Introduction

20 December 2022

Who I Am

For all intents and purposes I'm the Dirty Bubble from SpongeBob episode 1.20b. It's a real entity and it's me and this is what I've been doing all this time. I came into being in 1997 in the US and have been doing stuff ever since. I like to keep things pretty anonymous even though I can only write about my deepest darkest secrets. But just know I'm late 20s and culturally United Statesian but living in Canada.

Credentials

I have none of the credentials you're thinking of. I went to university for a year and dropped out in 2016. I have a high school diploma I guess. But what I really mean by this is what makes me a writer. What drives me and inspires me and fuels my voice. The answer is garbage. Just garbage. Injustice and abuse and disease. Mental illness and literal trash and negative emotion. Gore and horror and evil people. Abjection. Unfortunately I've experienced a lot of these things. Not as much as some but much more than others. And it's obviously changed me. Literally changed my biology but more importantly, my soul, my personality, my ghost, whatever. I used to think it was tarnished, soiled but I think, now, it's just added depth, layers, and colors. Either way, it's most of what I think about- what happened to me and what happened to others. And what's currently happening. It paralyzes me almost, but writing helps.

What I'm Doing Here

I love to write. Sometimes it feels like all I know. I have an urge to write mid emergency. So that's most of it. But I used to keep all my writing secret, even from my closest friends and family. I hoarded it and hid it and squirreled it away. I wasn't ashamed but I knew the shit was weird and I knew the audience was niche. I thought sharing it had no utility because it was just a way for me to cope anyway. But as I get older I feel a greater need or want for folks to know what I have to say. And I've discovered the market for my words is more extensive and welcoming than I once thought. Even if no one sees this, even if I get discouraged and stop keeping up with it, hitting send on something you've made is special on its own. This piece isn't mine anymore, it's yours.

I've had this neocities awhile. When I first made it, I truly didn't know shit. Was grasping long fuzzy memories of html and css from the Testriffic era. I spent ages picking out the entries and poetry I wanted to archive. I painstakingly wrote the HTML from scratch, refusing to use a template, and did a few drops of my favorite pieces. About a year later I received an email. It was someone who'd seen my neocities. They said they were really affected by my writing and wanted to know if I was okay and tell me how much they appreciate my words. Hearing one person had an experience reading me, knowing me? Was enough to keep me writing forever.

A Poem

In honor of my neocities fan I'm gonna start this off with a poem I wrote recently about my biggest muse- Heroin. This one's called

Grey Phillip

I used to be free

Free of pain and concern

Free of confusion and in turn

I uprooted all my life

To live for and serve my wife

We did all things in step

I loved her and I kept

My meat and goo

Inside her plastic chest.

A cylinder of gore

Even smaller than before

Is the space between the bubble

And my rotten sores

I used to be free

Running alongside trains

Laughing in the rain

But all the while inside

Her plastic fleshy divide

The walls were clear

I thought I was freer

Within the confines

Of the barrel of her metal lines

She wasn't malicious

Just wanted me to live delicious

Grey Phillip promised to grant wishes

And she did

But they expire

Sometimes there is no getting higher