a few places on my breasts.  The real fuzz proliferation has been in the southern quarters--with all delicacy, there is no itch like the itch of hair beginning to grow anywhere sweat can proliferate, and I now understand why cis men scratch privates in public.  Having NOT gone through a unified social experience with a peer group accepting of such measures, I am sure there is footage on grocery store cams of someone with an agonized expression walking like he has a weasel down his pants and worrying that 30 is early for hemorrhoids.  Both have settled in for the most part, leaving me with a very fluffy, barely-there peach fuzz mustache that’s only noticeable in the right light, some spare hairs across my chin and neck that I keep in order, and a profound relief that I prefer boy shorts and swim trunks.

I went through a few weeks of being especially rank despite all the showering and was worried that was my new normal, but apparently T sweats be like that, and I’m back to smelling like...whatever I smell like, probably lavender with our fabric softener.  I experienced what I believed was a relapse a month later that turned out to be a false positive--specifically, our thermostat was slowly dying and frog-boiling us until it got hot enough that my sister also went “dear God it is a sauna in here”, leading to replacement of the faulty element and another notch in the “my life is dumb” bedpost.

My face bonebs, which I frankly expected the least out of (when I wasn’t expecting at all), have slowly but surely been rearranging, a visual effect doubled by the much faster redistribution of fat.  I honestly have no idea how this one works.  I know more about dead bonebs than live ones.  I would doubt it if I didn’t have pictures to back it up.  I would say it’s easier to look in the mirror now, but I already stated my opinion on mirrors, do it too much and a skeleton will pop out.  It WILL.  My brain tells me this and it is never wrong about fears and or phobias.  Don’t do it kids.

If there’s been a single most beautiful moment so far, it’s been getting back into Steven Universe after a long hiatus, opening my mouth to sing the opening like I did years ago, and realizing all at once that I was singing falsetto.  I ran it back, dropped a register, and the first names I sang became those who would believe in me most.  There were tears, and later, showing it off, there were fierce hugs.  (Yes, the first ep I watched once I realized was Stevonnie, and YES GARNET GOING “GO HAVE FUN” wah)

I can’t begin to express the validation--I am no gender essentialist’s data point, this is MY experience and no one else’s, but I keep going “my aunt had a hyst and didn’t transition and I had one and I am because my brain makes androgens my brain makes androgens MY BRAIN MAKES ANDROGENS IT HAS BEEN MAKING ANDROGENS ALL THIS TIME IT HAS BEEN TRYING” and living in that, living in “not even SCIENCE is against me”, which is a tremendous thing as a scientist.  (As a scientist, I would be a blithering dullard to claim this is the only thing that affects or proves my gender, and I do not.  Again, TERFs fuck off.  This is simply a very validating thing to me, personally, in my experience.  I’m not thrilled that I have to underline that this hard dammit internet.)

What lies ahead is...I don’t know!  I thought I was done changing, but the post I saw that nudged me to finally do this on here went “you may stop being able to cry for awhile” and this is Important because I have been trying to figure out if I have Sjogren’s but apparently I have androgens which is slightly easier to pronounce.  I’m not sure how I feel about that, because transitioning is a lot of “I’m not sure how I feel about this” and then things being okay.  I would definitely say that the more I learn, the easier it is to feel steady and normal, which is important because the mood swings have been REAL.  This is more than I asked for or bargained for, but I still only have one regret, and that’s that my hyst scars are just slightly asymmetrical and it Bothers Me, but even that is growing on me.

I don’t know how to end this post.  I love you all to death, and I hope if you’re seeking transition, you find it and twenty dollars, and if you’re not seeking transition, you still find twenty dollars.  Thank you so much for you and all you do and are.  Remember--you are great!

Unless you’re truscum.  Then this post isn’t for you (dammit Internet) and you can fall off a boardwalk onto a dead fish.  Have fun with that!

hekk

[actuallylorelaigilmore]

If We Only Tried, Chapter 2: You Might Really See Me

Finally returning to this Luke x Lorelai fic thanks to a special request by @actuallylukedanes. Happy birthday!! 

Summary: Spring cleaning and reminiscing, with a touch of mutual ogling. There were some things you just didn’t do with your close male friends, and getting trapped alone together without a change of clothes and then letting them use your shower was now officially on that list.

Crossposted on AO3, more notes there.

“Okay, what do you want to watch?”

Luke’s blank stare was priceless. “Whatever you want to watch is fine.”

“Come on, you’re not in the mood for anything specific?”

“No musicals.”

“Deal. But I mean really, Luke. We’ve got, like, all the movies. Cheesy, sappy, fight-y...pick your poison.”

He sighed. “Okay, suspense.”

“Ooh!” Lorelai’s face lit up. “Nice. Rory never goes for suspense first. Let’s see...”

She turned away to dig through a pile of DVDs until she pulled one out triumphantly. “Rear Window. What do you say?”

“Sounds good.”

“Okay.” She handed him the DVD. “Put this in, would you? I’ll get the popcorn.”

She disappeared while he shouted after her, facing the TV. “Popcorn? What popcorn? We searched your entire kitchen yesterday and there was no popcorn there.”

Offering him a grin, Lorelai returned, snacks in hand. “No, you’re right, there’s not. But I do have some, I forgot until just now. It was in my underwear drawer."

“Why was it in--” Luke held up his hands. “Don’t answer that. I don’t want to know.”

“Yeah, and look on the bright side. Now it can be lunch and we’ll have the choice of pizza or burgers for dinner.”

“Yum.” He looked queasy, and she felt the briefest pang of guilt for not being the kind of person who stocked salad. Then she brushed it off, because who would eat the salad on all the normal days when Luke wasn’t trapped in her house with her?

After coaching him on the movie night rules, and pouting when he blatantly broke all of them, Lorelai settled in. It was weird watching a movie with Luke, Taciturn Guy--but also fun.

When he did have a comment, it was usually perceptive, with a heavy dose of snark. And then she would have to argue against his point, which made watching the movie take longer, but it was worth it to see him get all flustered.

She enjoyed him flustered.

“I still say it doesn’t make any sense,” Luke protested over the rolling credits. “First things first, if you think a guy is a murderer, you don’t just let him--”

“Yeah, yeah,” Lorelai cut him off as she left the couch. “I get it already. The psychological thriller isn’t perfectly logical. It’s a movie, Luke. It’s allowed to be a little ridiculous.”

“Not if it wants me to take it seriously.”

“Grump.”

“Hey, you asked.”

“Actually I didn’t,” she replied over her shoulder, foraging in the kitchen for more crackers. Hungry enough, they weren’t so bad.

“You invited my opinion when you wouldn’t shut up about yours,” he argued.

“Well, mine is right.”

Luke rolled his eyes. “Uh-huh.”

“Anyway, what do you want to do now?” She stared out the kitchen window at the heaps of snow and shook her head. “It’s barely lunchtime.”

“Honestly, I’d like to start putting this place back together. All your piles of crap are giving me nightmares of you dead underneath them.”

“What do you mean?” She frowned at the table, covered in old dishes and infomercial cookery that she’d bought when Rory was little and never bothered to use again. “You want to help me spring clean?”

“Well, ‘want to’ might be overstating it a little. I want something to do, and I desperately want your house not to look like this anymore.” He waved a hand at the debris. “So, yeah, I guess.”

Snacking, she weighed the privacy violation of him sifting through her stuff against the benefits of it actually getting done, and didn’t have to think for long. After all, Luke was already in the middle of her life. What didn’t he know that could surprise him among her junk drawers?

“Okay, let’s do it. We can start here,” she decided. “The kitchen will be easy since it’s not very sentimental.”

“Really.” Luke didn’t sound convinced. “Not this set of baby spoons? Or the duck-shaped measuring cups?”

“Oh, well, those stay. Obviously.” She shot him a grin.

“See? Everything is sentimental with you.” He sighed and prepared to dive into battle over every chipped plate.

****

“Oh, Luke, look!” Lorelai pulled a sheet of blue poster-board out of the closet and handed it to him. “Isn’t it great?”

“It’s...something.” He peered at the careful lettering until he understood it. “Oh, hey, I know what this is.”

“Rory’s class project.” Lorelai sat on the floor next to the closet, and took it back from him to study. “How she agonized over this. Everything had to be just right. The marker color, the letter spacing, the straightness of the lines.”

He grinned. “Well, that’s Rory.”

“Yeah, but she was twelve!” Lorelai met his fond smile with her own. “And then she nearly had a breakdown in the last few weeks when she couldn’t get half the information she needed.”

“Yeah,” Luke said thoughtfully. “I remember.”

Surprised, Lorelai dragged her eyes away from the project. “You do?”

“Mm-hmm. She needed her dad’s side of the family tree and couldn’t get ahold of him. I never heard how you finally found him, by the way. She told me about the A she got on the project afterwards, that was it. What happened there?”

“Christopher,” Lorelai said simply, as though the name alone was an explanation.

“He’d dropped off the map again--he does that,” she pointed out. “Back then, we’d only just moved to Stars Hollow...we’d been living in Hartford, he’d visited us there, but not here. His number was disconnected. So we couldn’t expect to hear from him, we couldn’t go to him, and her assignment was to interview that side of her family just like mine.”

He leaned over to turn the family tree back around and appreciate how tidy--and complete--it was. “So, what did you do?”

“I went over his head.” Her smile was fierce, if a little brittle around the edges. “I went to my mother, who used her connections to get his parents’ information stretching way back. It was just easier.”

He knew how strained her relationship was with her parents in those days, and how nonexistent one was with Rory’s other grandparents. But he also knew it remained a raw wound in some ways, so he nodded as though the story were that simple. “That makes sense.”

Setting the paper aside, Lorelai smiled at him. “I can’t believe you remember that, though. What was it, seven years ago? And you barely knew Rory.”

“Maybe,” he replied easily. “But she made an impression. Just like her mother.”

Lorelai looked away. “Oh, now.”

“I mean it.” He wasn’t smirking anymore. “It was obvious as soon as you moved here, what a great kid Rory was, and what a great mom you had to be to make that happen.”

“No, Rory came out that way,” Lorelai argued. “I barely did a thing there.”

“Stop selling yourself short. Just imagine if Christopher had raised her,” he offered. “Or your mother.”

“Oh, god.” She grimaced. “I’m honestly not sure which picture is worse.” Visions of her little girl dying in a motorcycle crash or marrying a Stanford man at nineteen flashed before her eyes and made her shudder.

“See?”

“Yeah.” She accepted the implied compliment reluctantly. “Thanks, Luke.”

“Always happy to reintroduce reality to your world. Or try, anyway.” He blinked and looked past her to the stack of books at her side. “So how will you decide which of these to get rid of?”

“Oh, those stay.”

“All of them?”

“Yep.”

“You can’t possibly know that they all need to stay.”

“Why not?”

“You haven’t even looked at them.”

“Well, that’s the classics section. Celebrity memoirs, books on movies, kitschy books to put on the coffee table and dust off regularly. Every house needs those.”

“Okay, but when was the last time you read them?”

She quirked her lips at him, not answering, and that was all the answer he needed. “You have to get rid of some of these. Keep the books you actually use.”

Lorelai waved a hand. “Oh, don’t worry about it. I’ve got like twenty gardening books lying around here. We’ll get rid of all of those and call it even.”

“It doesn’t work that way.” He tried to rein in his exasperation. “You’re supposed to be decluttering. Which equals caring about what you use and don’t--not your relative amount of stuff.”

“Whoa, when did you become the Martha Stewart of home organization?” Lorelai poked him in the arm. “It’s fine if I don’t get rid of every useless thing I own. Let’s face it, that’s like eighty percent of what I own!”

“Fine.” On that, they could agree. “But if you’re not really going through your books, I’m going to leave you to it. Mind if I use your shower? That kitchen cabinet adventure was disgusting.”

“I had no idea the one under the sink was growing alien life!” She protested. “But yeah, go for it. I’ll be here.”

Flipping through a book about the Beatles that she was pretty sure she’d read to Rory as a baby, Lorelai realized that she’d forgotten to tell Luke where the towels were just as he was already in the shower. “Oh, crap.”

Also, whose clothes was he getting into after he cleaned himself up?

She headed upstairs, trying to be extra loud as a warning, before recognizing that the sound of the running water would mask her no matter what she did.

Lorelai knocked on her own bathroom door, feeling miserably awkward. There were some things you just didn’t do with your close male friends, and getting trapped alone together without a change of clothes and then letting them use your shower was now officially on that list.

“Hey, Luke?”

There was a pause, as though he wasn’t sure how to respond, any more than she was. “Yeah, hey.”

“Do you need something to wear? Or, I don’t know, a towel?”

“Found a towel,” he told her, his voice sounding strange through the door. “Hall closet. You think I don’t know where you keep stuff? I’ve fixed every part of your house, Lorelai.”

“Oh. Right.” Idiotic of her. “What about clothes?”

“I’m just going to get back in the ones I was wearing. It’s no big deal.”

“It’s a very big deal,” she told him as she heard the water turn off. “The ones you were wearing came through the snowstorm, and then survived bio-warfare in my kitchen. I can find you something else.”

She could almost hear his frown, but he agreed more quickly than she expected. “Yeah, okay. I guess that would be good.”

“Good.” Triumphant, she thought it over. Best chance of success, her stash of ex-boyfriend clothes. Something of Max’s might fit him. “I’ll be right back. Then we can wash yours.”

“Even better.” He knew exactly where she’d be looking for clothes that would fit him. He didn’t have to like it, but it was practical for the moment.

She was back in two minutes, not having much to choose from, prepared to shove the clothes through a crack in the door and avert her eyes. Luke exited the bathroom before she got the chance.

“Thanks,” he said, taking the clothes and giving them a once-over before stepping back inside the bathroom--with nothing but a towel draped low around his waist, still damp all over from the shower.

When he shut the door behind himself again, Lorelai slumped against the wall to fan herself. Wow. Just...wow. That was what was hiding under those flannel shirts all this time?

I mean, sure, she knew he cleaned up nice, but that was compared to his usual baseball cap-burger flipping style. This was a whole new kind of surprise.

What other surprises was Luke hiding?

****

“Next room?” Luke asked once he was done dressing, damp hair curling behind his ears in a way that made her stare just a little too long.

“Lorelai?”

“Sorry.” She smiled, and with a shake of her head, came back to earth. “You really want to dive back into my mess?”

“Sure. Let’s just aim for a less toxic room this time.” He shrugged at her expression. “What else have we got to do except clean and watch movies all day? Unlike you, I’m not used to sitting on my butt for hours watching fake people live their lives.”

“My god, Luke, so dramatic.” Lorelai led the way to her bedroom, then grinned when she realized he was no longer with her and turned to find him hesitating outside the doorway. “You can cross the threshold. I promise, no garlic or crosses to be found here.”

“So I’m a vampire now?” His familiar scowl returned, but he followed her in.

“Well, I wasn’t sure. Why else would you be standing outside like you needed an invitation?” She sat on the only empty corner of her bed and surveyed the space where she’d successfully pulled out half of all her clothes to sort and downsize them.

“Jeez, this is a mess,” Luke said, evading the question. “How much of this stuff do you even wear?”

“Dunno.” Lorelai beamed up at him, pulling a random shirt off the nearest pile. “But does that really matter when the clothes are as awesome as this?”

“It’s got a tongue on it.”

“It’s vintage.”

“It’s old and it has a tongue on it. There is no way you will ever wear that again.”

“Oh, yeah?” Lorelai reached up and began taking off her long-sleeve shirt.

“Hey--” He started to panic before realizing that she was wearing a tank top underneath. She tugged the t-shirt down, beaming triumphantly. Luke’s mouth went dry, despite how hideous the shirt was. It barely fit, clinging tightly to all of Lorelai’s curves.

“What? Look, I’m wearing it.” She crossed her arms, eyes smirking, waiting for his argument, but it didn’t come.

“Yeah.” He swallowed hard. “Yeah, you are.”

“Nothing?” She tilted her head curiously. “Nothing about the tongue, or the frayed seams, or how I’m too old for t-shirts?”

Luke shut his reaction down hard and fast, knowing how perceptive she was when she focused. “Nope. Who am I to judge your fashion choices, anyway?”

Delight spread over her face--not the response he was expecting. He watched it happen, bemused.

“What a great idea! You are exactly the person who should judge my fashion choices!” She nudged him toward the bed, getting him to sit with a gentle shove.

“Huh?”

“New game.” She removed the t-shirt, Luke watching as it landed on the floor, then grabbed a pile of clothes from her closet floor and dumped them at his feet. “I have to sort through all my clothes, right? Decide what to keep, what to toss. Well, how better to utilize your willingness to help than with the always-in-style fashion show?”

“Fashion show.” He wasn’t sure whether to be amused or scared. You never knew with Lorelai.

“Yeah.” She became more excited about the idea the more she thought about it. “It’ll be way more fun than just sorting and piling to infinity, and it’ll give you a real role in the process. Since we both know all you can really do is make comments I’ll ignore anyway, at least this way, I’m giving you a chance to justify them.”

“This is bizarre.”

“Is that a vote against?”

Resigned, Luke shook his head. “No. Just an observation.”

“Great!” She grabbed a handful of items from the top of the pile and headed for her bathroom. “Stay right there. I’ll be right back to strut the catwalk.”

The terrible French accent she added to her words made him chuckle and remember the fashion show she’d walked in with her mother a few years back. He was still grinning at the memory of that when she came back in, wearing a pair of low-rise black jeans, a blue sequined top, and a pink sweater with feathers along the neckline.

She jutted out one hip. “Well, what do you think?”

“First of all, ow--my eyes.” He grimaced, and she frowned.

“No reason to be mean, you know.”

“Not mean. Honest. That sweater looks like a Valentine’s Day goose was killed for the sake of a very poor life choice. And sequins make anybody look like they should be in Vegas.”

“Fine.” She took off the sweater, apparently indifferent to its fate, and let it join the vintage tee. “What about the jeans?”

Without the sweater, some of her stomach was left exposed between the sequined shirt and the jeans. No part of him could honestly protest that.

“Uh, they’re good. The jeans are fine.”

“Huh. Cool. Thanks.” Pleasantly surprised, Lorelai selected her next offerings and offered him a grin. “Okay, gimme a sec.”

She practically skipped off, delighted by their new pastime, completely oblivious to Luke's realization that he'd just set himself up for an afternoon of slow torture in the form of bare skin and clinging fabric.

“No problem,” he said to the empty room. “I’ll be right here.”

[lifeonashelf]

CHIODOS

It’s nearly impossible to expound on the “process” of writing without coming across like a self-important shithead. I only mention this because I’m about to attempt to do the former without doing the latter. Though I’ve maybe already hamstrung myself by referring to the act of pressing buttons on a laptop as a “process”—and I certainly haven’t helped my case by putting quotation marks around “process,” nor by using the word “expound.” Come to think of it, that “nor” is also ringing awfully pompous to me, even if in a technical sense “nor” was the grammatically correct word to use there... And there I go informing you what’s “grammatically correct,” which makes me sound like a total asshole.

Nevertheless, making this text be a thing is indeed contingent on a sequence of mental formulation and ritualistic preparation and elementary discipline, and when you put all of those things together, the noun which most accurately describes the result is indeed “process” (I consulted my thesaurus for a less ostentatious term, but only an officious wanker would describe writing as a “procedure”).

The first aspect is probably self-explanatory—“mental formulation” is basically just a douche-y way of saying “thinking about stuff.” Naturally, I have to develop an idea in my mind that I think is worth putting into words before I, you know, put it into words. Despite the schizophrenic tangents these pieces often swerve into, I assure you a significant amount of forethought goes into what they should ostensibly be about before a single letter is typed. So no matter how insensible the missives in Life on a Shelf may seem at times, I assure you that all of them are hatched from an embryonic guiding vision which was subjected to vigorous cerebral computation before I expelled it onto the page. Or something.

My “ritualistic preparation” these days involves brewing a pot of coffee while my laptop boots up, then stepping out onto my balcony to smoke a cigarette. I assume other writers have their own routines (although I can’t fathom how anybody gets anything done without coffee and cigarettes). As for me, a Camel Blue and five minutes of pensive silence are the ideal trappings to activate the creative headspace I need to be in to get down to business, and a glug of Pacific Northwest Blend with plenty of creamer supplies a constructive intermission whenever I need to gather my thoughts before finishing a sentence… like I just did after I typed those ellipses.

These elements are easily managed—I think about stuff all the time, and I’ve been known to smoke cigarettes and drink coffee even when I’m not writing. In fact, “elementary discipline” is the sole truly daunting component of the “process” (“pretentious fucking quotation marks again”). Though you might imagine the most challenging aspect of being a writer is generating quality material, this is absolutely not the case. Have you ever browsed the Romance section at a bookstore? Next time you do, select any novel with a bare-chested cowboy or highlander on the cover and read the synopsis on the back; you will promptly ascertain that something as otiose as quality never factored into that author’s process. Admittedly, I’ve never written a Romance novel, but I’ve read enough of them to deduce their methodology: devise a serviceable plot which strikes the delicate balance of sappy and rapey that is essential to the genre, concoct a couple names like Liam O’Shaughnessey and Analisa Winthrope, then start cranking out pages. Whether or not the finished product turns out any good is basically irrelevant; it got written. And ultimately, that’s all that matters.

Which brings us to the crux of the issue, my friends: the only difficult thing about writing… is actually writing. As in, sitting down and fucking doing it. Whether you have ideas or not. Whether you have time or not. Whether you even want to or not.

I am battling against all of those things at present. I don’t have any concrete concept of where this piece should go, despite having already listened to the trio of Chiodos discs I own two times each. I suppose I do technically have time because I’m not at work and I’m not asleep—however, it is currently 2:49 a.m., so I’m only a couple hours away from officially being up Stupidly Late. And if I’m being totally honest, I don’t particularly feel like writing this right now. Actually, I haven’t much felt like writing anything lately.

Popular legend asserts that Jack Kerouac authored On the Road in a single marathon, chemical-fueled session. That particular work has of course accumulated a mythic significance, and the integral way its unorthodox genesis factors into the iconography of The Beat Generation’s magnum opus cannot be overstated—there’s just something irresistibly romantic about the notion of a writer so driven to immortalize his masterpiece that he hammered away at it non-stop until he purged the whole thing out of his head and onto the page. On the Road’s putative origin story is such a renowned facet of its existence, it hardly matters anymore that the accepted account of Kerouac composing the novel in one fever-dream sitting is pure hyperbole. It actually took him three full weeks to type the thing, and he was only able to do it that quickly because he had been sketching out the manuscript in his journals for several months beforehand. I’m not pointing this out to belittle the impact of Kerouac’s most revered literary contribution—although I personally found On the Road prodigiously underwhelming when I finally read it, I still concede that crafting an entire novel in three weeks is a duly impressive feat. Even so, for our purposes here, I would like it known that the quixotic notion of writers routinely hunkering down and hammering out text in a frenetic slit-jugular gush is absolute bullshit.

The truth is this: writing is almost never borne from lightning-in-a-bottle surges of inspiration. The vast majority of prose is instead borne from endless, maddening hours spent agonizing over a single word. An entire afternoon spent obsessing over one sentence that will inevitably undergo further alteration when you re-read it the next afternoon and realize it’s still not sitting quite right. Days and nights and months and years whose elapses become measured in pages—days and nights and months and years spent toiling in seclusion. Writing is lonely, punishing work that yields limitless frustration and only sporadic satisfaction. It is the most bi-polar of artistic expressions, a drug that poisons as often as it cures, and you never know which trip you’re in store for from one fix to the next. To be a writer is to give your heart to a mistress who demands steadfast devotion while she repeatedly punches you in the face, yet you keep coming back for more because every now and then she gives you a really awesome kiss instead. Asked what advice they would give to aspiring wordsmiths who wanted to know the secret to living a happy life as a writer, one prominent author is said to have remarked: “Don’t be a writer.” This quote is possibly apocryphal, but when I heard it, I believe it was attributed to Sylvia Plath—or maybe I just assume Sylvia Plath said it because she ended her life by sticking her head into her fucking oven. And, frankly, I don’t think she chose an entirely unreasonable course of action. Because, goddamn, this shit really hurts sometimes.

I am not Jack Kerouac. I did not shape my debut novel in one sitting, or even in three weeks. It took me five grueling years. Once I garnered the interest of an agent, I spent another several months editing my tome to the more marketable length she advised me to trim it to, then spent an additional several months patiently waiting while she shopped it. It was a protracted and sometimes excruciating interval. But one of the things that kept me afloat while I was laboring on this intensive undertaking was my presumption that its consummation was bound to feel like the afterglow of an epic make-out session.

Regrettably, it has not.

Since I finished the book, I have instead found myself in the grip of an acute postpartum depression. I do not feel triumphant, I feel lethargic and uninspired. This is a turn of events I did not foresee—throughout the half-decade I spent striving to complete that project, in the back of my mind I was simultaneously making grand plans to commence a new endeavor, and to subsequently start churning out huge chunks of pages on this one (or at least finish the goddamn letter “C”). And now, at last, for the past few months I have had several hours a day to fill with whatever artistic activities I choose… but I haven’t particularly desired to spend any of those hours doing anything artistic (the most significant feat I’ve been able to muster thus far is re-watching the first three seasons of Miami Vice).

I think I know what has instigated this listlessness. While I was working on the novel, my exclusive goal was its completion; the success or failure of that mission rested solely in my hands. However, my present goal is considerably loftier: I want the thing to get released so I can begin the career I’ve been chasing for two decades… and this is something I have absolutely no jurisdiction over. The outcome of that mission will be decreed by the prospective publishers who will determine the course of the rest of my life, faceless strangers who have the capacity to shatter all of my dreams simply by emailing the word “pass” to my agent.

Which many, many, many have already done.

I am incredibly grateful to be as far along on the course as I am. I am incredibly grateful that a representative at the most prestigious literary agency in the world read something I wrote and found enough merit in it to decide, “this guy doesn’t suck.” I am prouder of the novel I produced than I have been of anything I’ve ever created, and there are passages in it that are so good I can hardly believe I’m the one who wrote them. The manuscript represents an impeccable embodiment of the vision I had when I first sat down and started plucking away at it all those years ago, blissfully unaware of the weight and scope of the expedition I was about to embark on because it was a journey I had never taken before. I bumbled my way through the early chapters as I struggled to gain purchase on the story I wanted to tell, I gradually got to know my characters, and along the way I fell in love with some and grew to despise others, just as I hoped my eventual readers would. Writing the book was a revelatory experience—I became intimately acquainted not only with my craft, but also with the vastness of my passion for it. I drew upon reserves of endurance I did not even know I possessed, consuming innumerable days grinding on the text for six hours straight, breaking away only to go work an eight-hour restaurant shift, then coming home and writing some more until the sun came up before finally collapsing into my bed to sleep for five hours so I could wake up and do the exact same thing again the next day. It took literal and figurative years off my life, but I wrote a novel. And even better, when it was finished, I realized I had somehow written one that I think is pretty goddamn fantastic.

But I’m not basking in victory at the moment—I’m fucking terrified. Because now, after dozens of rejections, there is an increasingly strong chance that no one will ever read my pretty goddamn fantastic novel and this aspiration I have been working toward my entire life will culminate in failure.

I understand that every successful writer surely weathered numerous rebuffs before someone believed in their work enough to green-light their publishing career. My cognizance of this should probably provide me some measure of solace, perhaps assure me that I am in good company and merely going through another step of the “process.”

Except that’s not how I feel right now at all. Right now, I feel like I did the best I could, but the best I can do simply isn’t good enough.

And since we’re putting it all on the table here, I can freely admit that some of my melancholy stems from all of this happening while I’m counting down the final weeks of my thirties. I’ve never placed much significance on age-related milestones—sure, I was depressed when I turned 30, but that was mostly because I was still recovering from a recent break-up; I was also depressed when I turned 35, but that was mostly because I started that birthday eating alone at a Denny’s at two in the morning, which is an inherently depressing way to kick off your birthday irrespective of the year. I realize that being 40 is roughly as inconsequential as being 39 in the scheme of things. Only, it’s kind of fucking not.

It’s not so much the age itself that unsettles me—most of the time, I still conduct myself like an 18 year-old with an advanced record collection and an excessive proportion of grey in his beard; I’ve even grown out my belly and my hair again, so whenever I put on a Slayer shirt I don’t look a whole lot different than I did when I was actually 18. No, the aspect of turning 40 that I find discomfiting is purely internal: I can’t help myself from holding the general assumption that someone who has been on this planet for 40 years should probably have their shit together. And I know I do not. In almost every conceivable realm of my existence, I am behind the curve of innate anthropological evolution: I have not married or procreated, my current vocation is in an industry where even my superiors are at least a decade younger than me, and I still regularly stay up until 5 a.m. eating Doritos while I binge-view Friday The 13th films (in case you’re thinking of investing some time in the franchise, be cautioned that Part VIII: Jason Takes Manhattan is not merely the worst entry in the series by a massive margin, it is an absolutely unredeemable piece of shit; I’ve only watched that one like 20 times).

When you’re young, 40 seems inconceivably ancient. And no matter how intimately you stay in touch with the edition of yourself who thought that way, sometimes 40 seems inconceivably ancient when you’re 39, too. That clichéd adage “you’re only as old as you feel” delivers no comfort whatsoever on the nights you come home at three in the morning after trudging through nine hours of the food-service work you’ve been slogging in the trenches of for ten years, when you’re depleted and sore and desperately wishing you had some other skillset to realistically earn a decent living, and you evaluate your throbbing feet and your aching back and your weary brain and conclude that if you truly are as old as you feel, then you might have accidentally blinked and turned 65 during your shift. I’m uncertain if I’m old enough to accurately classify myself as old, but I am certainly too old to accurately classify myself as young, and I am old enough to be painfully aware of this.

Consequently, I’m probably also too old to be listening to Chiodos, an archetypal emo ensemble whose musical ethos predominantly evokes a more symphonic incarnation of My Chemical Romance, with intermittent screamy-growly vocals and plenty of requisitely-unwieldy song titles like “I Didn’t Say I Was Powerful, I Said I Was A Wizard”. It’s unlikely I will ever see Chiodos live since they split up in 2016, though I can presume with minimal imprecision that if I did go to one of their shows I would be older than every other person there. Tellingly, the group’s eldest member was only 30 when they disbanded, which suggests that even the dudes who actually played in Chiodos deemed their music unsuitable for people my age.

Despite my cultural incompatibility, I do like Chiodos, and I think a few of their tunes may even merit the designation of awesome. I don’t know if this justifies owning three of their records—the only one I spin with any regularity is 2014’s Devil, mostly for the scorching cut “Ole Fishlips Is Dead Now”, a balls-out metal opus whose bridge section is as thrillingly brutal as its title is silly. Come to think of it, there are a lot of things about the band’s sonic and imagistic aesthetic that strike me as silly, so I’m not sure I entirely understand why I like them. Further, I’m not sure I’m even supposed to like them. In a very real sense, Chiodos embodies the epoch when I officially stopped being part of the demographic that music for young people is aimed at: their debut record—2005’s All’s Well That Ends Well—was released the summer after I graduated from college to presumably take my first steps into proper adulthood (although, I spent most of that summer smoking pot and playing Tekken with my then-girlfriend from two in the afternoon until sunrise, which may not have necessarily qualified as “adulting”).

As such, my initial awareness of Chiodos was primarily defined by my not being aware of them at all. They were exactly the sort of outfit that headlined the Vans Warped Tour the very first year a line-up for that festival was announced which forced me to concede I hadn’t heard of any of the bands performing at an event I had once attended religiously. I don’t think I even registered this sea-change at the time (I think I mostly just grumbled, “dude, the Warped Tour line-up sucks this year”). Yet as Chiodos and I continued advancing on our separate paths, I gradually became conscious that my alt-rock era had officially come to an unceremonious end and a legion of skinny-jean-and-eye-liner-wearing dudes with injudicious haircuts and a multiplicity of neck tattoos had seized the mantle. Since this new crop of youth-medium-t-shirt bands—Falling In Reverse, Sleeping With Sirens, Pierce The Veil, et al—looked so ridiculous to me, I naturally assumed they also sounded ridiculous; upon further inspection, many of these bands do, indubitably, sound ridiculous. However, somewhere along the way, I began to accept an uncomfortable truth: my inability to wholeheartedly appreciate the music of the alt-young is more my fault than the bands’.

It would be extremely narrow-minded of me to sum up what we’ll call the emo scene—for lack of a better term—as “loud songs about girls” (especially since the inclusion of pretty songs about girls between the loud songs about girls is precisely the reason so many girls like the bands in this genus). Nonetheless, on a fundamental level, the vast majority of the music in that canon is indeed characterized by myopic lyrical musings about assorted stages of the boy-meets-girl-boy-loses-girl paradigm. Even the heaviest track in the Chiodos catalog (the afore-mentioned “Ole Fishlips”) features a chorus that begins with the lines: “I want to forget you / You’ve broken everything I love, took all my light and turned it into dusk.” Granted, that’s a damn solid stanza, but it’s not one I can presently relate to. Those words don’t evoke anything in my current existence—the last time someone took all my light and turned it into dusk was a full five years ago; I can barely remember what that felt like now, let alone what being in love to begin with felt like. As much as I appreciate some of the music crafted by acts of Chiodos’ ilk on a purely “that rocks” level, it simply doesn’t resonate with me on an emotional level. The most pressing concerns in my world aren’t centered around whether any of my foxy co-workers like-me-like-me or not; I’m a lot more worried about how I’m going to pay my rent in a few years when my body is too broken down for me to be their co-worker anymore.

Which brings about a more imperative revelation that is just now dawning on me: there isn’t a whole lot of modern rock I can relate to. People of my advanced age are ostensibly supposed to listen to bands like Coldplay, whose music has never spoken to me at all—near as I can tell, most of their songs are either about how exhilarating it feels to discover a great new organic juice bistro or the simple pleasure of trying on an Abercrombie & Fitch v-neck that fits you just right. There aren’t too many rock frontmen writing tunes about wrestling with an uncertain future while the mounting impediments of middle age conspire to diminish their tenacity. Maybe that’s why most of the new records I get excited about are still by death metal bands, whose tunes eschew any musings on situational angst or starry-eyed ardor in favor of graphic elucidations of the various phases of the deceasing process (being violently killed, decomposition, the ensuing sexual defilement of one’s corpse, etc.). Perhaps it’s depressing that I think about dying a lot more frequently than I think about girls these days, yet the fact remains that my particular juncture of the mortal cycle is sorely underrepresented in the contemporary rock register. Aerosmith’s “Dream On” was written way back in 1973; what the fuck have you done for me lately?

When I hear a twenty-something vocalist plaintively bemoaning insecurity about his place in the world, it doesn’t elicit a poignant response from me anymore—now I just sort of meh-shrug because I know he has plenty of time to figure his shit out (and, besides, I find it difficult to sympathize with the amorous woes of any dude with flawless cheekbones who belts out those songs every night to a sea of female fans so devoted to him that they’d willingly gouge out the eyes of the person standing next to them if he told them they could touch his penis afterwards). An audience of that singer’s peers is wholly in synch with that species of nebulous life anxieties, so they are undoubtedly buoyed to ascertain that a musician they esteem is going through the same trials as them. But I am no longer in that audience, no longer a peer. I can hardly blame any of those bands or their fans for my being a man staring down his 40’s; they didn’t do that to me, time did. Regardless, I have become increasingly incapable of forging a sincere connection with them, which makes it tough for me to take them seriously since they ply their trade via an art-form that is the most singular connective tissue of my being.  

I’m of course minimizing for humorous and dramatic effect. There are plenty of more recent outfits whose work has invigorated me over these last few years (if you want me to name names, I’ll happily toss out Modern Baseball, White Lung, Pity Sex, TV Ghost, Moon King, Thee Oh Sees, and Warpaint, among others). Still, I am perpetually reminded that as I segue into my future, most of the truly significant musical figures in my life are destined to remain those who came into my life in my past—especially when I consider that out of the six upcoming concerts I currently have tickets for, not one of the bands I’m going to see was formed in this century.

Chiodos was a very good band. Perhaps even a great one. They authored some creative, impressively-technical music that was executed by a cast of clearly skilled players. Devil is a consistently killer record from start to finish. Judging by how many of their stylistic flourishes I’ve noted in the work of several similar outfits that arrived in their wake, Chiodos is probably terribly important to a large number of people a generation removed from me. Nonetheless, as much as I enjoy a lot of their tunes, Chiodos is just not terribly important to me—I am writing about them here simply because they are the next band in my library.

What is important to me, however, is overcoming this dismal miasma that has settled over me. I have no desire to spend my 40’s the same way I spent most of my 30’s: ever-crawling dejectedly onward, all the while recognizing my destiny like a beacon on the distant horizon and wondering when I will reach it, inexorably waiting for the life I want to live to finally begin. After facing numerous setbacks—the worst being a deal that was actually on paper awaiting signatures, one that my agent was forced to pass on to protect me because of an untenable small-print proviso which ceded absolute ownership of my work to the publisher—the status of my authorial career is thus: my best option now is to craft another novel and restart the process from scratch. The challenge this poses is fresh and staggering: now I know precisely how difficult it is to write a novel, how long it takes, how much of myself will be devoured along the way. And I will have to plunge into this undertaking without any assurance that eventual success will ensue, since it did not the first time.

Yet if I have any prayer of meeting that challenge, first I have to dissipate this fog that has enveloped me. I cannot complete the task until I begin it in earnest. So maybe, just maybe, if I can coax myself to finish an essay about a band that doesn’t mean anything to me, I’ll be able to coax myself back to pursuing the desire that means everything to me.

It’s time for me to sit down again. And fucking do it. Whether I have ideas or not. Whether I have time or not. Whether I even want to or not. Like chaste Analisa Winthrope—who initially resists the brutish advances of that notorious rogue Liam O’Shaughnessey, until she beholds the throbbing nucleus of manhood beneath his kilt and finally yields to the humid yearning in her loins—I must succumb to my passion.

Because writing isn’t something I do. It’s what I am. Sure, those punches in the face are never pleasant. But, man, when I get those kisses instead…

This probably isn’t the best installment of Life on a Shelf I’ve ever composed. It might not even be a particularly strong one.

But that’s basically irrelevant. It got written.

And right now, ultimately, that’s all that matters.

 April 5, 2018