NEW AT ECLECTICA this month - on the California writer Delicious Tacos.

Yesterday I was sitting in my parked car listening to Pod Save America so I could delay going inside to parent.

One of the guys said to the other, you should publish your tweets.

The guy answered, my god, how depressing that I probably could, right, I could publish my tweets as a book, that’s depressing. 

Tao Lin and Mira Gonzalez published their tweets as Selected Tweets, that wasn’t depressing. 

Earlier, sitting in the car, I heard Jen Williams on Worldly talking about the billions of people who will die in Syria in about an hour. 

After the break, they discussed Ahmadinejad’s tweets about the NFL. 

After analyzing the NFL story, Williams just said, fucking Twitter. 

And she really didn’t have a point beyond this. 

And she just kind of said it over and over again. 

Fucking Twitter. 

Fucking Twitter. 

The same way, before the commercial break, she had been saying, about Syria, fucking-chemical-weapons-red-line. 

There’s a beat here. 

And then a line about never getting high on your own supply. 

Today I thought about tweeting: 

Hardy’s original name for Jude the Obscure was Jack.

Imagine if the book was called Jack the Obscure. 

Jack the Obscure, IDK.

Anyone can talk to anyone on Twitter, contact is instant.

Nobody has a body.   

Nobody on Twitter has a body. 

No bodies matter. 

Donald J. Trump has no body. 

Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez has no body. 

Pod Save America has no body, but if they did, the pants would be pre-cuffed.

Chapo Trap House has no body wearing just an old shitty pair of Converse (since 2003, a brand belonging to Nike) that doesn’t say anything about who I really am.  

Ben Shapiro has no seventh grade stomach flab, no cum-encrusted briefs on his bodiless body, from watching, like Kanye, too much Blacked.com. 

I have no body. 

My body is not returning, or regenerating, or moving to the front, or stepping to the back, just because I have or have not been on Twitter. 

I am bodiless. 

I have nothing.

I almost went to Twitter many times yesterday. 

I clicked the icon on my phone and saw the blue screen with the white bird waiting to load ... but then I clicked out. 

But I looked at it waiting to load ... and I wondered what an app is thinking ... when it is struggling for its load.

I erased the Twitter url from my recently visited & favorites on my desktop computer, but I still went, many times yesterday, to type it into the search bar. 

Laurie said to me the other day, something seems off about you, Stu. 

I know, I said, right? I feel strange. I haven’t gone to Twitter in like three days. 

Forgot to post this. A Tarantino movie for pacifists, The Cindy Lee album YouTube comments section became a site of writing. There were beautiful comments and comments on how the comments were beautiful. It seemed like a place to transform irony into truth. If I didn’t know what to write I knew I could start typing there, post it, or erase it, what would be the difference. I knew the audience reflected only the best in myself. Ian Cohen’s words went down like soda at the perfect drive-in temperature. “This sounds like a radio station playing inside of someone’s head.” Evidence of your darlings. Here was this train. A form that didn’t include the quote, producing quotes.

We were in Breckenridge during a hailstorm when Biden dropped out. Minutes later it was sunny. McDonald's Corporation did that internal communication, “we’re not red or blue, we are golden,” and it saved LinkedIn. The finest block of writing Patrick Feely’s “Invisible Man” and w/r/t the rise of interspecies antisemitism in America, a listeria outbreak broke an 88-year-old Holocaust survivor. The family sued. It was another good year for rich Christian Nazis who beat their wives and belt their children and drown the poor whites in pools of black blood. LOTS OF PEOPLE WERE WRITING FROM THE PERSPECTIVE OF [DOBBS] DOGS: Missy comes to mind, Elucid comes to mind.

It was another year of correcting typos in other people’s emails. Nobody read the email. Nobody opened the newsletter. Your metrics lie, your data is unclean, your profits are an illusion. It was the year we were notified of breaches, signed up for a free year of identity monitoring services, and forgot our passwords. It was another year of grown men intellectualizing professional wrestling, the office of societal reentry funded by THC tax revenue. Listening to the clarinet sing its lonesome duckwalk, and weeping about all the people I lost in high school, I survive the drive down Ashland to the national disco, but not The War on Drugs, not the cold cuts.

At set break, we slept with each other’s wives; during the encore we returned to monogamy—the encore is cheesy.