get off ritalin and playstation, get some natural endorphins pumping (jogging, thai boxing, running the 'encierro') and know that sentiment is the sediment of living, the gravel of feelings left on the floor, lit by the fireworks in the sky come satan, come him now

i would get a business degree from DeVry university, move to Missouri or Ohio, get a job as a manager at Sizzler or Cinnabon, and hire young somewhat boring and maternal waitresses until one wanted to marry me, marry her, and cook steaks on the weekends, build a tree house for my son, and my pet turtle's belly, and nap diagonally on my deck, in the sun, the gin gimlet crying in place of my own tears, the wheeze of leaves yonder, in some asthma of this world which makes your chest sink, ache

the only human being i love, besides the generic love-like feeling one feels towards their extended family, is my mother. i am both constantly in her debt, and on her mind. let's not start on another sad story. be well

i don't quite understand what assholes have to do with being sensitive. being sensitive is a good thing, so hold on to it. you may get hurt a little more, and have empty beer cans thrown at you in texas or wyoming, but that's okay. maybe you'll write a poem that will help someone one day. good day, and good luck

formspring is shutting down on april 15. try not to find a point in things, but enjoy them as they are, like there's no point in making mac & cheese, but it's still really good. best in life, take care

i occasionally post cartoons of various characters on my twitter @chen_village, i encourage you to follow me.

they are the future. i envision mentoring a young sensitive lad, as a surrogate son to whom i am not legally liable, and deeply influencing/augmenting his taste in scotch, women, literature, and jazz. he will cry at my death bed, grasping at a jaundiced human jerky, my fresh corpse spotted with his salty tears (and his girlfriend's), like brine in braille, of spiritual blindness for this ol' fucken turkey

i blame inflated and ineffective government on a city, county, and federal level(s); i blame my father for being negligent (ages 0-6), emotionally/psychologically abusive (ages 6-18), just a basic dick (18-ongoing), from which my anxiety, depression, and overall pathos stems; i blame my mother for her inadvertently complicit co-dependence (i.e. staying with him, resigned acceptance, being 'helpless'), by which i have learned how to be in all relationships (romantic, work, pedestrian); i blame joy division for being overrated, and their affectedly depressed girl fans who keep tumblr-ing the cover for 'unknown pleasures' under the unexamined conceit that it's original; i blame educated-yet-fucked relatively hot white girls for soliciting my emotional support w/o tending to the physical needs formed naturally during such ostensible intimacy; i blame unemployed hippies for having self-righteous political ideologies which require the very taxes they are too intrinsically lazy to earn; i blame muslims and christians for their ongoing perverse narrative/fixation on death & pain; i blame god for either being absent or a narcissistic psychotic asshole; i blame pop music for making depressed people pressured into feeing good, country music for its gross and implicitly xenophobic nationalism, and rap for auto-tuning black guys who can't sing; i blame GQ, Esquire, Metallica, Judd Apatow et al (i.e. institutions deemed "manly") for not including asian men, hence our illegitimacy as sexual mates and broad cultural diaspora; and finally, i blame stoic bartenders with tattoo sleeves who serve me, a clear well-dressed gentry, with a kind of under-adjusted vague marxist vibe when in fact they're just being children with irrelevant bachelor degrees reduced by a society they obviously decry, absurdly conveyed in the non-receptiveness of my patronage to their employers

if the rhinoplasty renders their once deformed or grievous nose into something with which one might acclimate into society better, than i am relieved for her; if the rhinoplasty is meant to make her (perhaps a self-hating jew) look more gentile, then i empathize with self-hatred and systemic body dysmorphia, but highly discourage her; if the rhinoplasty merely augments a woman of supposed beauty cosmetically, for the purposes of 'social climbing' and other vain and ephemeral pursuits, then i wish her punishment in the form of the very people she will attract with her new nose

i wasnt aware of it until i googled it. i'm happy for him. he's always seemed like a modest and devoted writer who's been writing for awhile and surely deserves the recognition hes getting. so i'm happy for him. as for hype, publishers and newspapers and reviewers/critics sort of need hype to give themselves constant relevance -- because enough has been written (and published) already to last every human for the rest of their lives i.e. we don't really need books anymore. as for saunders, i tried reading 'in persuasion nation' and didn't like it. the writing felt really 'jumpy' in a way that seemed to rely on post-modernism to justify what i felt was either a tic, or affectation. like he's a stylist. the writing didn't seem honest, but that's just my uneducated and biased opinion. my main point is i'm happy for him, and i wish him the best

(for readers who don't know, campbell's cartoon is of morose nature, and he has admitted to not actually being depressed.) my thoughts are twofold, and somewhat contradictory. (1) i think it's okay to be rhetorically depressed, since most authors/artists do that. e.g. i don't think picasso actually saw the world draped in blue during his blue period; it's like he squeezed the blue onto his palette thinking 'sweet, going to make some great depressed paintings now.' the only authors who were truly depressed were kafka, malcolm lowry , and maybe richard yates. everyone else was just being dramatic, like....ooohh...william gass you're in the tunnel...must be so dark in there...you're so complicated...fuck that. (2) i actually think campbell is faking not being depressed, like a super meta thing, ironically not on purpose though, like maybe he's not clinically depressed, but it does take a certain grotesque 'world view' to see things the way he does (mike judge is a similar example). the worst example of not actually being depressed was winona ryder and angelina jolie in 'girl, interrupted.' i wanted to have a threesome with them where i, handless, pop a load in my straightjacket out of sheer will

i believe i have already talked about NPR, but since you're not one to browse my archives, i shall repeat myself. i like NPR because their voices are solemn, and they help me fall asleep at night, someone talks about Syria, or Salman Rushdie's new novel, or somebody's thoughts about the Eco-system, or what Michael Pollan ate & didn't eat (kale & chicken nuggets, respectively) and his thoughts about it, or some dysenteric river in Pakistan murky as chocolate milk, and i join the union of well informed liberals who, met by the world's troubles, falls asleep

football and basketball is funny cause it's one white guy controlling a bunch of black guys, like slavery; baseball is funny cause it's a bunch of white guys patiently not speaking to each other, like a gigantic gay marriage; tennis is funny cause it's hot women watching hot guys between mercedes commercials, and love is used to score things; hockey is funny cause every missing tooth is a black square like a malevich painting; ping pong is funny because the chinese guy always wins but doesn't get ass. overall i feel like everyone i implicated herein is retarded

then you remain cremated into dust finer than coffee grounds, poured into an over-priced urn, shelved in a cold mausoleum, the plastic flowers set by your survived still wilting over the years, the daily saunter of light paling their color into anonymous hue, the occasional yelp of your decedents, and the click of their dress shoes on the marble floor growing distant, until you hear the car engine, going home

if by travel you mean the destination, then a european city with old cheese and paintings, both emanating the funk of obsolete notions, a haggard pigeon aimlessly pecking on church steps; if by travel you mean the migration, then a 'mega' bus in autumn driving through new england, the menstrual red of leaves bled out into bright piss yellow, layered clouds stacked as godless pancakes rippling towards canada, some chill down two nostrils into the cave that misses you

only inadvertently via a moderately healthy diet, not as supplements; sometimes if my lips are crackin' i'll eat a wedge of lemon and grimace for the clementine that never was

i think it's dumb that just because a porn actress is not completely retarded (i.e. she knows who Melville is and what the United Nations does) that makes her 'literary'; yes, K.K., S., and S.G. are on the articulate side (and arguably employ some kind of kitschy self-awareness with their use of pig snout masks, teddy bears w/ dildos, and other porn tropes), but i would hate to head a poem by them; three lines of jizz ain't a haiku

i think about a hooker's herpes sore covered up in foundation, her pubic razor burn tentatively alleviated with walgreens-brand baby lotion, a handful of crumbled $20s on the counter soaked in gin, the TVs antarctic light summoning the shadows of our limps as mutant shadow puppets on the walls, the hollow wail into a condom, his progeny condemned, her rent made, begging her to sleep over, her face losing its youth, a baby crow's feet growing up, black painted eyes now marking the pillowcase with J.W. Turner-esque smudges, as if some war torn sky set aflame were being painted, years ago and far away, when it took ships and slaves to carry me to you

to got a bratwurst sausage 'to go' and ate it with 2 grasses of wine while watching news about the 'fiscal cliff,' then steeped a cup of herbal tea and drank it while watching 'teeth,' a movie about a girl with teeth in her hootchy (vagina dentata) that she uses to chew up/off dudes' dongs, which was a great movie & made me squirm, then i googled imaged the actress looking for wank-material (nada), then i considered going to a thing i was invited to but didn't because it would involve a $12 cover, cigarette smoke, and the depressing platonic champagne toast at 12:00 a.m. and 12:01 a.m. metaphor for disappointment, so i just watched the 1st 3 episodes of Ali G. show on DVD, took a shower, and watched MTVs countdown from 11:47 to 12:00, where i sort of clapped by myself at 12:00 while considering the absurdity that this was recorded 'live' 3 hours ago on EST, then felt sort of sad that i was alone, that there was no one to kiss, save the 3000 x 6200 resolution lips of riley reid, who had been staring at me in an unblinking .jpeg, and whose semblance i had to 'wake up' every time my iMac went to 'sleep' in a black gentle mini-suicide i always i envy, some hispanic neighbors lit illegal fireworks too late, as those kinds of people are often late, the sky shed orange tears of falling light, a dog barked, a booty call parked, ke$ha was auto-tuned on stage, carson daly held in a fart, my mom left a VM of good wishes and worry, which hurt my heart with love, the serrated edge of my feelings retracted through my ribs, and the world was in order