Colony of Losers- Fuck Stigma and Mental Illness, I'm like 25

Surviving your Quarter Life Crisis and becoming an adult

I’m Here For This

Posted on | December 9, 2017 | No Comments

As I was meditating in a crowded room I started thinking about the difference between thinking and eating.

If you had a moldy sandwich you wouldn’t take a second bite. But we’re fascinated by our worst thoughts and dedicate endless time to explore them. Not because we enjoy the feeling but because we are looking for some way to avoiding having those thoughts. It’s like we decide we aren’t supposed to have these thoughts. We aren’t here for this.

And we get trapped, where we push away our own experience in the insane craving to only have good feelings. Thus a good amount of time we spend alive we miss out on everything that happens to us. That craving doesn’t pull us closer to the good moments. We are simply training ourselves in the art of cowardice.  Pursuing an escape that is impossible. Where all we accomplish is removing ourselves from moments where we are needed.

The mantra, “I’m here for this.” occurred to me.

Like what if when we were jealous we didn’t decide that these feelings were unworthy. If we just sat without it and deciding that getting familiar with this feeling was part of life’s work. That it would help us understand people who find themselves in these traps and we could help them stay with those feelings until the feelings left of their own accord. I’ve been muttering this to myself lately everytime I’m in an experience that doesn’t hit my incredibly high standards for what life should be.

The trap is disassociation. Because you aren’t constructed in manageable interlocking segments and no IT professional in the world has the talent to make a person into an Iphone. And you’ll never be the person you want to be. Who only has thoughts approved by society, who speaks exclusively from the heart, who isn’t sometimes the worst human being in the world. Follow back the string to the beginning. At some point way way back in the day the Dalai Lama and Donald Trump came from the same family tree. In your heart the blood of dicatators and dancers fight to hold the machinery that makes the Wizard of Oz moves. Accepting yourself in a way means accepting everything.

And so much of what makes our world a horrible place is the ever desired presence of an exit door. We are all looking for one. Thinking that somehow this door will lead to a party where we don’t have to try anymore. Where being human isn’t about navigating all of our sharp contours, where are smooth as rocks that will skip infinitely through a calm sea.

I’m not a particularly smart guy. More idiot than Einstein. I know this because I see the unedited version of my thoughts. Made up of impulse that make me sneak an occassional selfie onto Instagram just to see if pretty girls like them. I’m as lonely as a person can be sometimes. And I’m a smooth ass motherfucker with dance moves and the perfect words. I’m a muggle and I’m magic. If I’m just here for the best parts my life becomes moments instead of hours.

I hate the idea that when I’m having a good conversation I’m often only half listening. Puzzling on how I can solve myself. How I can stop myself from feeling moments of annoyance. I want to listen to every word you say. I want to save nothing for the next conversation. I want to try my hardest at every job I’m given. I want to be there. Because worrying has never solved my problems. Because I have never needed to have a conversation before I’m actually having it. I want back all the hours I’ve spent wondering through Toronto with my head lost in a story. Because leaves fell to the ground all in an hour when the weather got cold they had to fall from brunches. And the leaves littered the ground like snow. Until the branches were clean and vulnerable and looked like life admitting that death didn’t come at the end.

I want to have great moments with people I’ll never talk to again.  I want to give people the chance to say everything they want to.

There isn’t a better place than this.

I’m here for this.

And then they ring a gong.

I go out to eat cookies and drink tea.

I speak to people I may never talk to again.

We laugh and don’t think about anything other than what’s happening.

I’m here for this. For every bit of it.

 

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Your Heart Is A Genius

Posted on | November 24, 2017 | No Comments

For some reason this phrase keeps repeating in my brain.

Your heart is a genius.

It goes along with other butchered buddhist phrases I mutter to myself as I wake up in the morning.

What I take this sentence to mean is the difference between head and heart and it’s really, really simple. Your head is about you. Full of survival instinct and pride and self. Your heart is about finding some way to connect what’s going inside of you directly to the world. Your heart is your way out of your head. A secret door waiting to be opened.

Yes, all of this might sound like a cliche or a bunch of pretty Hallmark phrases put next to eachother begging for exclamation marks and gifs of Unicorns with diamond eyes. But the point of this post is actually about leveraging and optimizing the difference between the head and heart. No need for mass layoffs and restructuring.

Just listen. Beat. Beat. Beat.

When something bad happens you have two options. One is to go with the head. This will involve seeing your misfortune as a confirmation of your fears and hopes. You can decide what happened is unfair and you can feel special and specifically isolated. As your head is dedicating to confirming your identity and can provide beautiful reasonable explanations to any horror you need to justify.

Or you can go to the heart. You can lean into your pain. What is threatening and something you desperately need to escape can be transformed. You can see how it connects you to everyone else who is alive. That overwhelming feeling can feel like authentic connection with the fragile nature of existence. And instead of confining pain, you can feel the weight of it as sympathy. For everyone else who lives and has to deal with how little control they have over their own fate. Same chemical sensation. But a fundamentally different feeling and a different set of reactions.

Excitement and nervousness stimulate the exact same sensations. It’s just what you decide to feel. You can be excited for a date or you can be trembling in fear. Your heart beats the same speed. But everything else is changed.

Your head is motivated by fear, identity and safety. Your heart by love.

Open the door, bro.

 

 

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Glotka’s wisdom

Posted on | September 27, 2017 | No Comments

Joe Abercrombie is my big recommendation for anyone who enjoyed Game of Thrones and wanted their dark fantasy with a little more funny.

In his First Law trilogy his breakout (Tyrion) level character is named Sand Dan Glotka. In his rosy past Glotka was the foremost duellist in the Union. Until he bravely dashed into an ambush. He was captured and tortured for two years until he was crippled and left with few unshattered teeth. When he was released he promptly joined his country’s torturers and became a legend. The moment I always remember is when he’s asked how could he become a torturer when he knows what it’s like to be tortured. He pauses for a moment. And explains that when you’re tortured you don’t become more merciful or compassionate, you simply long to see someone else suffer in the same way.

The reason I think about this frequently is my immediate response to being shamed. Which is different than being made to feel guilty. Everyone says the wrong thing sometimes. It can be incredibly helpful to be shown your mistakes so that you can avoid repeating them. To be shamed is the difference between doing a bad thing and being a bad person. Currently our social media society is driven by shame. Half of the articles in my feed are about how the people we disagree with must be idiots.

When a person makes me feel shame I don’t think about what drives them to say such hurtful things. I don’t imagine their insecurities or the painful conversation they just had that filled them with this feeling. I immediately think of something I could say that would cut them down to size. Like you want to play this game? I used to battle rap, motherfucker. I can show you yourself in ways you won’t be able to forget. I want to show them how my eyes which can find beauty in anyone, can also measure out the ridiculous and awful in equal measures.

The problem is that shame doesn’t stop when you pass it to another person. Your pain just become someone’s elses. Your behavior just becomes that of your abuser.

In corporate culture there is a very easy way of judging the worth of an employee or coworker. It’s what they do with stress. A bad manager is an incredibly scared one. Because as soon as they feel their stress they add their stress to someone else. And since Glotka’s wisdom remains true, this stress is passed down the line until everyone is feeling it. And the strange thing about this type of anxiety is that you can’t get it out of your system by passing it onto someone else. So they multiply what begin in their mindstate into the reality that surrounds them. And you can feel it passing from person to person like the flu. Then there are the Doctors. Who can relax the chain and bring everyone back to sanity.

These are the people who you want as your boss. Who know the difference between guilt and shame.

I don’t believe in the Secret. Where your thoughts dictate the nature of your reality to the extent that if you think positively you can get everything you ever wanted. There is far too much luck and privelege in the universe for this to be possible. I do however believe that what you put into the world in thought and deed will be felt by those around you.

If you’re angry and looking to regain emotional balance, if you use your anger on someone else they will in turn have to use their anger on you or someone else to return to balance. Emotional outbursts tend to contain the very emotions we are trying to escape. Which will make someone else try to escape them as well. Anger stays as anger. Shame stays as shame. They don’t rarely become compassion or understanding.

Intense emotions make us click on articles. They are meant to appeal to our desire to be right. For us to be right, our opponents have to be idiots. We need confirmation.

I’m not saying that there aren’t people who don’t need to be yelled at. I would argue that there is inconvertible historical proof that yelling at someone tends to not change their opinion. It only makes them feel an intense shame. Which becomes anger because it feels better.  And then they will eject their negative emotions back into the world.

Compassion on the other hand seems to work the same way. You treat someone with respect and understanding they are infinitely more likely to respond to your grievances and actually try to redress the wrong they’ve done you. I’m not saying it will work every time. Just that it’s more likely to work than using shame in the hopes of getting a positive response and changing a situation for the better.

I think there’s a moment where you get to choose.

What type of person you are and how strong you can be. It’s that moment when you feel a blade sliding to your heart. The shame feels like it’s piercing you and you can feel it serated edges until you want to scream. Making you wish you could hide from the world for a million years. And instead of ripping from your chest and ramming it into someone else’s you could pause for a second. If you’re feeling particularly brave you can tell the person who wielded the knife that they’ve hurt you. Right then and there. You’re incredible strong. Unlike most people who hide their wounds until they can fester.

I think who you are is what we do when those moments hit us.

Can we decide to be merciful to ourselves and the people who convert their pain to that of other people.

Will be doctors or torturers?

 

 

 

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The Space Between Fingertips

Posted on | September 23, 2017 | 1 Comment

In Michelangelo’s the “Creation of Adam” God reaches down to touch Adam and create mankind.

For my entire life I’ve been fascinated by this picture. I have never researched anything about the original reason this piece of art was made. I only know what I think of the space between God and Adam’s fingers.

In my early 20s I thought of it as an incredible metaphor of the helplessness of the forces of life that are greater than we are to truly reach us. That when we pray to God, even if that creator does exist, the laws of the universe separate us from his aid. That even if the Creator wanted to perform a miracle he couldn’t do it without destroying the very fabric of our reality.  That God was locked away from us by inches. And that all he could do is reach out to us and find his finger so close he could almost touch us but unable to bridge the gap. The idea of his helpless sorrow struck me as beautiful. And it was an idea of God that didn’t make me feel angry at the injustice at the core of the nature of our world. Imagine the idea of a God who prays. Who watches with hope rather than knowledge.

I mostly believe in God at 3 AM when I’m looking out a window at the moon, trying to reconcile why bad things happen to good people.

It isn’t 3 in the morning and my life is going pretty well.

I  also have been thinking of that space between fingertips in a different way.

I see the space as a moving metaphor for how all empathy is destined for failure, if the hope is for perfect understanding.

To me the greatest mark of empathy is your understanding of that failure. Your whole life you try to connect to someone. There are people that you get so close to you you can feel the electricity of their touch from half a room away but you can’t really know what is motivating them or exactly what they need to hear. You can hallucinate the feeling of direct contact and complete immersion. But when you hear a story you have to imagine it. Every image has to travel through your filters of prejudice and experience. You can try to walk in their shoes but you will make that walk using your legs.

Humans aren’t monolithic. Your experience of life isn’t the same as people as even your siblings who have undergone so much of their life in an exact same manner as you have. You aren’t the group you belong to or most closely identify with. Eyewitnesses of the same crime are notoriously unreliable because of the basic prejudices we all face when we use our perception.

Our whole lives are built around making connection. We desire to completely eliminate the space between fingertips. Because we don’t want to have lived our lives alone. Because we began our lives looking in mirrors and imagining our mothers as an extension of our body. Only the truest kindness is in the understanding of that space. That no experience is the same. That all we can do is helplessly reach across the void in hopes of getting close enough to another person to grant them the gift of mercy from their own experience. To give them a safe passage through their mind and yours.

Doing a little research on this article I discovered that this picture is often thought to be Michelangelo’s message about the human mind and how to live with it. The twelve figures surrounding God and Adam when pieced together resemble different parts of the human brain. Bet you didn’t know that.

I use to think all sentences with the words, “I wish” were an embodiment of helpless anxiety.  I developed this belief during a period of particularly intense anxiety when wishing became an addiction. I decided that wishes should be banished from my vocabulary because I saw them as a desire for a reality that couldn’t exist.

Recently I have been practicing loving kindness meditation.

I sit.

I  wish for someone to be kind, to be loved, to accept the world as it is and to not suffer. There are a million variants on this prayer but that’s mine. I do this for strangers, for teachers, for friends, for enemies and for myself.  I like these words because they feel like realistic things to hope for. Accepting life means not blaming ourselves for the moments where life can’t meet our expectations. We should be kind. Everyone should be loved. We should all experience moments where we don’t suffer.

I recently listened to a guided loving kindness meditation that was a little different. In it the speaker went much further than I had ever been wiling to go. He wished for the person to be free. To be happy without reserve. To feel no pain. To feel only joy. To feel blessed by their experiences.

My first instinct was to recoil. That what the speaker was wishing for wasn’t realistic. No one can live their lives without pain. No one gets to feel only joy for much longer than a few minutes at a time. You can’t live your life like that.

The fingers don’t touch. Prayers aren’t answered.

Only I stopped myself from trying to practice loving kindness meditation in reasonable doses.

I let myself wish with such ridiculous childish hope for humanity. For everyone to get to experience those same feelings of child like wonder when they first looked at the sky and understand the insane vastness of nature. To feel themselves running through a park screaming so happily and loudly that the clouds could hear their voices. For every wound to heal.

It felt good. Really good.

See the human heart isn’t realistic. And its beauty isn’t in the way it conforms to expectation. But how it exceeds it. How we can imagine better worlds than ours and create them.

It’s the primal helplessness of a heart that wishes for more power than it can possibly possess. A wish so strong that it could break the very laws of reality.  It’s the parent who wishes they could protect their child from any harm. Humans can wish to take someone’s pain. Are willing to take it on themselves just to relieve that pain.

It’s crazy to me that people can love like that. That there are people in your life who love you so much that they wish that life wasn’t the way it is so that you could feel better.

Miracles aren’t possible. You can’t fully take away someone else’s pain. But you can get close.

And sometimes, if you love hard enough, you can get close enough to feel the space between fingertips.

 

 

 

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Because there was no muffins

Posted on | September 5, 2017 | No Comments

The stories we tell fight against our fear that life is meaningless.

Our characters have tragic flaws that destroy them or they overcome on their way to triumph. Because there is something appealing in this concept. If horribly things happen to and because these people they are because of immoveable flaws in characters. Bad things happen to good people because these bad things are an expression of their character. They are a lesson we can learn from. As you get older you notice how often your scars perform puppetry.

What few people mention are how often these scars that motivate us our made completely unintentionally.

Moments that manipulate people for their own lives can have next to no real meaning behind them. Our actions aren’t simply dictated by character but by how little sleep we have had, how drunk we are and a lingering cold that makes us sharper than we’d normally ever be. The horrible thing we say can be motivated by little more than impatience. We don’t even have to mean it. And that comment can register like a dog whistle. At a frequency that only the person who will be most heartbroken will hear. We can do something we would never do under any other condition and a connection formed over a life time can end.

It’s astonishing to realize how often we are injured without proper intent. This why we tell stories to ourselves. Of what these people meant. Of why they said it. Stories that have no use for chaos but play to the legends we build for ourselves. We can’t grapple with the idea that we lost control over much of our lives because someone forgot to eat a muffin. How does that equation look? Romeo doesn’t simply die because of his romantic nature or his encounter with Juliet. We are trained to think it is that inevitable. But what if Romeo never went to the party and met her?

Could he have fallen in love with someone else?

Could a simple invitation to a party actually be what killed Romeo?

Or the goddamn inferior system for posting mail?

It’s hard to realize how much of our lives are formed by coincidence. That ultimately we create meaning for ourselves. And our scars aren’t simply the horrible things that have happened to us, or the words that have been said that shouldn’t have been. They are the stories we tell ourselves. To make what happens to us part of a story.

So that we’d feel safer and more in control of our destiny.

When ultimately the truth is someone forgot to bring the muffins. And for the rest of your life you’ll dance to music that someone else played without any intent.

It’s not because you’re a bad person.

It’s not because you were destined to fall in love with that person and you unfortunately missed the elevator.

God doesn’t hate you, or love you or even exist.

You didn’t deserve it.

It’s much simpler than that.

Because a snowflake hit another snowflake.

And we are born helpless.

And live with much less control than we ever could have imagined.

It’s because there was no muffins.

 

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Do The Right Thing

Posted on | September 5, 2017 | No Comments

I feel a noticeable wave of nausea when I see them.

I look down.

Because I have to fight myself. Not to take their signs and break them over my knee. Or shout in their face like an insane person.

Because they want someone to do that. It’s part of the reason they’re out here.

In the middle of a sidewalk on Bloor Street. Determined to do what they imagine to be the right thing.

It’s those assholes with the signs that have a picture of a Fetus at 12 weeks and make a habit of talking to women as they walk by. One of the women has a baby strapped to her shoulder. Most likely her own as kidnapping a child to make this point would seem a little far even for her. She has a determined look. Cocky. Like she has proof that she understands all the complexity of pregnancy. And she has no problem using her child as a prop in her argument.

She dares you to say something.

“Look at my baby! Would you kill my baby?”

She’s the most annoying member of the group.

Now let’s tilt our focus to the right. Militant Christian organizations in Toronto seem to almost uniformly decided to get new immigrants who don’t really speak English as their principal advocates.

I’m not sure who adopted this strategy or what the reason is. But the new to Canada Chinese immigrants stare at their feet. A little anxious but determined not to leave. Even if someone violently disagrees with them. Holding the sign but not really understanding the repulsion they inspire.

I wonder how someone talked them into this.

Most likely under the guise of this will really help you fit in. Canadians like being bothered on the street.

Besides the point…..

I look at the woman triumphantly holding her child. The defiant look on her face. Ready to scrunch up as she explained to the women passing by that they were in fact a murderer. As she passionately explains why  women shouldn’t have a choice. How she can’t possibly understand every person who had to make that choice. And how pretty much no one in the history of time has cackled manically and had an abortion. How no one actually is pro abortion. They just believe that difficult decision shouldn’t ever be forced on anyone.

And I want to yell in her face.

For all the people I know who had to make that difficult choice.

And then I say nothing. I just meet her eyes. And try to memorize what these expression looks like.

How compassion can drain out of your features when you think you’re doing the right thing. How easily anger goes together with that rush of righteousness. I’ve felt that blindness before. I haven’t stood on street corners and lectured women on their right to choose. But I’ve hurt people’s feelings. Because I was certain.

The stop light changes.

I walk across the street.

Revulsion spinning nervous circles through my stomach.

Remembering the expression she made.

Thinking how much of a dick a person can be when they’re sure they are right.

 

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Creed

Posted on | August 27, 2017 | No Comments

For my life Christie Pitts is an Axis Mundi.

A place where all my lives come together.

It’s where I mourned the loss of my first love when I moved to Toronto and discovered Adele three weeks before the world made being her fan a mainstream thing. It’s where Katherine died in Just Cuddle. It’s where I laid on the grass and looked at the sky in my last relationship. It’s where I’ve celebrated successes and mourned failures. It’s a place I go to remember I’m aging and have lived a lot.

This is a post about boxing and Rocky and .

You might be surprised to learn I wanted to be a boxer when I was five years old. That for a year I’d ask my dad to read me stories from a massive book about boxing in the belief that someday a kid my age would be reading stories about me in a similar book. I forced my brother to fight me in our backyard. He was seven years older and enjoyed kicking my ass. Until he’d let me hit one lucky blow in the 12th round and fall to the ground. Bleeding and bruised I would raise my hands in the hair and run around the block. Proclaiming myself the world champion of Beech Street.

I didn’t pursue this dream.

But the Rocky movies meant something to me. As I am sure they meant something to a lot of people. I was five so I think it pretty much came down to the idea that if you try hard enough at something you can win. As an adult I look at those movies and see different things. Rocky 1 is about how you can do your best, train as hard as you want and you can lose and you can still be magnificent. The second is about how sequels are great and should always happen because box offices want Rocky to be champion. And the third is a great movie if you don’t look at it too closely.

It’s 9 o’clock.

Christie Pitts.

Just dark enough to show a movie.

And I’m watching Creed.

I think about how when I watched Rocky Stallone was still young. It felt representative of my dreams of what life might be like when I grow up.

And now he’s an old man. Getting sick. He has already lost those things he was fighting for in those climactic fights. Watching him I felt echoes of that five year old child who’s insane hopefulness still drives me to this day. And I think a little about what we are fighting for.

There are five hundred people gathered around this hill. On blankets. Next to their families and partners. Watching the huge screen and cheering.

The basic plot of the movie is Apollo Creed’s son wants to become a professional boxer. Rocky helps him do it. It pretty much copies the beats of the first Rocky exactly. I shouldn’t love this movie as much as I do.

The thing is this movie feels like one of those moments where humanity went in the right direction.

Creed is played by Michael Jordan aka Wallace from the Wire.

And Christie Pitts is filled with black families.

Who want their kids to look up at the screen and see what I saw as a child. In a message that wasn’t given to them in movies like this.

They can try as hard as they can and success or failure doesn’t matter. They can be magnificent. If they follow their passion.

At the end of the movie the fight ends.

And people are screaming and cheering.

And there’s tears in my eyes and in the eyes of the people next to me. There is something incredibly moving in the idea that there has been this tiny change.   Where the news tells a lot of people want to go back into the past, this movie is about a future. One we can fight for. One we aren’t guaranteed to win. But one we have to fight for.

 

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Seeing The Future

Posted on | August 27, 2017 | No Comments

There’s a good deal of literature about what would happen if you were able to know the future. I’m not talking just Biff and his sports betting book. There’s something else. Underlying it all is the idea that there is a right choice we should have or could have made. Because Hollywood is cheesy the right choice is generally speaking whatever choice you originally made because time travel doesn’t exist and we have to be happy with what happened. But it’s that underlying idea of a right choice that interests me. That I think collectively haunts us all.

That with these collection of choices we will arrive in our ideal destination. It’s this feeling that makes us look at our life and wish for something more. The concept of time travel pivots around a strange hope. That through our journey through time we will arrive in a world where time doesn’t touch the things we love and the times we look back on with the greatest fondness. That in some future we are always as in love as we were at the beginning. That we will always feel the same sense of awe when we reach the summit. And that when we change what we regret we won’t regret the change.

I want to take about that place you think you’ll get to. A bright and shimmery world like the ones actors live in commercials and actors live in love stories starring Ryan Gosling.

This place without time.

I think the biggest case against knowing the results of our actions is that we wouldn’t do anything at all.

Imagine a world where when you say hello and are filled with that laughing sense of ease you get to watch that person die in your arms. Imagine trying to enjoy the first six months of new love with the actual knowledge of the way your relationship will and must change. Would you start a conversation if you could remember every fight you’ll ever have? The things you shouldn’t have said and they shouldn’t have said. Could love begin if we saw people exactly as they are with all of their immoveable flaws right at the beginning?

We’d hold onto that dumb idea of a right decision. One that could avoid these places. And you’d live alone because you know that someday you’ll meet someone who’s magic and can let you live in that place. You wouldn’t do anything because ultimately best case scenario is you meet someone who’s amazing and you die before they do. And this is the cliche place to focus. Rather than you’d wake up with the very best person you’ve ever met and wonder if this was the right choice. If there isn’t someone you could love more.

Our lives aren’t just defined by who we love. Also by our work. Imagine if you were able to see exactly what it felt like after you succeeded at that long sought after task. What would you do if you knew it wouldn’t fill that hole in you? If that hole is just a part of being alive and that as humans we are   given the irrational hope that there is a deeper and truer world then the one we get to see. We are trained to believe in heaven on Earth because the ultimate purpose in advertising is to create a larger and large hole in you so that you buy things to fill it.

If we were able to see the future we would know that everything breaks and changes and dies. How could you do anything if you truly understood that all paths lead to the same place?

The answer is simple.

With delightful delusion.

We can’t see the future. We can’t know what will come. But we can know that everyone walks around with a heavy head on their shoulders. Wishing there was something more. Feeling that hole in themselves. Berating themselves for not being able to fill it. And there’s something about that spot. That unfillable hole that creates a love for other people that isn’t a perfect peaceful place but as powerful as entropy. We’re never kinder as human as when we see the pain of others become manifest.

And the reassuring knowledge we aren’t alone.

There isn’t a secret.

There isn’t a clean way to live and not suffer tremendous grief.

You are smart. You’ve been looking.

You’ve tried. It isn’t there.

You know everything breaks. Everything dies. Everything disappears.

And you rage into the dying of the light.

Not because you will reach that secret place and find what you’ve been told to look for.

No.

Because you’ve seen things truly break until they can’t be repaired. You’ve lost people that you can’t get back.

You don’t miss their perfections but their complexity.

And you understand how lucky it is to be able to hold things close to your heart as they travel through time and space. And you long to have your heart broken.

Because you’re still alive.

And there is no better place to be.

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Too Nice

Posted on | August 24, 2017 | No Comments

Girl you got a nice butt

I’m not talking about shape or size but how your butt spends it’s time

I’m talking manners

She’s polite,

Super nice

The type you’d ask advice

And she’d save your life

Stay the whole day by the crossing lights

To help old ladies cross the street

She buys Toms shoes, because she wants her feet to help defeat poverty

Your butt works at the children’s help line, in her spare time

Listening to other people’s problems just to unwind

Because she won’t know how to be unkind

She won’t sleep

Until she knows everyones feeling fine

Her temperament is even

She writes Hallmark cards and Memes because she wants people to know she believes in them

She doesn’t want an Easy Win

She started the Make a Wish Kids Foundation

Because she’s patient and amazing

Your butt is was the videographer on the Bat Boy video

It doesn’t matter if this line rhymes

Your butt did that

And it made me cry

I don’t understand how come children get sick and die

But I just remember what she did for that little guy

Superheroes do exist

She supports you when you sit

And she never complains,

Not even a little bit

She fought for gay marriage and she’s progressive as hell

She’ll pick you up, no matter how far you fell

And the jokes that she’ll tell

Will make you laugh even if you don’t want to

Helps you deal with the ghosts that haunt you

Walk with you through the places that feel haunted

Does it because she wants to

Your butt is Abby and Ilana’s friendship on Broad City

The only one strong enough to fight global warming

Stop the warring

Star Trek and the reason humanity will keep exploring

She listed herself as a kidney donor

Donated one and kept on going

This wasn’t a joke or tomfoolery

This is her eulogy.

She too nice

And she lost her life

I don’t know what the world will be like

Without her light

And wanted to say a few words

About her wonderful life

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The Fucking Cup of Coffee

Posted on | August 19, 2017 | No Comments

Listen Michael

I’ve come to talk to you about something. 

Yes, I know I look just like you. 

Please don’t get so excited. 

Just pretend I’m you’re fucking twin and don’t act like an ass. 

You’re embarrassing yourself, which is embarrassing me. 

And I won’t stand for it. 

Neither will you.

Please sit down. 

No, I’m not here to test your stupid hypothesis, that if two different versions of a person had sex it would be considered masturbation. 

You’re being gross. 

Let me get to the point, big head. 

Have you heard of a multiverse?

Shhh….

Yes, like Rick and Morty.

I’m you but from a different reality

There are countless worlds

Every decision you’ve made have been made differently

Each tracing a new universe, with it’s own infinite possibilities. 

Everything you thought was meant to be was a coincidence

Because I have seen it not happen

I have seen you happier than anyone I have ever met and I have seen you punching your fists into water in the hopes your reflection would become solid enough you could shatter it into a shards of glass and the blood would make you feel something

I have seen you desperately in love and I have seen you die without your first kiss

Anything that can be happen has happened and is of no interest to me

This is about the cup of coffee you always drink at 3:30, on a warm day in August, 2017

Without fail, it happens the same way

There was one world where the skies were streaked with nuclear missiles

 They ran through the clouds like Icarus

Like strobe lights through smoke

Before the sound of all the lightning in the world came together at once

But you had that cup of coffee

You finished to the last drop

You only spilled a little bit on the wooden table

This is the strangest part

The world ended a million times before you were born

But if you’re born, the world exists until at least that moment

I’ve looked through police files and top secret documents and you’ve never been that important

You’ve married thousands of different partners

You’ve had millions of different children

You’ve given up your dreams and you’ve followed them until they killed you

But you always had that cup of coffee

The odds are astronomical

In the end all the laws of physics have been deciphered and math proven beyond axiom

Every mystery has an answer

You’d be forgotten totally and completely if not for that cup of coffee

I don’t understand how no matter how even when you’re homeless you afford it

How when you’re blind you stumble down the street and when you don’t have legs you use your arms to drag your body and you place your order, sit down at table and have a cup of coffee

If there is one thing you had to do why would it be so mundane

Why do you get on a plane and fly half away across the world

Why do you go there everyday

Or for the first time

Why do you leave the hospital or Mount Everest just as you were about to reach the summit

For that cup of coffee in August

How come the plane never runs out of fuel, the traffic never jams, the assassin’s bullet never hits

Everything that can go wrong has

But doesn’t

Everything changes but this

It takes you precisely twelve minutes to drink the majority of it, a few seconds to spill a few drops on the floor and three more hours to finish the last sip

If the meaning of life is to discover what must happen, then I have surely found the meaning of why you were born and die

It’s like your a character in a book who only has one line and the rest of your life is just an attempt to infinitely improvise. cleardot The Fucking Cup of Coffee

Only I can’t tell you why that’s important

Maybe in another world I’ll discover it

In this one

I’ll simply measure life in coffee spoons and wonder why

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  • About

    Michael Kimber is a 26-year-old journalist who suffered a nervous breakdown on November 3rd, 2009. On March 28th, 2010 when he recovered from mental illness, he began writing a blog called Colony-of-losers. About falling on your face to figure out who you are and the hilarious antics of a blond jew. What began with a few friends and his mother reading has become a cult phenomenon, averaging 10,000 views a week, receiving praise from Commonwealth Award Winner Shandi Mitchell and many others. On, November 3rd, 2010, the one year anniversary of his mental breakdown he signed with Anne McDermid and Associates, the largest literary agency in Canada. In a year he went from wearing pajamas, making his couch depression HQ to leaving his hometown for the Toronto, where he exclusively wears business suits and the armor of ancient Greeks. Don't worry, he's still choking on the feet he contently sticks in his mouth and making moments awkward just by being part of them. During these struggles he met other talented bastards and drew them into his circle. Peter Diamond became his illustrator. Patrick Campbell his video editor and part time photographer. He recently added the incredibly talented John Packman as Colony of Losers Toronto photographer. Without the support of the Colony of Losers, Michael Kimber would be nothing. Welcome to the losers and the success that comes from utter and complete failure. You aren’t alone. Follow him on twitter.com/colonyoflosersand twitter.com/quimbo. If you’d like to hire him for a public speaking engagement for mental health events in Toronto, like to arrange an interview, offer millions to publish his book or for another reason contact Michael please email him. And join his facebook Colony of Losers.

    Really obvious disclaimer:
    I’m not a trained psychologist. Just a fellow traveler. If you need help seek it from the professionals. The Canadian Mental Health Association provides a help locator. You can find crisis resources provided by the Canadian Association for Suicide Prevention. If you are in the states check here. It will give you services by zip code. I’d also recommend checking out Mindyourmind.ca. I think they do great work and have been a help to me personally.

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