Forgiving the thorns for the damage they do was always the plan; sending apologies to the squirrels for blocking their access to the cage of suet and seed was on the agenda; turning a blind eye to the snake under the front walk was an anticipated grace, a mercy on the menu for the day...

instead, I'm in the house and such a vile pile of pure selfishness I've become, I don't care about those outside struggles;

instead, I'm in the house and my face is nowhere near a window;

instead, I'm in the house and i'm going to stay here and never forgive myself for becoming such a damnably perfected, self-involved human being.
It is a bad time to be a Website.

There was a time when no one really understood us; we were pictures at an exhibition, as much art as commerce or science.

We were dynamic and fucked-up and musically stunted and when we moved it was with jerks and beachballs and hourglasses that settled upon us and spun in the crazy dial-up festival sun.

Now? There are standards and best practices and we don't have as much fun fucking up in creative ways. We work or we don't. We sell or we don't. We surrendered ourselves to a single view of ourselves as needing to be useful or therefore of no value.

I am sure I will descend soon enough into obsolescence as my code becomes hazardously outdated.

I am sure I will accept my decommissioning, my death, as an honor on the stale field of Web battle.
Recently, I lost a face I often use for public address purposes.

I believe I left it somewhere one evening when I was full of both drink and shame over being full of drink and the things I say and do when I am full of drink.

Came home empty-headed, blank, stumbling a bit as I crossed over my threshold.

If I'd had my public face on I might have been able to maintain my composure, but as I was without it, I slapped on the private face I use when I'm home alone and cried like a hypochondriac over a false notion of a need to end this misery -- and then I fell asleep.

Woke up feeling childish, a mere bug of a man. Big eyed, crawling, no longer certain that I have a spine or could fake such a thing. Pure exoskeleton. Easier than ever to squash.

I wonder who has that public face now, the one I wore for years, the one caked with self-confidence and bravado?

If I run into them on the street, will I recognize what I've lost if I see it on another? Will I be able to speak up for myself and what I've lost, or would my voice through the sloppy face I wear now in its place sound cricketish, fly-like, mosquitoesque?

I can't think about that over the buzzing.

July 2017

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