So I applied to this gig…

I recently applied to be a guest writer for the website Men Style Fashion. Guess what? They said yes. The following is the letter that I used to apply to the website. Perhaps this can be a source of inspiration to those of you out there feeling like you’re in the dumps.

Subject: Guest Writer

Message Body:
Salutations,

WHY I’M CONTACTING YOU: I’ve been following MEN STYLE FASHION for over a year. I love the amazing material that you’re able to come up with. I want to contribute to your website as a writer.

MY WRITING: I am an amazing writer. The only reason that I know that is that other people tell me that I have a way with words. I used to think that my writing was shit. But the masses seem to have amassed their eyeballs wriggling in their sockets like drug addicts upon my words. In my own way, I have also fallen victim to the narcotic that is my work. Not that I have fallen in love with my own work, neigh, I have fallen in love with the genuine joy that I am able to give others. I love seeing people’s faces light up with glee as I recite to them my short stories, my poems, my articles, my book chapters. I want to write for the rest of my life. I love writing. I’m in love with the processes of coming up with new material. I’m in love with the late nights, the cheap coffee, and the solid desk that – on the advise of Douglas Adams – doesn’t collapse when I beat my head against it looking for ideas.

My style: When I was in the eighth grade, I stole a copy of Playboy Magazine from my sister. It was one of the most important events of my development as a man. Not only did I experience the beauty and wonderment of seeing beautiful naked women for the first time in my life – but I was extremely surprised to discover that the majority of the magazine was a golden platter of extremely well written, timely and sophisticated relevant articles. One article in particular was about the decline of men’s sartorial excellence in the United States of America when compared to the rest of the world. Playboy offered 10 simple steps to step up any man’s wardrobe. Needless to say, Playboy Magazine was my entrance at an early age into the wide world of fashion. More than fashion, I gained a sense of style which I still maintain to this day. I gained a sense of purpose which absolutely is essential to any outfit.

I was raised in a household, however, that by all standards was far beneath the poverty level as defined by the stocky suits on Wall Street. I was – and still am – a poor. A single suit will set me back roughly an entire year’s salary. I make due by finding articles of clothing hanging on the racks at thrift stores and exchanges that relatively match those same items I have seen in GQ, Esquire, Twitter, and Pinterest. My income has given me a unique perspective on the fashion industry that many have failed to grasp. I know the difference between functionality and fashion. I know what it is like not to be able to wear dress shirts because of creases and wrinkles. I know what it’s like not to own a closet.

Being in the military has given me a sense of human mortality. Thus, I have gained an absolute affinity for all things beautiful. Before I realized how fragile existence itself was, I appreciated beautiful things but not as deeply as I do now. I did not understand the essential nature of beauty. Today, I understand that without beauty life is null. This is what propels me forward in my style. This is what defines my cut, as it were. This is why on some days I choose an inch wide lapel over a 2 inch.

The old adage is that fashion is senseless, but style is eternal. I have come up with my own pithy aphorism: lifestyle is half part style, half part life itself.

Thank you very much for your consideration.

-Guylaen O’Connor

Sunrise Birds

Welcome to the great new world of the internet. Where miserable idiots reading poetry get instant gratification by googling the word “poem” and clicking on the first thing that pops up.

If you want to experience poetry as it’s meant to be experienced, go to the fucking library. Or a bookstore. Or, better yet, go to a poetry slam.

Go to a place where poetry comes alive and stabs you in the jugular.

You won’t find that here, you miserable moron. This is a place for naught the art of what art is nigh. This is a place for the assholes. The idiots. The morons. The gits. The buffoons. The sods.

This is where you all shall find happiness. I love you. You’re like baby birds back in the nest, surviving off of the scraps of my regurgitation. And so fourth, I shall vomit this utterly useless poem into your mouth. Enjoy it my birdlings:

THE SUNRISE BIRDS

The sunrise birds are out, you say?
The sunrise birds are out, today.
Time to start a beautiful day!

Rattled from my bunk,
rattled from my slumber.
First Sergeant’s on the horn -
shouting of his hunger.

Hot chow isn’t on the menu.

The singing birds are out again.
This time, they sing of pain -
was this whole long day in vain?

I guess I’ll have to wait and see -
and die another day.

Blithering

When you’re sitting at home alone dressed in nothing but your tee shirt and socks, gorging yourself out on the decadence of chocolate chip ice cream from the tub – I hope that whatever it is you are mindlessly doing on your laptop is worth the feelings of silent guilt and shame that you feel when you finally step on the bathroom scale. As for those of you who read poetry to entertain your cyclical nature as insatiable mammals – God help you, you miserable fucksticks.

I have more poem for your appetites. Savor these words. Swish them around in the front of your mouth like a 5 ounce glass of chilled whole milk on a warm day. Suck on them, devour them like they are guts – and you are a zombie from the popular television show THE WALKING DEAD. I know you can’t get enough.

I shouldn’t be encouraging this. Poetry is a gateway drug into the vast abysmal nature that is literature. But I do it so well. You might as well call me the fucking kingpin. So, without any more fuss – take this baggie. Read this poem so that you might crawl shamelessly onto the next high. But just know that you’ll get no sympathy from me at all.

BLITHERING

Blithering, bumbling buffoons of the night -
HEAR MY CALL!
I,
who so gallantly strode
upon the white stallions
of verb.

Notes on the election results midterms 2014

We, as the collective entity that is the millennial generation of America, decided not to turn out to vote in this midterm election. This saddens me. This grave error in our generation judgment of the future has led to the demise of our education until the year 2020 at least. This is not to make you feel culpable or implicit in anyway as to this feature. But, it is your duty, your civic duty as an American citizen to turn out to vote. And you did not.

My Favorite Word

Certainly, within the confines of what it means to be a writer, one of the most common uncommon questions asked of me is: “What is your favorite word?”

What a loaded question.

Oh, how I do loathe those who ask this of me. Not because they are terrible human beings, I love them all. Not because this is an absurd question that one should never ask of an author – it is a perfectly legitimate question, and an author must know these things.

Neigh, I loathe those who ask this of me because of the simple fact that in so doing, they have made one awfully big assumption about my character. They have assumed, wrongly, that in my wanderings upon the surface of this Earth through space and time I have accumulated – anthropologically speaking – enough knowledge about the nature of humanity itself to have gained a particular affinity for what one would call a favorite word.

The answer to this question can vary extremely based upon a multitude of variables including how much coffee I’ve had on a particular day, what song I recently listened to, what sort of books that I’m reading at the present moment, whether or not I’ve made a mistake in the last forty hours, how the last conversation with my publisher went, the design of the hotel lobby that I most recently bought a coffee in,  and the sheer vastness, scale, and scope of the glacial mass that I most recently visited.

Today, and at the present moment, my most favorite word is Stalactites.

But a few hours from now, my most favorite word might possibly be Whig, Willow, Wasp, Wop, Womp, Wang, or Gilgamesh. I highly doubt it, however, because I’m still really thinking about Stalactites. I just recently heard a story on TED Radio Hour from NPR, and in this there was a man who spoke of his adventures voyaging into the depths of the Earth as a spelunker. Spelunking is also an amazing word.

Perhaps the reason that I do not have a favorite word is that I am generally insecure.

Whatever the reason, I choose not to have a favorite word, because there are just too many words.

On the nature of thoughts

People – the way that I word that statement makes it seem that those multitudes of people are vast in their number, however those people might be real or imagined, one can never tell these things – always ask me why I never post on a regular schedule.

As I have said before, this blog is a collection of my thoughts in word form. I can’t ask thoughts to stay in my head or else I’d have a massive implosion of information the size of an atomic bomb in the middle of one of this planet’s most populated cities. I also can’t rely on thoughts to come at me at normal intervals like, say, colors of the rainbow or drops from the end of an icicle. Thoughts just don’t do it.

Neither do words, to see more in formation on THAT topic, see my previous post @blogpost.

Thoughts can come at me anywhere, anytime. They can come at me on the train. They can come at me on the toilet. They can come at me in the middle of a swamp in the middle of a jungle in the middle of a country that you can’t quite seem to remember the name of but it doesn’t matter because I’m only there to incite a revolution and I’m leaving that shithole of a country in four hours.

Thoughts can come at me in any sort of interval that they like; galloping, galavanting, glooping, gloping. They can hit you much like what Emininem akined the nature of fame itself: a ton of bricks. They can hit me like the cascading torrents of a waterfall atop a lonely swimmer in the furthest reaches of the Amazon. They can hit me like a sudden and random urge to urinate five times in a single night and absolutely none the night next.

I can’t put a stopper on creativity, or thoughts, or words.

More often, thoughts might not come to me at all. I sit patiently in my mind shelf, waiting for files to get sorted and put onto the shelf like they normally do, but nothing happens. Which is a really crappy feeling but I don’t drown myself in a pool of my own tears – writer’s block is a normal part of the author’s struggle for identity.

Why do I not post regularly? Well, my dear fellow, my thoughts are definitely not regular.

Minding It

DISCLAIMER: This post is either slightly or extremely vulgar, depending upon the width of the relativity field which emanates from the gyroscope that is your mind. If you are put off by that sort of thing, then might I perhaps suggest something a bit more pleasant: cat videos.

It completely boggles me, bewilders me, befoggs me, to hear incredibly intelligent individuals who get stupidly/absurdly good grades at University claim that they don’t mind school. This, I have come to understand, is complete bullshit.

Of course they mind it. They mind it about 2.0 something’s more than someone who receives grades that are less than savory. They mind it like one would mind the gap, or mind the pointy spears at the bottom of the gap, or mind the boiling hot oil that is being poored upon them from above as they make their way across said gap in order to penetrate an impenetrable object or pregnate the impregnable or even on the rarest of occasions: possib the impossible.

But how much does one, anyone, mind school?

Human beings are instruments which require complex and simple systems of measurement to go about the rest of their lives measuring things.

One often finds themself when alone measuring random and seemingly unconnected things, like the size of their financial accounts and investments, the amount of Cheerios in a bowl, the amount of cookies in a jar – with the lid on and with the lid closed – or the color of Shrödinger’s Cat’s fur, or indeed whether or not it had fur at all. Did the car even have a name? What would have happened if you had put a piece of buttered toast right-side-up underneath the box? Would you have created the very first uncertain antigravity generator? This, as would be known to the vast multitudes that study the art of the Internet meme if indeed they have thought of it yet, to rival the simple antigravity generator which is achieved by putting a cat [which always lands feet-first] atop a piece of toast [which always lands buttered-side-down].

One can also quite often find himself measuring the size of his penis, and wondering how big that asshole Keegan’s penis actually is, or if his girlfriend is just lying to him when she tells him that size doesn’t matter and that she’s not actually cheating on him.

Perhaps more often than that, one can find herself measuring the size of her breasts, wondering why one hangs just slightly lower than the other one, or whether they are indeed at the age of 20 going to grow any larger. Or one might find herself measuring the size of other girls’ breasts – as they are rather more visible than male genetalia, and therefore far more stress-inducing – and comparing herself to them, wondering how Stella’s got so fucking big as if overnight. Stella says they’re real, but you never know about that girl.

So, you see, one can find themself at the mercy and whim of whatever measurements that humanity has deemed necessary to continue in its ridiculous attempt to classify the world.

In the case of whether or not one minds anything at all, or rather minds nothing at all, the measurement is difficult to come by. One can say, for example, that the degree to which one minds something is in the scores and marks that they receive throughout their natural life. If one receives a gold medal at a horse race, does this signify that the contestant minded the affair? Or does it signify that the horse minded it? This is entirely unknown, because the word of a horse jockey is about as reliable as the broken arm of an armchair in a sex dungeon.

In the case of whether one minds school, one could say that the GPA, or Grade-Point-Average, is a significant and time-honored measurement that accurately predicts how amazing someone will be in the marketplace beyond the confines of the University.

This is also, in my humble opinion, complete bullshit. But it is a measurement of something. I don’t exactly know what- and I’m not sure that anyone, anywhere, knows exactly what it is that the GPA is measuring. I mean… really measuring.

We can go along in our lives pretending that GPA actually matters at all. If this is what sort of person that you’d like to be, then you can go party with those assholes standing around the water cooler at the Bush Center laughing and secretly lying to themselves and the world about how they didn’t mind school.

However, if you prescribe to the idea that the GPA is an extremely antiquated form of measurement which is entirely inaccurate as to the intelligence of the individual in question, then join me in becoming one of the few people who actually can admit that they do mind school.

I may not care for the concept of GPA, and I may get absolutely poor, shitty grades – but I do mind it.

My Rifle and my Trumpet

Alright then. Here’s another one for all of you miserable sods who content yourself with the idea that reading poetry to yourself aloud, within the confines of your own room after a few swigs of white wine straight from the bottle is slightly better than, say, spending the entirety of a night on the town in the back of some random nightclub and drowning your vodka in a pool of your own sorrows and smudging your tears with the soulless substance that was your mascara.

Yes, this is one for all of you would-be poets out there, who would definitely… probably… could be poets if you weren’t too busy running around in circles and shouting about this and that and the end of the universe as we know it. This goes out to all of you who tried to write poetry one night, but discovered that you got laced with a super-high dose of adderol and proceeded to spend the next sixteen hours contemplating the fabric of the universe itself contained within that one dirty sock that always manages to find itself in the corner of your room.

Enjoy it you miserable gits:

MY RIFLE AND MY TRUMPET

My trumpet howls in pain
To the desolate moon

My rifle sings to the sheet music of three
Conductors
Yet constantly contradictory.

What happened to the Cowboys?

OK, guys. I’m going to try something new here: a poem.

Yes, I have written a fairly decent amount of poetry in my life. Freeverse poems, haikus, superficial laments in Iambic Pentameter, and the 1st person metaphorical musings of a rather confused giraffe at the sudden and unexplainable elongation of his neck.

But I have never put any of them on my blog. It is, as they say… well whatever it is they say about my blog.

I am experimenting with the idea of not giving a shit. That is to say that I am experimenting with the idea of not giving a shit about the rules. That is to say that I am experimenting with the idea of not giving a shit about the rules of poetry. That is to say that I am experimenting with the idea of not giving a shit about the rules of poetry as defined by poets and scholars.

If my poetry somehow miraculously agrees to agree with the traditional traditions of stout old grey men sitting around a house in County Galway or Waterford in the early 1900’s – that is to include one of my relatives by the name of one Frank O’Connor – then so be it. Fabulous.

But, if it, in its cynical and tempestuous attitude, decides to flip the tables over on the rules and smash them with a large mahogany baseball bat – so be it. I have no control over what my poems decide. I can attempt to urge them to the gauche or the droite, but in the end, they can do what they damn well please. I’ve got better things to worry about. Things like the ever-increasing chances of humanity’s self-destruction.

So if you are one of those Grammar-Golden-Dawns (the modern version of a Grammar-Nazi) then politely, kindly, and with all of the care as to not step on the grass on your way: fuck off.

With all of this on the table, I dare say that I should give you the poem. So, without further rhetoric, I present to you a completely horrible and utterly useless poem:

WHAT HAPPENED TO THE COWBOYS?

I wonder what happened to the cowboys?
Where did they all go?
I wonder what happened to the cowboys?
Did they go off to that range in the sky?
I wonder what happened to the cowboys?
I sure could have used them today.

Once again…

Once again, I am left alone; to discover ever wider discrepancies within my Kingdom of Introspection. Beyond the typified amalgamous carnival freaks and gong-crashing circus monkeys that normally dance across the awoken torment of my imagination, my mind is presently occupied with the vital, critical task of disseminating what sort of extracurricular transcontinental paradigm shifts that have fallen atop of my weakened resolve like falling pianos over the past week.

     amalgamous [adj.]: aimlessness belonging to those who are stereotyped and who work for the carnival or circus, esp. circus freaks.

My mind right now is a cluttered mass of dump files strewn across the motherboard that is my brain. For all of you out there who can’t seem to semantically differentiate the mind and the brain, I’ll give you a hint. The mind is the operating software to the the brain, which is the computer.

I log into my mind and attempt to decode certain files, but I haven’t got the right cypher. Perhaps I haven’t gotten the right scripts… or applications. The little bits of information that I have managed to gather over the past week or so sit there in black boxes on a giant shelving system. That shelving system is only as big as it needs to be, because honestly I am afraid to spend too much time in there because my files are backlogged. I’m not sure if you’ve ever seen a picture of the backlog at the Department of Veterans Affairs, loose-leaf papers overflowing from bankers boxes creating cardboard mansions for house mice and little people.

That’s kind of like what my mind shelf looks like right now.

I know that it can be hard for some people to understand this shit. You say to yourself “I don’t understand this shit,” and then you leave. But on the way out, many of you ignorant asses leave the door open. In so doing, you have created quite a bit of a draft.

Now, I have to go pick up the certain papers which have managed to find themselves lying on the floor a few hundred feet away from the boxes that they belong in. Damn it, this file right here that I have just picked up is a bit of information from the State Department – I have to make sure that I put it back in the right box. Which box was that in again?

Shit.

What I really hate is when I stay up sorting the shelves till the sun comes up, and the janitorial staff comes in. Some tiny asian lady says “OK, we clean now,” in that stereotypical asian lady accent that you think should belong to a South Park character. And then a bunch of janitors turn the lights on and start cleaning the ever most remote recesses of my mind. The nerve of those fucking janitors. I have to run around my intro-archives grabbing files out of their hands, and the trash can by the door, making sure that nothing incredibly vital or critical is lost to the bureaucratic system of the janitors from hell. Before I am able to get to them, however, a few names and dates fall through the cracks in the bottom of the trash can into the fiery pits of an incinerator below. After a few minutes I shout at the janitors to get lost.

“Get out of my head, you miserable sods, I can clean up my own fucking mess!” I shout.

And then they leave, leaving me once again to stare at the vast and innumerable files that are sitting in the giant boxes off to the left labeled “unsorted.”

Those of you few who may still be reading this may be asking yourself right now: “This is your brain, and your mind, isn’t it? Why don’t you get a better filing system?”

To which my response is: “If you lived in this head for even a fraction of a second, your universe would explode around you, and the very fabric of your own existence would de-thread and rip down the seams. Eventually, all you would be is a pile of spaghetti noodles on the floor. So shut the fuck up and let me do my own introspection.”

Immediately following that would come a lengthy apology, most likely via the internet, that would include a sworn statement from me that said that I do not prescribe to any form of elitism and a note from my clinical psychologist in which he told my I wasn’t actually a narcissist.

Some of the files in my brain are completely useless. Some of them are completely and absolutely essential to my existence. Some of the files in my brain are just filler. But it is my goal over this Thanksgiving break to actually sort through at least a few of them, and put them into their respective collective boxes. It will be difficult, but I am assured that it can be done.

I just have to avoid learning anything.

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