7/26/26 - 8/2/26: The spork’s usage, on the other hand, extends far beyond the turtle.

August 4, 2026

7/26/26

Bullet-Points:

Hair grows half an inch per month.
Sadness, fear, and rage are not sustainable.
Depression has a mind of its own. So does loneliness. They feed on each other like parasites and I tend to let both consume me.
Unexpected and delicious cookies eaten in gluttony bring at least a minute or two of unadulterated joy even on the darkest of days.
I used to think flour was the softest thing, but now I know it's the back of my mom's bald head after all her hair fell out from radiation.

Slip has been very fun to make texture with.

7/29/26

I was thinking about how hard on myself I am. How overly judgemental I am. I woke up yesterday, saw The Idiot by Dostoevsky on the bookshelf and thought, "Oh, he wrote a book about me."

Self cruelty is second nature. But I've decided that I can be softer and kinder to myself just as easily as I can be cruel.

In a few weeks it'll be three years since my mom's life-changing cancer diagnosis. Ninety percent of it has been a hellish nightmare fueled by the quicksand-like traps of fear, deep-set melancholy, ever-growing anxiety, and utmost pain. But it's also somehow forcefully led me back toward myself, jettisoning the flummoxed, unfocused, and floundering part of myself. No matter how much I fuck up along the way hereon out, the meaningful direction I'm steered toward now feels like a truthful acknowledgement of who I am; my honest desires and purpose. Avoidance of ourselves is too easy.

I just saw a car that had two bumper stickers reading Jesus and then, Delivery Driver. Is Jesus a delivery driver or is the delivery driver delivering Jesus? If Jesus were to have a delivery driver service it should be called Deliver Us From Evil.

After my mom's first ever blood transfusion today she requested KFC. She also requested this after her first brain radiation at the beginning of the summer. I always get sick off it. I had to put on anti-nausea music and suck on concentrated ginger in tablet form.

There are just so many moments and feelings and memory and I get stressed out at the existence of forgetting. All these moments always feel so slow, but can also feel laden with a quickness I didn't ask for, peeling through my life with the speed of light, leaving all these marks in me. Making me yearn, making me all nostalgic, making me feel old, making me feel out of control, making me feel sad, and sometimes maybe even happy. Why not happy? I close my eyes and imagine all my accumulated moments so far like a river. All of life is obviously a river, but I can easily find this anxiety inducing because a river is slippery; it just falls away fast. And I really want to hold onto the moments more solidly, not have them slide out of my fingers with slippery gusto.

There’s so much poetry in sadness. In what could’ve been. And I long to go back in time and feel a little bit of that sweetness with them before it fell away. It was a lot of sweetness. I hate getting my hopes up. I’m truly an idiot. I don’t know if my idiocy will ever dissipate. I suppose hopes get dashed everyday, restlessly.

When you just wanted to date someone because it felt like it could actually be something but it ends before it even gets any chance in hell to be what it might’ve been. No breathing room, just an end not decided by you. Of course it’s still on my mind. It’s frustrating. It’s painful. It pulls at me. I imagine what these simple, beautiful feelings looked like before they got trampled on. What would a painting look like depicting that expansive what-if landscape?

July 30, 2026

Important question:

What are the origins of the spork?

Answer:

The spork is very sporky and is often confused with the very similar utensil known as the terrapin fork. This spork-like fork was primarily used to eat turtle-meat based dishes. The spork’s usage, on the other hand, extends far beyond the turtle.

There is your modern spork and there is your early spork. Patents for this style of early-ass spork first began in the late 19th century, with claim of the original inventor of the spork being Samuel Ward Francis, a guy who at one point, helped people with skin disease.

8/2/26

Collage feels so good because that’s what life is.

When things are bad enough I stop believing in language having the capacity for accuracy. The full scope of emotions in the realm of pain are almost always unsatisfactory to me translated to words. I try sometimes anyways.

Death looms like I imagine a goblin would. Cancer is complicated. So many varieties and treatments. And people step away from the subject like they could catch it just from hearing the word. Complicated, yet also simple in its goal: death, ideally under-the-radar and as swiftly as possible. Cancer is menacing in its desire for destruction.

The In-N-Out line of cars tonight is like a long, winding worm. Just a gargantuan amount of hungry burger eaters in cars.

I got an email tonight from Penis-Growth-Doctor with the title “stop being small!” Now, as a general, out-of-context piece of random advice, "stop being small" is actually a lovely sentiment. Not toward a snail or rolly-polly, though. They can't help but be small.

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7/26/26 - 8/2/26: The spork’s usage, on the other hand, extends far beyond the turtle.

Bullet-Points:

Hair grows half an inch per month.

Sadness, fear, and rage are not sustainable.

Depression has a mind of its own. So does loneliness. They feed on each other like parasites and I tend to let both consume me.

Unexpected and delicious cookies eaten in gluttony bring at least a minute or two of unadulterated joy even on the darkest of days.

I used to think flour was the softest thing, but now I know it's the back of my mom's bald head after all her hair fell out from radiation.

Slip has been very fun to make texture with.

I was thinking about how hard on myself I am. How overly judgemental I am. I woke up yesterday, saw The Idiot by Dostoevsky on the bookshelf and thought, "Oh, he wrote a book about me."

Self cruelty is second nature. But I've decided that I can be softer and kinder to myself just as easily as I can be cruel.

I just saw a car that had two bumper stickers reading Jesus and then, Delivery Driver. Is Jesus a delivery driver or is the delivery driver delivering Jesus? If Jesus were to have a delivery driver service it should be called Deliver Us From Evil.

After my mom's first ever blood transfusion today she requested KFC. She also requested this after her first brain radiation at the beginning of the summer. I always get sick off it. I had to put on anti-nausea music and suck on concentrated ginger in tablet form.

Important question:

What are the origins of the spork?

Answer:

The spork is very sporky and is often confused with the very similar utensil known as the terrapin fork. This spork-like fork was primarily used to eat turtle-meat based dishes. The spork’s usage, on the other hand, extends far beyond the turtle.

There is your modern spork and there is your early spork. Patents for this style of early-ass spork first began in the late 19th century, with claim of the original inventor of the spork being Samuel Ward Francis, a guy who at one point, helped people with skin disease.

Collage feels so good because that’s what life is.

When things are bad enough I stop believing in language having the capacity for accuracy. The full scope of emotions in the realm of pain are almost always unsatisfactory to me translated to words. I try sometimes anyways.

The In-N-Out line of cars tonight is like a long, winding worm. Just a gargantuan amount of hungry burger eaters in cars.

I got an email tonight from Penis-Growth-Doctor with the title “stop being small!” Now, as a general, out-of-context piece of random advice, "stop being small" is actually a lovely sentiment. Not toward a snail or rolly-polly, though. They can't help but be small.

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