#which is what articles actually come from as far as I've heard so maybe they'll develop at some point in the future

[marietheran]

Polish: ...

Polish: ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

[lauvra]

Yesterday I came upon a book that I'd never heard of before, and familiar electric signals pulsed through my brain: this would be, like, my sixteenth Rollins. The book stayed firmly in my clasp while I browsed other shelves, even finally giving the occult quarter it's due but just before heading to the counter, opened the title page to tally my collection and saw something I'd never considered dreading; the man's signature. The book was priced at one hundred dollars. It was a collection of his LA Weekly Articles, a first in the 'Before the Chop' series, and I'd never read any of them. When I tell you how conflicted I felt, to know he signs most of his books... but not knowing how rare a find this was, only knowing he doesn't stock almost any books online anymore... I didn't buy the thing, I told no one in particular that he'd only laugh at me. Today, to stay out of trouble I sat to read in my unofficial booth out front my favourite bar and read most of Good Old Neon, by DFW. If anybody is sick of hearing about the guy, it's too bad, I've only known about him for two years (maybe I'd seen This Is Water, the commencement speech, however) and am still only thigh deep in his mind whether any of us like it... I've been sitting here for maybe half an hour in darkness listening to someone graffiti the tin fence beside my head. Every time I make a noise, they go silent, I think if I make apparent enough human sounds they'll flee but they don't, so, instead of sitting here silently paranoid it's someone I'll know, I've opted to open this doomed laptop back up and write in my dark corner, with the unflattering angles of my face illuminated to any stranger that deigns to peek through the holes in the wall; most of which I've already shoved pieces of garbage through to conceal myself in the case of such an event: I'm a lunatic. If I can keep my composure and write even though my psychotic paranoid mind wants me to focus on whoever is writing on my house, I think I'm doing well. Where was I? Good Old Neon. So, I'm actually reading The David Foster-Wallace Reader, which is almost as thick as Infinite Jest, but far more approachable in that it's a series of carefully selected chunks of both his larger works, and short stories... okay, one guy just whistled to another, literally too subtle, bro, I am dying... most followed by annotations from prominent authors. So far, a couple have been pretty difficult to read, difficult in that they reference suicide and... with such an intelligence that only comes from somebody who has considered the 'awful thing' from pretty much every single angle. If you somehow didn't already know, David killed himself in 2008, which makes these quasi-fictional stories all the more coloured in their already sincere condensed nature. Okay I literally can't concentrate, and all I want to do is sneak down the alleyway to see WHO IS DOIN WHAT. I can't even edit this right now, such is my distraction. I still pay way too much attention to the writing on every wall. Oh God, there's even a skateboard, I wanna fart. Loud.