Noah Nelson's Mental Clearing House.
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There’s a mistake really smart people make all the time: they get into arguments with idiots.
Idiots who don’t listen to actual reason, or who are so hell bent on making their case that they don’t listen at all. Actually, smart people do that last thing too, but at least their heart is usually in the right place. Everyone gets a bit myopic now and then.
For some people myopia is a way of being.
Getting into an argument with these types elevates them to a level of legitimacy they don’t deserve. You get drawn into a battle you can’t win: convincing someone who is emotionally invested in believing you are wrong.
These people don’t matter.
The people who matter are the ones who are listening. To you, and unfortunately to them. This is your audience, and those who are listening to both are the critical audience. Waste not your breath on the trolls of the world, address instead the billy goats who are stuck on the bridge of understanding.
Steam rises up ftom the coffee filter making the promise that the day is, in fact, livable. August has been an utter bitch of a month—bloody and with a sadistic sense of humor—and I don’t feel like sacrficing any more time to her relentless maw.
There’s little in my head this morning that doesn’t resemble incoherent rage. I am displeased with you all, and far from content in any quarter.
This coffee will allow me to mask my true self long enough to hack though another day. If I’m lucky I’ll come out the other side of the obligtions with just enough will left to start carving my intent on the world before surrendering back to the stony grip of a dreamless sleep.
It is hip these days to bash on those of us who post pictures of food and drink on Instagram.
"I don’t want to see your lunch!" The refrain goes.
What these poor souls dont realize is that food pron is the hobo language of an International Foodie Underground. Geotagged glyphs that are each worth more than 1000 words on Yelp that invariably start with “it was my birthday” before offering up a humiliating anecdote about a minimum wage worker.
Our langugae cuts out all the narcissistic bullshit and goes straight for the caramel filled juggular.
Some of us are better at capturing the visual element of deliciousness than others, but all of us are working towards the same goal: trading tips on where to eat.
The photo I’ll be posting later on of this morning’s leftover johnnycakes I whipped up for breakfast? Well that’s just peacocking on my part, for which I have no shame.