Spilling Tea and Making Amends

Andy Pink — live from jersey city it's android from the future, yes, yes —

I am at thinking cup (cock) and i have managed to spill half of my green tea iced tea, on the bar, and like me: feel deeply ashamed. the good angle: the brown haired hipster boys appear not to be here this morning so that is a saving grace. maybe i'm too old to carry a plastic cup. i need a younger man (25-35) to help carry my load, after load. i would think there would be some sweet pup who would like to play outside the crate.

happening, someone from jersey city (nj) has accidentally clicked on my site, from an android cellphone if you can believe it. actually, i have some following from android phones, rarely an iphone, check mate. i'm not sure why one would try to check out the website on the phone, it looks like confusion and error on the mobile site, so i imagine it is an accident. but what is he searching? i cannot find my website on a google even if i type in the name of the page, so i can't see that a new visitor would find the url, especially on their phone. they must be searching for gay porn, on their phone, but i think that would be a kind of pressure that even the best chronic masturbator could resist: who looks at porn on the T, and why would one do so given the magical apps that are available on the current pail of androids and phones?

point 1: i spilled my green tea iced tea at thinking cup

point 2: i am ashamed of my public mistake (shame is about failure to an external judgment, and guilt is about failure of one's own internal judgment; i rarely have guilt, but i do have shame. caveat: it's very easy to undo this difference shame/guilt, as the internal (shame) is no doubt also a product of the external (guilt). in fact, you could say that guilt is imposed by the outside, whereas shame is an internal reaction to the shame).

point 3: i need to get laid, or appear to myself that i have already been laid, or that i am right now in the process of getting laid. I have to trick myself that i fucked a boy, even if this is an illusion (rather than a delusion). i'll write this illusion, later, when it simply becomes a lie.

jeff vomited last night, I was very nice to him, i would never discipline my dog, i swept it with my cum rag that i use on my button-downs. dear jeff, i love you, but you eat too quickly, i too have this problem, along with proportion, but jeff, you eat too quickly, i will protect your food, i'm right here bubs.

point 4: i need a match andy newbie. i feel that the website is tired and old, possibly offensive, and certainly out of date (1917). my will to revise the website (add, subtract, mostly inflate) is still on hiatus, i have no indication to innovate, and without a reader — thank you, finally, mister man from jersey city, with your little android phone and sticky hands — i'm lost, even writing the "notes on marxism" (nee "from equivalence to singularity") volume feels like the aperture of my own personal void in space and time.

the hipster joke of the week:

"how many hipsters does it take to screw in a lightbulb?"

"what, you don't know?"

the abilify injection — i say quietly to my faggots and dykes on crazymeds —arrived earlier than expected. i was home with jeff, he came in, did his duty, checked out the apt, and left, with a bit of blood from the sting of an unimaginably viscous syrup, on my bicep.

one of the saddest images in culture is the good-looking guy with the fat chick. what is he thinking?! and what is she eating?

with lust, andy pink on the way to jersey —

it's the white of it