Mr. Burger

Oh, Here We Go

Guide to Caring for Paprika

For Neena.

  1. Paprika drinks water.  Water can be found in a giant glass bottle on the windowsill above her bowl.  Given its lovely convenience, we recommend you utilize this bottle.  It’s good for about four bowlfuls.
  2. Paprika eats two scoops of kibble a day.  One in the morning, one in the afternoon.  Kibble can be found in the closet.  Scoop can be found next to the kibble.  Bam.  Easy peasy.
  3. Paprika loves that orange ball thing that you put food in.  You’ll see it.  It’s like neon orange.   Feel free to put some of her kibble into the ball, or if you want to see her go Full Pap, break up a Pupperoni or two and put that in.

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The Orange Tree

The lamp’s high sodium bulb shone orange in the fog.  The tree’s pale flowers shone orange in the fog.  Some of the flowers were losing their petals, and these, while falling through the fog, shone orange as well.

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[Breathing Sounds]

Gotta just get back out there.  Keep writing.  Gotta get this back up to a daily kind of thing.  It’ll be like riding a bike, just you wait.  It’s a skill set you already have, and can’t lose.  Muscle memory will kick back in.  Just write, and write, and it will begin to feel better.  Easier.  More rewarding.  You will start remembering what it’s like to be proud of your writing, and to walk around feeling proud of something no one can see.  To know you’ve written something well that no one has read, that feeling like you’re practically wearing a space helmet as you wander around work and elsewhere, peering out at unconcerned coworkers and passersby like passing space fauna, all these people who have never read you and will never read you and do not, if they’re being honest with themselves, really love to read to begin with, listening to your own breath inside the helmet, the rounded echoes of your little grunts and sniffs.

You will remember the weight of un-validated talent.  The fatigue that sets in.  You will narrate about yourself, to yourself, half for practice and half because you can’t seem to turn it off.  Like wearing a kind of space helmet of self-awareness.  Avoiding resentment?  Denying yourself resentment?  However you handled the resentment before, you’ll go back to that.

Snapchat

I’m slipping, little by little, month by month, on whatever subjects happen not to come up around me and that I don’t otherwise pursue.  Yesterday, I saw Snapchat for the first time.  I got to see how its interface works.  Prior to that, I’d only ever heard of it in passing.  Skimmed mentions of it.  Snapchat.  Heard it explained in various nutshells. And while I do have my own iPhone, it’d never occurred to me to download this Snapchat, or even look it up in the store just to see what it was.  I felt no pull to do anything related to it, at all.  Perhaps this pull has given up on me.  I don’t mean to sound proud of this.  On the contrary, it troubles me.  My unconcern.  Why don’t I miss Facebook?  I was sure I’d miss it.  I gave myself weeks, a month tops, and now I don’t know how long it’s been.

Stress Test

To what extent should a piece’s themes be planned out beforehand?  How detailed do these plans generally tend to be, and what is a good ratio of breadth to depth?  How do we ensure a theme’s legibility?  How curious or probing should the audience be expected to be?  How much giving of shit should expected of them in regards to themes?  At what point down the rabbit hole can the artist expect her audience to start to want to turn around and go back up?

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The Thirty-Two

Considering how much work it took me to go through Fig 2 and find all ten items corresponding to each of the thirty-two possible Big Five scores, it seems only right that I share the results here with you, reader.  I probably ought to call these 32 things “Big Five Score Descriptions,” or “Trait-Interaction Interactions,” or even just “Personalities,” but I’ve been in a real word-hunting mood lately.  We’ll call them “Modes of Behavior.”  No, no, no, we’ll call them “Moods.”

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Afternoon Self’s Reflections On Morning Self, Projections of Evening Self

I’m in a different mood now.  The work day is behind me.  The bands of light through the string-holes in the blinds are on the closet door, now, instead of across the table and up the wall.  Otherwise, the lighting is very similar, and I’m in the same room, in the same seat, at the same computer, on the same site, working in the same little text-editing box, in this same text-editing font; but I’m in a different mood about everything.

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Wait, So Introversion Is Bad For Me?

A moment ago, I sneezed hard carrying a mug of newly poured, freshly brewed coffee through the bedroom.  An involuntary jerk coincided with the sneeze.  The coffee did splash.  The skin of my hand got involved.  The wood of the floor got involved.  A pillow on the ground where the dog had been curled up earlier got involved.  This while on my way to the computer to write about what I felt I needed to discuss today.

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Antisocial

"Antisocial" is currently listed on Fig 2 of the previous entry as the interaction of the traits Disagreeableness and Introversion.  The term ‘antisocial’ means something very specific in Psych, however, and Dictionary.com defines it roughly the way I remembered it from school:  "of or pertaining to a pattern of behavior in which social norms and the rights of others are persistently violated."  There is no hint of shyness involved in this definition.  It says nothing about the Extro- or Introversion of the perpetrator.  Hmm.

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These Saturdays When I Work

I am no good on these Saturdays when I work.  These shifts, they are lucrative, but they are not for me.  The clientele is friendlier at night, and I adapt excellently to the longer, slower format, but these shifts are not for me.  They are easy and fun, and I always cheer up once I’m on-clock, but I tell you I do not like them.  Whatever for?  Because.  All morning long, before I suit up and breathe in and head out, all I can think about is the vanishing day, my shrinking burning lessening allotment of freedom.  It’s the dread daylight that precedes the inevitable pre-work shower and comb and toothbrush that makes me, as I said, no good.  My personality is different on these Saturdays.  It changes in precisely the following ways.

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I Do Believe It Could Do But Will Never Go Home Again

I’ve been answering the phone more.  Mom calls and I answer.  Last time, we talked for over half an hour.  She caught me up on Grandma’s situation, and then told me about the art she’s been doing.  She’s been trying to get back into art.  I caught her up on work drama, and she told me I should man up and let my manager know I’m interested in and ready for a promotion.  I told her the truth:  that I’m not afraid to do this.  No manning up necessary, I am already there.  At least in regards to minor workplace confrontations.

But then a week goes by, and some more time, and I just keep going to and from work as though this is good.

Although it’s sort of complicated, all you need to know is that I score Somewhat Low on a personality trait called “Conscientiousness.”  To be Conscientious, in personality psych, doesn’t mean to be thoughtful or kind, but rather hard-working, organized, the opposite of distracted or impulsive; granted, there is a certain element of thoughtfulness to Conscientiousness, but it’s more like external awareness: highly Conscientious folks are statistically more apt to remember your birthday, and then to call or text you making sure they have your address up to date so that they can send you a card.

FUCK

I wrote for over an hour.  I was creating “Tags” for the finished post and accidentally hit the backspace key.  Chrome’s like, “You sure you want to leave this page?”  I’m like “No, oops.”  And but it’s stuck on that question.  I click “Stay on this page” a thousand million times, but nothing.  I try to X out of the question, but no.  I even cave and click “Leave this page,” just to see if it’ll—nothing.  I ctrl+alt+del and shut down Chrome and cross my fingers and lo and behold:  the post is lost, forgotten, never happened.  Chrome just looks at me like I’m crazy when I tell it I spent the last hour using it, typing in it, creating a lengthy and interesting post via it.  Why my hostility, it wonders.

Dear every internet browser:  for the umpteenth fucking goddamned time, why the fucking fuck is the backspace key a fucking “Back” hot key?  Nobody wants that fucking hot key.  Fuck your stupid hot key.  Make F10 the fucking hot key.  Make it some key way up and off to the side.  How about the |\ key, or the ~` key.  How about no fucking key at all.  How about I just click the “Back” button any time I want to go back, like a regular fucking person.  Irreversible deletion should not be swift and convenient.

Here’s that follow-up text from Moot.

Everything I did last year, the whole trilogy, was in hopes of generating enough unique material to piece together a complete album of my own.  I have finished my task.  I call it Little Ghost.  It still has one cover on it, but fuck.

Click here to get the album.

Here’s that follow-up text from Moot.

Everything I did last year, the whole trilogy, was in hopes of generating enough unique material to piece together a complete album of my own.  I have finished my task.  I call it Little Ghost.  It still has one cover on it, but fuck.

Click here to get the album.

Anniversaries Are Great

Mrm and I know we’re awesome.  And so every year, on January 19th, we take time to celebrate that we’re awesome.

Welcome, Brian the Editor

Allow me to introduce Mr. Burger’s newest, greatest, and first-ever other staff-member, Brian!

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