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everything is a critic

i have to say that i've been very good the last week about paying attention to writing projects and trying to organise them in such a way that they seem manageable, which makes me feel like there is a purpose to me continuing to write and to live in general. after forcing myself to inspect everything that i had in my writing folder and making discoveries like at least one of the fictional posts i've made on this blog is nowhere to be found in my personal files [where did it come from? where did it go?], i've finally managed to make some plans as to what i want to do with them. some of them.

reading some of these things has been surprisingly difficult, because it has reinforced all those high school girl voices in my head; the ones who look at me strangely and mutter that i'm hopeless, because man, a lot of what i've written really sucks. that isn't a surprise, except that some of the stuff that sucks the most is stuff that i'd previously thought was pretty good. how long exactly does a piece of writing have to marinate before you're able to judge if it's worth bottling and selling or if you just need to flush it down the creative toilet?

amidst my state of confusion, as i was making edits to what i felt could be saved and making notes about that which might just have to be laid to rest, its organs harvested for other, healthier projects, i looked up to see this as i was saving a file:


could that be bitchier? it's like this inanimate object is telling me that what i'm doing is too awful to consider saving. because i don't have enough problems with insecurity and crippling self-doubt without the hardware getting in on the act.

i mean, when i say a piece of writing is weak, or needs work, that's one thing, but where the hell does something that isn't even programmed to appreciate art and beauty and craftsmanship get off with a flat "hell no you ain't savin that on me, biatch"? oh yeah? what's you're favourite book then? 01101010110001? yeah, that was totally a nobel prize winner there. a real coup for jake the freelance code writer.

this continues for a while and then i realise that i'm arguing with my computer, which can't even respond, unlike my phone, who can at least talk to me and who doesn't judge my writing, or at least my notes about writing, which is all she gets to see. [incidentally, you need to ask siri to open the pod bay doors. it's apparently the computer equivalent of blackface.]

anyway, i did manage to persuade the computer to accept the file, with the promise that i would go back and edit it.

this is my life now, arguing with the technology. and losing.

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i agree, smedley [or, smokers totally saved our planet in 1983]

so this conversation happened [via text, so i have evidence and possibly so does the canadian government and the nsa].

dom and i were trying to settle our mutual nerves about tomorrow night's conversion screening, remembering that we've made a fine little film that people should see. which is just about exactly what dom had said when i responded thusly:

me :: i agree smedley. [pauses for a moment] did you get that here?

dom :: no?

me :: the aliens who were looking at earth and then decided it wasn't worth bothering with because people smoked even though it was bad for them?
come to think of it, that might mean that smokers prevented an alien invasion in the seventies.

dom :: what ?!?!?

me :: i've had wine and very little food. [pause] but the alien thing was real. [pause.] well, real on tv.

dom :: please eat something.

of course, i was wrong. the ad in question ran in 1983. this is the part where i would triumphantly embed the ad from youtube, except that the governmen…

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