Matt from Illinois

you’re sitting at your desk today thinking about how you might totally be a goddamn racist.

you’ve always thought of yourself as magnanimous to all, a peaceable arbiter of all affairs intra- and inter-racial, a dependable taxpayer, conscientious about your interactions with women, and a good Christian. but today it occurs to you after reading an article from the huffington post that ever since you can remember, every time you engage in conversation or even look at a person of color, your blood pressure sky-rockets, your hand involuntarily seeks your wallet to ensure that it’s not been stolen, and you start screaming, sweating, and frothing at the mouth until you slip into a deep psychogenic seizure that quickly erases all memory of the really embarrassing, really offensive episode.

your manager, a tall and strong black man named Maurice, knows about this medical condition of yours and has always been incredibly accommodating  but recently he’s been frustrated by the lengths he has to go to keep you from having a psychological meltdown: not using the employee kitchen, conducting business with you only via phone or e-mail, staying holed up in his office literally always.  despite the obvious inefficiency it puts on the entire work place, Maurice is worried that if he let you go the ACLU would be on his ass for discriminating on the basis of a medical disability. 

so with the sense of deep anguish and humiliation that accompanies any moment of utter disillusionment with your hilariously ill-conceived sense of self, you phone up Maurice and tell him you’re sorry about all that, that you’re resigning effective immediately, and in order to purge yourself of your incredibly offensive neurological bigotry, you will be making a video of yourself pouring a bucket of ice water on your head.

sketching characters for the story of Gombri.

Horror Enveloping the Mind via rhmay
I can hear the cries of the dead
Maybe it’s your neighbor beating his dog in the basement
— Chad VanGaalen


Jorge Luis Borges y Ernesto Sabato

The Unfortunate Mr. Samsa by Rich Johnson
Cuando un escritor muere, los libros se deshacen de sus páginas y lo rodean en una danza de hojas que lo elevará al cielo.
— (via poetaprohibido)