Just when I was getting used to the new shittyness of the WordPress block editor – they fucked up the scheduler.
I got a new iPhone with face recognition. Now my Twitter feed is fucking with me.
I’ll bet you didn’t know, but I’m a fucking hero. I’m saving the ocean with every stupid search on the Google I make.
PayPal is no friend of mine. I’ve been banned. I “knew too much.”
I sometimes worry about my mental health. I’m lying in bed and I get these manic ideas of social research about spatial awareness or even how to save the world. You know bullshit theories.
This is a good one.
Email: Subject Line: [My favorite password]
Holy fucking shit, I’ve been hacked.
I always wanted to be a sailor — owning my own little boat.
The Bear would never let me.
The Bear was so fucking proud of the “campaign” she created for her 6th grade class using “Recycle Michael,” a tin-man like character made from “recyclables.”
…I don’t have the heart to tell her that recycling is bullshit.
No means no goddamnit. But not at Apple.
Please stop trying to expand my mind. Maybe it’s just me, but every where I turn people are talking about psychedelics like I’m doing something wrong because I haven’t tripped balls with a Peruvian Guru.
Shaman, sorry, Peruvian fucking shaman.
George Orwell got it slightly wrong. Big Brother is not a totalitarian political dictator, he’s the tech nerd trying to “make your life better.”
We know Facebook and Google make their money selling data about us. There’s billions in knowing who you are, who you know, what you do and where you go.
The surgeon looked at me with the kind of disgust one saves for making sure the cockroach is dead before you throw it in the trash.
“What do you mean it still hurts?” he said. “You had a leaf tear and I smoothed it all out.”
Most of us spend way too much time worrying about it, But at it’s root, money is bullshit.
One of the fucked-up things about playing recreational tennis is away matches.
You have to drive to some other part of town and play on strange courts. And worse, we can’t just walk to the Third World bar to enjoy some popcorn and beer with the resident mice — we are forced to pick a different bar.
Waiting for my slot to get my knee surgery, the surgeon was killing time and hung out at my bedside for a while.