A Week in the Life of Blogging Superstar Trent Lewin

Monday

             Wake up. There’s poop on the carpet. A thumb-tack on the stairs. There is no probable way that I could step on it. No way. Stare at my foot. There is a thumb-tack in my toe. There is shit on my heels.

             At the coffee shop, there’s a large man behind the counter. “What kind of coffee would you like?”

             “The liquid kind.” The fleshy mountain looks puzzled. He looks concerned. He asks me if I’m okay. “It’s 6 in the morning. It’s cold. Give me my coffee.”

             “There’s no need to be rude…”

             I chug the coffee. “Hit me again.”

             “Holy shit!”

             “That’s the spirit,” I tell him. I want to make fun of him. I want to judge him. I want to make him feel bad so that I feel good. Grit my teeth. Swirl coffee in my mouth until it feels like I have swallowed the balls of the grim reaper and they are about to exit my maw with projectile speed. Fatty. Fatty fat fat. Fucking fatty, I tell him in my mind.

             Outside, it’s freezing cold. The windshield iced up in the two minutes I was gone. Two fucking minutes, and now I can’t see a goddam thing.

Tuesday

             Driving to work. Coffee in the cup holder. Phone on the passenger seat. Earpiece nestled next to my brain – the brain of Trent Fucking Lewin, deranged and sinking fast into a long bed of snow, in the country of Canadaland where everyone is just so polite.

             Phone rings. It’s Umba from Strasburg. “Trenty! Hello Trenty! How are you? Did you hear? Price of oil has dropped to $40 a barrel!”

             I hit the brakes and swerve to the left, over a snowbank and into a gas station. There’s no one here. Not a soul. Somehow, people aren’t buying gas at 5:30 in the morning. The man behind the counter is not white but I don’t know what colour to call him; it’s something in between something else, a new colour, a fresh entry into the palette of humanity. “I’m not mugging you!” I tell him.

             “I know that, sir. But thank you for letting me know.”

             “Give me a barrel of oil. Right now.”

             His eyebrow rises. “We don’t sell those.” And he starts to argue with me. He argues with Trent Lewin, as though he has the right to provide poor service, as though he can restrict me from getting what’s coming. I wonder how can he stand there, in his red uniform top, and recite his product list and company policies to me… the customer Trent. The money-laden Trent Lewin, only looking for a means of expanding his great fortune by squatting on barrels of oil that he’ll hoard in his basement and use to build a play fort.

             Outside, I fill up the car. Fill it right full.  Overfill it until the gasoline shoots out the fill-hole, onto the asphalt. I hold up the nozzle. I squirt some of the gold stuff into the air. “70 cents a litre,” I tell the person who’s pulled up. “Fuck yeah.” And the last drop out of the nozzle, I put on my tongue.

Wednesday

             I’m at work. I’m at work. The carpet is freezing. The coffee is shit. Phone rings, “Hello, was wondering if I could place an order for a startling quantity of shitballs topped with a heaping helping of fuck-off.”

             “I can do that for you.” In the coffee room, someone’s left a quarter of a pie on the counter. Fuck. That’s so good. I’m so glad, because I don’t know what the fuck I would have done had I not come into work and had access to a used pie in a disgusting tin foil tray, something that’s probably been hanging out in a basement refrigerator the last five days. I take a piece. I take the rest. I mash it into my mouth. I swirl it around.

             “Whoa… hungry this morning?” says Sia.

             “Don’t judge me,” I tell her. “Don’t judge me.”

             Don’t judge me. But let me judge you, is what I mean. Sia – how could you wear a top like that? Is it modest enough? Is it the right colour? The body underneath – slim enough? Healthy enough? Let me inspect your cubicle. Let me see what you’ve stashed in the secret places, what illicit substances and other fun things. I will expose you. I will hold you up by your ear, Sia. Carry your head through the office like a prize.

             “Why are you staring at me?” she asks.

             “Pie.”

             “Excuse me?”

             “No pie left.”

             Back at my desk. The phone rings. It rings and it rings and it rings until I’m ringing with it, the embodiment of western culture and civilization, the voice on the other end of the phone when the rest of the world calls, the gateway to a perfect existence – to Trent P. Lewin, holder of the keys to prosperity, who gets to work. Who answers the phone.

Thursday

             “…put your hands in the holes of my sweater.”

             The music’s playing. The bed is warm. The house is dark.

             This screen is staring at me. This rectangular overlord. This oddly-lit monolith. And it’s telling me I had better write something. That this is required. Write something great. Something brilliant. Something snappy and insightful that will let everyone know how fucking genius I am, how choked full of clever observation and minor complaint dressed up as new-age philosophy and discourse. This was how Plato started. This is how Einstein did it. So why can’t you, Trent Lewin – says the computer screen – just sit here and create something marvelous? What’s wrong with you? What’s your problem – that you’re too warm? Too rich? Too comfortable? Too without hardship and now all you have left is catastrophe in the form of a thumb-tack in your foot, or a guy at the gas station who won’t sell you a barrel of oil because it’s obscene? It is obscene. It is.

             Write something. So I do. I decide that I am going to get back at evildoers. At the true cancer of the world. Oh yes, I read the news. I consume it. And there are terrorists in the world, so I aim at them first. “Better be brilliant!” says the computer screen. And it is. I show them an image of their Prophet first, because… it’s obscene. Because it will hurt someone. Because that’s who I am, someone who wants to rage and get back at them by hurting them. And so down the toilet bowl we spiral, fated for the sewers with the rest of the sludge. Question Trent Lewin on his brilliance? His commentary? You can’t. Because now it’s satire, and it’s my right, and it’s so fucking clever that we don’t have a meaningful thing else left to say, not one serious word or thought or reaction to the calamities and crimes of the world except to heap our cleverness on the injustices that have already been done, and to jab back.

             I send it out. I send my words into the world. I feel better because I am mean. I elevate my species by tearing down my fellow human beings. But the computer screen is still staring at me. After all these words, it’s still empty.

Friday

             I’m in the mall. You’re in the mall. We’re all in the mall. There’s a sale on lingerie. A discount on tea. Old people stare at glass. Teenagers hang on my every word, blowing smoke out their crapholes.

             I’m eating spring rolls. And donut holes. Sipping a beer. A news-ticker on the screen above tells me that I’m not right in the head. That I don’t think about things properly. That I should rage against the infidels, even the ones that have the exact same shape, size and social security number as me. The news-ticker tells me that a bomb went off somewhere. That the oceans are acidifying. That most of the countries where we send our foreign aid money practice torture. That those bankers who mucked up my savings account are back on Wall Street, rolling the dice again.

             And I get up. This is where Trent Fucking Lewin gets up. And drops his pants. And takes off his shirt. And stands on the table.

             “Oh my God!” someone screams. But here I am. Nothing is hidden. These words are real. This is what I look like. I don’t know how I got here. How I managed to become a cog in the wheel that is flattening us. How ideals and dreams floated away; how a good world became that world, someone else’s world. And now no world at all.

             “Sir, you need to put your clothes on,” says a security guard.

             I point my penis at him and strike a pose. “Fuck yeah.”

             “Sir… please. You’re scaring the children. And the elderly people. And the food preparation experts. And the retail sales managers. And the mall superintendents.”

             “What about the security guards?”

             He shrugs. And then I’m off. Arms pump. Kiosks fly by. A little dark-haired girl still tries to sell me make-up. There’s the electronics store; the video cameras make me look larger, more bloated – and while it’s not flattering, while it’s not kind to the naked image of Trent P. Lewin, at least it leaves out the crimes, because I am without doubt sinless, and you are only going to get run over by my naked soul if you try to judge me. Don’t judge me. Don’t judge me! Grocery store aisle – naked in the ice cream fridge. Produce, dry-humping the cabbage. Men’s formal wear store – thrusting in the tri-mirrors until I’ve fogged up the place.

             The fountain in the middle of the mall, skinny-dipping. Feeling the waves. Feeling the waves.

             “Are you quite done, sir?” asks the security guard. “We have a lot of footage of your little run.”

             “Who are you calling little…”

             He looks at me. He’s old, wrinkled, the type the world’s ready to throw away. I know what he means. Every year that passes, my body gets older. And my heart ages twice as fast. He escorts me back to my stack of clothes. Gives me a bottle of water. Takes me to my car and makes sure I drive away. Far away.

             On the way to work, I wonder, and this is what I think. I REMEMBER clearly a time when I actually had the idealism to believe that there is some commonness to people – that if they lash out at me, I will find a better way to respond than lashing back. I REMEMBER a time when I accepted, and didn’t judge. I REMEMBER a time when I didn’t complain about everything, especially the tiny things that I should probably be glad to have the opportunity to be irritated about. I REMEMBER. I truly do – I REMEMBER a Trent Lewin who saw a different way. But he’s gone. He’s under my tires. And that guy who just cut me off – I just want to get out of my car and beat the shit out of him. I don’t know. Maybe I could get back to that other Trent. Maybe I could find him again. He’s probably hiding out in the bush, surrounded by snow and necking with the maple trees in hopes of landing the sweet stuff. But where would I get the time to find him? How do you even think about trying, when your weeks are only five days long?

230 thoughts on “A Week in the Life of Blogging Superstar Trent Lewin

  1. If my Monday starts that bad, I would probably have to stay in bed for the rest of the week 🙂 Especially to avoid all of that other stuff that could possibly happen the rest of the week! Great post!

    • Fortunately, this Monday turned out a little bit better – only a flat tire and a frozen pinky toe to contend with! Onwards and upwards, I suppose. Thanks much for the comment!

  2. Ummm … yeah. There are times when you write something like this that just bleeds so much desperation that I think we must have been twins separated at birth. You write this incredibly well. I can only think it. Well done, sir, well done.

    • It is desperation, Mark. Tastes like granola. Mixed with crapballs! I figure you’d get this, and get it well, and I thank you for the compliment and for knowing that someone somewhere out there actually could make pizza with me as we sort out the world’s ills. That’s you, my man.

      • It really is scary reading your posts when you scream at the heavens. There is so much there that rolls through my mind at times too. Keep moving forward, though. Don’t let all of this stop you from being Trent Lewin.

          • Yes. I mentioned a few months ago that I was trying to figure it out, how to re-take a piece of me. I’m still working on it, but it comes down to removing myself from the rat race where I can, being less goal-oriented, and living more for today rather than for tomorrow. Every weekend I can, I for a walk by myself along a nearby river. I take my camera and take pictures and just enjoy the peace and quiet and the few hours of being away from things. I’m trying to hold to something about me that I lost over the last few years. You do the same as well.

              • Hey, it’s completely counter to how I’ve lived a lot of my life, but I think my sanity is worth the effort. I had to try something different. Good luck to you sir. You know what I always tell people who become new parents — you have to remember to take care of yourself. Same goes for whatever it is that’s going on with you that is creating this frustration. Take care of yourself.

              • Thank you Mark. I hope the writing is just the way of getting it out – as Ross said, that’s it’s cathartic. A part of me hopes that writing is not simply just a means of understanding the world, of expressing what bothers me – in an oddly-selfish way, I like to think of it is a natural thing, something I’ve always had. I never know the truth of that.

              • It’s interesting. One of the reasons I have not written much fiction over the last few months is that every idea I have for a story takes me to the same place — the foundation for my frustrations at life. And the last thing I want is to write that story again. I’m struggling with fiction that doesn’t get buried in my head.

              • That’s just it though. I haven’t been able to get out of my head lately. Lots of stuff going on in there. I think though that my river walks are helping clear some of the crap out. Worked a little on a short story tonight.

              • Excellent… and I’m not trying to simplify the issue. I think we have talked about this before, but fiction isn’t generally about us – and the stronger the interference from real life, the more we are dwelling on real life, the more it infiltrates worlds that aren’t really meant to exist. It’s so hard to disentangle when you’re tired, stressed, preoccupied. Seems like you’ve found an answer in your works. Mine comes in the early early morning, five am is my best time, over coffee.

                Hope to read that story some day.

    • Boredom, madness, crazed stupefaction… they are all staring to blend in my head. But fun? Yeah, always. Thanks for the words – you’re welcome to read more, of course!

  3. One more thing … the part about how you used to think we all had some kind of commonness that could bridge the divide. That you could recognize and not lash back. But now you’ve lost that idealism and can only lash back. I soooooo get that. We’re all losing our humanity and far too many people don’t seem to care. It’s worth no more than a shoulder shrug.

    • I’m afraid so. I feel that in my bones, the way it’s so easy to villify and demean others. That is seems important to be better than them, and for me to make that known to them. I don’t get it. I don’t see this thing in my children; I don’t like the idea that it’s going to be beaten out of them, as it has been with me. Epic shoulder shrugs all around… there must be a better answer than this, somewhere.

      • Yep. I think my kids are older than yours. Mine are 19 and 17 and, particularly with my older one, I see a kid who seems so bitter about some things and so willing to criticize others. And he’s way too young for that. As I’ve said in other places, I significantly blame technology and the internet. Smart phones and video games. And lazy parenting and a lazy society. Far too many of us just to what everybody else is doing with, as you say, nothing more than shoulder shrugs. Oh well, everybody else is doing it, so it must be okay, right? The incredible tool the internet could have been is driving the humanity right out of a lot of us.

        • Did you hear about the guy out your way that started Cuddle.ca? It’s a purposeful service that offers pay-for-cuddle for those who are so divorced from people that they need basic human contact… all for a mere $90/hour. I don’t know what kills me more about this – that it’s necessary, or that I would totally try it out.

          • I fortunately have the most incredible 17-year-old son. Multiple times a day he walks up to me and gives me a hug. Words can’t describe what that means to me.

            I’m not surprised about Cuddle.ca. Here’s a novel idea for all of those people who are paying for that service … put the damn phone away and look around you.

            • Yup – you’d think that would be obvious. And much cheaper. My kids give great hugs too, and very often. Those are the best moments for me. I hope they’re still like that when they’re 17…

          • They will be Trent. They will be. P.S. If you really need a hug, I will provide some, free of charge. Hugging is magical, and so good for all involved. Then again, I have always been a touchy feelie kinda gal…. I understand the power of human touch.

  4. Well, Trent Fucking Lewin, aren’t we in a dark place this week? My writing headed into the shadows this week as well and I was rethinking publishing but perhaps it has just been that kind of week.
    I’m assuming we can look forward to a YouTube link of the mall escapades shortly. At least we have something to look forward to. I won’t judge.

    • Somehow, I always think of you as so polite, Michelle, so my eyes shoot open when you cuss so good. Dark place, light place – I’m all over the place. Must be the cold… goodness it’s cold. Please – tell us about the shadows. They’re interesting, aren’t they, even when they’re grabbing you by the arm hairs and dragging you over the ice. The mall escapades… the footage may not be good for most people. It will come with many many warnings. But thank you for not judging!

      • For the record, I am not a cusser. It just isn’t in my nature. But for you Trent, it just felt right…this time. I am working on a post I started and stopped and started again that isn’t quite as “humorous” as I would have liked. When my “editor” read it he just said, “Well, this isn’t very funny”. It didn’t start out to be what it is now and it is one I had a hard time writing and a harder time revealing but I’m going to do it.

  5. With all the shit around us, both literal and figurative, it’s easy to feel total despair and anger. Somewhere in the deepest recesses of my soul I believe that just a little bit of good is all it will take to keep humanity on the right track. Or maybe I’ve just got my rose coloured glasses on again.

  6. Trent Fucking Lewin. The fact that you wrote this tells me you still care and that your ideals are not forgotten, not completely buried. Don’t let go. I’m with Michelle. I’m looking forward to the YouTube footage of the mall trip. This was incredibly entertaining, just brilliant! See, you have written something marvelous.

    • Okay, now you’re just catching me in my own flawed logic…. good point, Amy. If I ever end up on YouTube in less than full attire (or in no attire at all), I am going to post the hell out of that video.

      Glad you saw the humour. In amidst the other stuff, there has to be humour, right? Either that or just pop from the weight of it all – and we wouldn’t want that.

  7. We get older. We get tired. We lose patience and become fed up with a world that makes the same damn mistakes over and over and over…
    Or maybe you just need a vacation 🙂

    • A few years ago, I didn’t feel that tiredness… but I feel it now. I seem to be very prone to prejudice and judgement, like all the time. Weird sensation. I would like it reversed, please. Get me off this bandwagon!

      But I do agree, I need a vacation. And that’s saying a lot, given that I just got off vacation… grrr….

  8. Any Monday that starts with poop on the carpet should get a re-do. Fortunately for you, there is one tomorrow!

    And I can’t read about buying coffee without thinking of this video:

    Now I need to finish the piece. Otherwise I would have forgotten to post that video and that would have been a shame. A Fucking shame.

    • THAT was funny!! It almost makes me wish I drank the stuff. Wait. No. It makes me grateful I do NOT drink the stuff. (and pull up your pants)

    • Coffee-flavored coffee… now that is something worth ranting about. Crap, Dennis Leary does good rant… he probably repeats that bit over and over again but he really sells it, like he truly feels it. I’m onto wine now… the wine-flavored wine. Fuck yeah.

  9. Ick to the literal shitty Monday and the week that followed. My virtual arms wrap around you. PS I’m not liking this, no offence.

  10. “Pardon me if I’m sentimental…” I’m with NancyTex, although how anyone with “Tex”in their gravatar name can have that opinion without being struck down, eludes me. I can wear my rose colored glasses and sing as the Earth burns. That’s the great thing about the modern world, it’s so small that everytime someone farts, I get the odor. So, where it used to be Rome burning, now the whole kit and caboodle catches fire at once, fueled by intenational flights and instantaneous global communication and a media that now sees fit to create the news. And my local grocery store that carries dried prunes and bottles with unknowable languages and every other grocery store as well. As an eloquent CFO of mine once said while contemplating the wreckage of a huge $10 million dollar accounting project gone terribly awry -“This ship is way too big to turn around in this little channel, isn’t it? Well, just do what it takes to make it work.”

    But all that said, spring rolls are really very good, aren’t they? It is possible, if we all agreed on the spring rolls, that maybe we could use them as the lynchpin on which to hinge a new world order.

    • Paul – you entertain the hell out of me. I think you have it in you to plant a big broad rant on those who got it coming (like myself, for instance – I am made of privilege and other mushy stuff). Pass me the rose-coloured glasses. And the matches. I’m sorry about the odour in here (that’s right, odour is spelled with a ‘u’, don’t get me started). The ship is too big… well, Paul. Never get off the boat. Never get off the boat. Absolutely fucking right. Also one of my favorite movies ever… I fear that I may be rambling, but I haven’t found an adequate way yet of expressing my fondness for your comment yet. I think I will simply offer you a virtual spring roll in a greasy, semi-obscene salute. It’s all I got.

      • Yummm! Spriiiing Roooolls D’oh. Ha! I meant to mention – awesome post Trent (Trenty, Trend). And compliment received and appreciated.

          • What!? You’ve never had a spring roll?? Oh dear cousin Julie. They are smaller than an egg roll with a lighter, flakier pastry outside. Generally the fillings are shrimp or lobster or other seafood mixed with sprouts or other light veggie fare. They are about two bites and lighten up the taste in your mouth.They are common with Vietnamese or other south Asian fare. I can eat them by the dozen, but they are usually a little more expensive than eggrolls. \Don’t get me wrong, I am a meat eater and love my carnivorous choices, but somehow spring rolls seem to compliment the heavier foods. Yum, Yum! So, you see, as a metaphor, they stay away from first world desire for meat – which means no pork or the like. They are not quite vegetarian but they contain some veggies and some seafood, both of which are common across a lot cultures. They are a bit bigger than bite size so they do not remind one of the huge heavy meals so many find abhorrent about the first world diet. And yet they are common across a lot of cultures and are found acceptable by many. Also, as a small as they are , it is hard to find them intrusive or demanding in any way. In other words, they wouild make a good place to start when trying to find a commonness across cultures. in a metaphorical way.

            • This comment just made me really hungry, Paul. Julie, seriously – we need to get together and eat spring rolls by the dozen, with Paul of course. That would be epic – my two favorite unbloggers in the world, sharing heaping helpings of greasy stuff with me.

          • Thank you for the warning Trent, I will make sure that if we do ever meet, my facial hair is neatly trimmed! I get excited about even thinking that this could happen! An opportunity to actually meet the people I feel I know so well?! I might chicken out! No. No I wouldn’t. It would be so cool..

            • You know Julie, one day… we will grab the cool kids (there are so many!) and we will drink and party and then let’s huddle and write something together. That would be a perfect day.

  11. You know, Trend, you make many good points. Like why start the week on Monday. Like why is the world such a sucky, shitty place. And of course why we can’t get decent coffee flavored coffee.

    Your writing is always brilliant — it sings. Even when it sings the blues. But you get a do-over. May this week bring you no poop on the carpet and lots of lemon cake.

    • Elyse – I ate a lot of lemon cake, and it was good. And thank you for those words, I’m glad it sings. I have always wanted to sing, but I was born without any of the necessary talent. The do-over was mostly successful, by the way! And Tuesday is almost here…

  12. At least you’re still looking for that other Trent, Trent. Maybe he’s that Tnert Niwel you wrote about before. But i’ve been a jaded cynic by at least my junior year of college, when I looked at those starry-eyed freshmen and scoffed at their naive and feeble attempts to protest this world into a better place.
    Maybe not all is lost. Maybe you can still find that other Trent. There’s time. Because this week, and the next one, will have seven days, not five, and maybe the one after will, too, you never know. And the rectangle of your screen will go easy on you for now, for a few days, because I think you may have written something brilliant.

    • He’s under a rock, X. Or he’s stalking Tnert, with nefarious thoughts aplenty upon his deranged mind. You know, I may have been the starry-eyed’est freshman of all time (we call them frosh up here): I thought I was going to an institution of higher learning and smoking jackets, and sitting on the hill under a summer sun sketching the campus. But mostly it was about vomitting all over the place, which has its own merits but not many.

      The next week will have seven days… it’s the small things you look forward to. I feel time constricting a bit, X. It’s not kind to me. I hope it treats you better. I feel my soul ageing, my body following fast, and on top of that, someone ate the ice cream bar I left in the freezer at work. All is lost. In seriousness, I can’t tell: better to just be jaded or to be jaded about the losing cause that is presented by striving not to be? It’s a question. Not a great one. But a question nonetheless.

  13. better poop on your heel than between your toes…

    Would it be possible for me to get a copy of your itinerary? I would have paid cash money to be in the mall on Friday. How do you write about something so sad and make it so funny?

    The Trent you remember isn’t lost, clearly from this post, not lost at all.

    • ‘Would it be possible for me to get a copy of your itinerary?’ This is why there is only one Julie possible, anywhere. I did step in a deep, still-warm puddle of pee the other day, for a nice molded blue plastic potty had been upturned and spilled its contents on the tile floor. At first, I had hoped that it was simply a pool of my own congealing blood, but no. It was pee. Lots of pee.

      That Trent… might still be around. Hanging out with you guys brings him back. Have I ever told you how grateful I am for this crowd?

  14. The Trent fan in me has both hands in the air shouting WOW! The SB to my NB is not so celebratory. I know these feelings…hate these feelings…and don’t like you having them. But…when you are one of the ones who care, it was inevitable you’d end up here. It’s a fucking pickle but I’d rather be in this pickle with the likes of you, with poop on my heels, than anywhere else.

  15. Well that was quite a ride. You kind of cracked me up and terrified me with your rage at the same time. But dude, just one drop? The last one? Drink your gasoline like a man. Seriously though, I’ve only been reading your stuff for a short time, but this one goes to eleven.

  16. I held off on reading this until I had the time to give it the attention it deserves. I was off work yesterday and the kiddies were crawling all up my back, so that was out. First day back to my wretched commute and work and, brother, am I glad I waited. This is exactly what I needed. You’re a pharmacist.

    I’ve got a Sia at my office. She wears inappropriately tight clothes and has 0% body fat. When she walks by I hear Jimmy Fallon/Will Farrell’s ‘tight pants dance’ in my head. Fairly certain she’s fucking a married senior executive. Very pleasant, though, so maybe I shouldn’t be talking trash about her.

    Who did it to you, brother? Who robbed the world of the Trent we REMEMBER. I get it. I was running on the treadmill yesterday and a guy walked by with a t-shirt that had an NRA logo on it. Below it in red letters it said ‘Stand Firm.’ I wanted to drop a 20-pound plate on his foot. There was a time when I wouldn’t have cared. I’m old, angry Mark now. A tragic turn of events.

    • I wish I were a pharmacist… I would be happy all the time, on account of self-medication while gnawing on candy bars. I think I like your Sia better than mine… or maybe they’re the same person?

      Who did it to me… I think I did. I must have. It snuck up on me. Seems to me I remember warning myself to stay whole, to remain full – and then one day it was all gone. Probably around the time the first person disappointed me at work – or I disappointed myself by being that person. Can’t tell. Can’t remember.

      I have a fondness for old, angry Mark. I think being angry is the redeeming factor… maybe it’s a transitory phase. You start idealistically, then when that runs out, you get angry. And when that runs out… I think I have lessons yet to learn, and rants that are sure to be written – if I still have it in me. Just hope that I do.

  17. As one of my friends in college said, when asked why, when drunk in a crowded bar, that he had stripped naked and was dancing on a barstool….”Chicks dig it.”

  18. Hi Trent
    Came across your blog through mutual friends. I love what I just read – but it’s kind of scary, too. Your blog reminds me of the bathroom in the movie, “CBGB” for some reason. I recently saw it and that’s what popped into my mind when I got here. Anyways, when I have more time I will be back to figure you out

  19. Who has time to work on being the good person we always thought we’d be?
    I recently received a piece of advice, while suffering a moral dilemma, that went something like this: “It always comes down to time, and the right thing to do always takes longer than any of the other options. So, if you want to do the right thing, then you need to be willing to commit to additional seconds, minutes, and hours required.” We need to step back from the rush of our lives in order to live correctly…
    And that “waste” of time hurts. And doing the “right” thing doesn’t always leave us feeling better about ourselves or our world. We end up behind in our schedules and feeling worse about it…
    It’s so much easier to be mean, to be satirical, to be flippant and uncaring, to behave how we see others behaving in an ever escalating display of shit. You cut me off and I’ll flip you off, and then you’ll slam on your brakes and I’ll blare on my horn and then you’ll stop and I’ll come out swinging, and then… maybe some day down the road I’ll learn you cut me off because your child was sick and you were trying to get to them…you felt bad about cutting me off initially but you had more important matters pressing on you.
    And round and round we go. Spin, spin, spin the black circle…
    I wish you best of luck on your quest to find your former self. If you figure out how to return to path towards that ideal, then the rest of us will know it is possible and we may too decide to join you. What a world that would lead to…
    In the meantime, the optimist in me has been bound and gagged and locked in a hidden closet deep within the darkest parts of mind, kept under the watchful eye of my vengeful and hate-filled pessimist, who likes to judge, and likes to play with fire, and has a dangerous affinity for knives.

    • Trent bows to this comment and sits back to wonder why he refers to himself in the third person. Bow, Trent, bow.

      I agree, it takes time and effort to do the right thing. It takes time and effort to eat the right things too. Or to live the best way. The good things are generally hard. And you make such a good point, Matticus – the satire, the uncaring stuff, it’s just easy. Maybe it’s the easy way out. to hit back without hitting back too hard.

      Round and round we go… I wonder if there’s a way to get back to where it all started. I see images of that person at times. Head down in the shower. Lying in the snow. It might not be a far quest to find him. I don’t know.

      I’m glad there’s an optimist left, but this pessimist guy you speak of sounds a bit like a twat.

      • He is a twat… and he is lording over me these days.
        If I scroll back to posts I wrote at the beginning of last year I find funny things, silly things, happy things… and now I wonder where those stories have gone and if they will ever return to me because it has been a long time since I’ve written anything (fictional) that was joyous.

        • Fiction is not always joyous or about joyous things. It can be so dark, but that is okay too. Those stories are still there, but other one might take their place for a while. But it’s only a while. Sometimes you have to dig through that darkness to get back to what you want to write. But don’t discount those dark places. There is a lot to see and learn there.

    • Thank you very much… yes, the other Trent does take over at times, he’s kind of a bum actually. Glad you appreciate the honesty – that’s all this post really is about.

  20. it’s too damn good. i don’t know what to do except read it again and again until my eyes dry up and catch fire. and i’m feeling the need to call you Trenty from now on. feeling it deep down in my damaged soul.

    • Call me Trenty all you like… damaged souls are all we are, right? What’s wrong with that, anyway… nothing. I love hearing from you Fay. I’m always afraid you will vanish forever. Don’t do that.

  21. i have some serious advice for you which i will email. there is no need to bore the masses with that crap here. my brain function is so so sad. i’m not even tired, just dumb. the word bore looked wrong. i looked it up. you heard me, i fucking looked it up. i found the word borehole and it made me happy.
    email.

  22. This is why I love you, Trent. You’re able to say what I’m thinking and haven’t been able to express. These moments when really stop to think about who we’ve become, how we’ve changed, where we are and where we’re going. I recently had my own crisis and selfishly cathartic moment on my own blog, and found myself wondering what the heck has gotten into me. I just can’t stand the fact that many people don’t want to hear it, don’t want to know, don’t want to do anything about it. All they want to think about is their next frappuccino and what reality TV show is on tonight. And then I stewed on how messed up our world is whether you’re talking about the exploitation of people, animals, the environment, and how deeply rooted it is in everything we do, even if we’re not the ones actually committing the acts. I wanted to give up, close myself off, stop giving a crap like everyone else, show empathy for no creature. And then I realized I can’t do that. As evidence, I’m currently standing at my desk typing this while my cat lounges on my padded desk chair. I’m such a sucker.

    • Thank you Jennifer, for those words. I will have to find your cathartic post – I need to catch up on my reading, pronto. I think most people don’t give up, actually, but they remained frustrated by the temptation to do so. And sometimes it’s just overwhelming and it’s hard to fight. What’s really strange is that I love frappuccinos. There are whole mornings where I dream of having one… and then it dawns on me that I am sort of being a wanker. Honestly, I picture you as the optimist in the equation – you always seem to brighten the place up.

    • JENNIFER! I was just thinking about you! No Joke. You are not a sucker at all! You are exactly what we need you to be! I am happy to see that you are refusing to let go! That will be the time I won’t want to be here anymore, when the decency is just gone from everywhere. Keep your candle lit Jen! Trent is trying to keep his lit, and I will try to keep mine lit too, then maybe more will try too. When all those candles join up, the flames get bigger and it gets easier.

  23. Thursday and Friday. Good finishing.
    I very much enjoyed your own role here. Let’s not give labels. You were not being cynical, as cynical as you seemed, when you state things the way they are.
    I liked your attack on yourself -so comfortable, “petty” things were the catastrophes in your life. That was really cool.
    Pardon me, but I never tire of wondering at how we are; and so I thoroughly enjoyed how your week ended on the reflections on our state -the running arounds, hustles, hassles, values, consumerism, etc. Make the piece long enough and, I tell you, one could get so absorbed in the cynical reality one would forget all traces of light. For it seems one could almost pick threads of black in our garments, no matter how white they seem. One could find a flawed motive or method somewhere in the midst of all the good. One could find a reason to discredit us all. If one looks long at it. If one reads a long-enough post like this from you.
    I know -it’s odd I’m asking for a long time-consuming post especially from you (whose posts are naturally long).
    You did this well. Sincerely.

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