TODD: All I really have to show for my [redacted] years on this dying rock is a refusal to stop running away from The Nothing. All of this despite being perpetually, casually dismissed as “a lot” … trying like Sisyphus to convince every ableist that I’m nothing more than the victim of an open /4/.(?$78!,:34;899sthvrujjthbhijjiij THE TEAL: If glamorized disfigurement’s the latest way to pay the rent, then dandies will keep brandishing their fake tits and lighters for jesters and molesters and adequate writers who are citing Google highlights as a backup for the Bible. Oh, my semi-honest sonnets … now with a talking option!? Thumbs up, hermit celebrity hooked on photo filter therapy! One Mark proclaimed, “Adultery!” The other says, “Philanthropy!” It’s vanity for sanity in the land of free anxiety. I’m a full-time connoisseur and a part-time virtuoso. All those days chasing trends to strengthen frames of reference against hipsters so persistent in that neighborhood search for the cleanest, most thirst-quenching goblet of water. (Nope.) Coffee? (Nope.) Mickey’s? (Nope.) Urine? (Nope. What good is) BLOOD (without a body!?) Kids, take note of my ample *ahem* WISDOM: More often than not, it is only exhaustion in that golden pot. KIDS: BOO! THE TEAL: OK, fine! Keep on listening to those critics in your head! Just don’t feel bad if every now and then it’s the radio instead. Every friends-only post is a modern 12-bar blues: Just ‘cause it all sounds the same doesn’t make the pain a ruse. And since we’ve let ourselves be led by flower pedals and pairs of story fragments coming true, can’t yesterday’s silks and linens still make for immaculate record collections? I mean, really — there was nothing ever wrong with “Kumbayah,” or even getting your slowcore jollies on. But right now, all I really need is some Tums and some throat coat tea. Fuck it — my existence is painfully American, and staying woke’s quite an exhausting acquisition. As the planet succumbs to its bloodthirsty butterflies, caffeine is increasingly cardinal. Okie dokie! Show me the Holy Pony’s Hokey Pokey — right foot only, please! Sequent steps reflexive: stroking, blowing, quoting, then disowning the supposed King. Chaos so comforting … Christ, where’s a counselor!? My pleasantness depends on prescriptions filled persistently, and if you ever witness a transition, you’re well advised to split and leave me alone with my lists, the ancient obsession on which I subsist. And remember that it’s MY life trembling by the nightlight, headphones mighty tight, faintly whining, “Do the knife fight!” Hey, I’ll be fine just idling at this site ‘til I can bite right within the sight of surgeons trying to save ideas of White might. We all know there is no joy in the high road; self-awareness hardly justifies you acting like an asshole. Just please grant me sufficient room to shape all adjacent molecules into unremitting artifacts of a value that my soul could never know. Oh, my aching attention SQUIRREL!!!!!!!!! DEV: Hey Todd, it’s Dev. I got your message — dude! Stop being so hard on yourself! No independent solo artist is ever as productive or authentic as they want to be. Instead of immediately predestining every breath to be wasted, rejoice in each inhalation, exhalation as the possible basis for more content created. Hey, if you sing a song and the world doesn’t sing along, then that’s the world’s problem. Love you, man — call me when you get this. TODD: Hey, Dev, I appreciate your attempts at encouragement, but what is there to rejoice when, nowadays, news about Tame Impala accompanies photos of burnt koalas? Marsupials, too, could disappear into the past like dodos, pay phones, and smooth elections. We are well beyond concerns over coitus and classics, and yet the climate keeps gathering dust in what America’s still calling a corner. You know, I used to pray for healing or clarity or whatever, but honestly, why even acknowledge God when there’s this fresh pot of coffee? Next week on Pay-Per-View: “The Evil That Men Will Do.” Boring ... scroll, scroll … wait, is that — !? Man, isn’t it infuriating to remember that the alt-right makes memes, too?

THE TEAL: Engrossed and incompetent. No disrobing the monument or it’s continent’s conduit when he’s stalled on a consonant. He’s got one hand on the button and the other on your wife; says, “Step to the left,” but cannot ascertain right from right. I can’t believe in a god whose main concern is moving units. I won’t believe in a god whose main concern is moving units. Are bespectacled White men the most respectable hype men for every leftist vendetta against these Icemen with cheddar? Drop balloons instead of bombs — hope for a Clinton-esque response, while channel ORANGE whispers psalms: “This federation is forever.” Confess a passing plethora of firmly flimsy embouchures until these lovely trumpeters all sound like laughing treasurers. The life Blogospherial is just low-key imperial. Overthrow with a link in your bio — what a terribly American way. Warring frames of reference are the closest thing to protest you’ll approach — any closer could spell “death by displeasure.” So normalize shake weights and moralize date rape, then formalize slave traders’ immortalized paydays. GOTCHA! You say “Illuminati,” I say “oligarchy”; neither of us quite remembers how to spell the word “jeopardy.” Whether rocking empty pantsuits or imaginary fat suits, we’re foreordained to watch our roots decay and routes all fade away. How’s your day? I can’t believe in a god whose main concern is moving units. I won’t believe in a god whose main concern is moving units. Common Sense, you are long, long overdue — there’s nothing the kids want more than a worldwide reunion tour. “Hey, Common Sense, do you still take reque —” THUMIA: Hey there, my sexy Aspie … it’s Thumia. Just providing your daily reminder that silence will forever be your enemy. So keep those headphones mighty tight, and remember that you are, always have been, and will always be “that bitch.” Dissipate into your self-righteous hate, vape until you evaporate. And if you really need to, just try copying and pasting your way back into caring! You know it won’t work, though … remember why? Because all these years that I’ve been hooking up with you, you’ve never abandoned the low-key lookout for any reason to disrespect those who pretend to love you.

THE TEAL: Fighting the power one “like” at a time … at least in my head, I’m a savior. Boosting our endorphins on the backs of battered orphans. If we only had our brains to see this feebly themed afternoon TV series based on too many babies’ disgusting realities. Cat pictures keep you at a comfortable distance from the inevitable rise of roaches and Richards. All the White boys are headed uptown, chasing a man who still hasn’t come around. Who gives a fuck about a post-rock context when this shouting match between Earth and Wind’s still acquiring extra “F”s? Nothing makes me longer than the Bible’s worth of space we must maintain between our hips as we step clumsily along to some diabetic coma dripping in at an adagio, while I Mimeo Fabio in hopes you’ll try a taste and feel too ensnared to care that all the elegance I offer you is fake. Let’s face it: No one’s expecting Batguy to fly or letting SuperQ do much of anything. Is it really that much hotter? If it is, inform my lawyer. All the White boys are headed uptown, chasing a man who still hasn’t come around. Who gives a fuck about a post-rock context when this shouting match between Earth and Wind’s still acquiring extra “F”s? Suicidal ideation’s quite a spiteful mediation. For better and for worse, I know I’m no longer ever alone. No lawful use for managed time or real repentance when life’s a loop of petty crime and prison sentence. Taking “Jesus” lyrics well out of context just to perpetuate a textual contest. Yeah, we’ve still got wood and nails, but can’t remember why. All the White boys are headed uptown, chasing a man who still hasn’t come around. Who gives a fuck about a post-rock context when this shouting match between Earth and Wind’s still acquiring extra “F”s? Suicidal ideation’s quite a spiteful mediation. For better and for worse, I know I’m no longer ever alone. The world just dies when it’s mine to hold. With laughable aim, he shouted her name and said, “Decode the message!” With laughable aim, he still cries her name …

THE TEAL: A soul only a mother could love; nothing but an avatar anymore. He cannot foresee how the world will die upon completing D&D. Forget the resurrection — give us back that purple rain. A soul only a mother could love. Surely, death is no party, but why the disdain toward gaining less of a body and more of a brain? Your ears will disappear, ringing and remastered, as Heaven violates Earth … my, how Pharisees favor a kiss “unforeseen.” THUMIA: Oh sweet Jimmy, it’s always your fault — you were predestined to be Saul, forever terrible at jokes and not breaking yolks, sending kids to prison for hating Kendrick Lamar. Don’t forget: If you keep that locker room talk all to yourself, you might miss out on the good bitches! All those B340s so desperate for a hug and a hero … oh yeah, Lionel! I love it when you talk about Sunday like that! THE TEAL: A soul only a mother could love, at its best / worst, checks for death first. And to think I was once bratty enough to believe in the Kingdom … and you know, maybe Yahweh Itself is a sissy just like me, sobbing inconsolably at His Grimness’ thriving anxiety. When I’m not wandering worthlessly, I’m weeping for my Weedoh Pack. But whenever she would cry, the apocalypse felt nigh, so I stayed through the fizzle, indulged every pop, couldn’t handle the rattle, dipped out for the knock. Still, I wish I was holding your hand when you finally just stopped. Oh, soul only a mother could love … the moral of the story is, once again, YOU DIDN’T FUCKING LISTEN. A soul only a mother could love … people only praise a memory of you now. Am I meant to be anything more than a man of deeply regrettable stage and manner? HIS GRIMNESS: Hey, soul only a mother could love! Guess who’s dying to hear your demands! THE TEAL: Why, yes! Praise be! Tell me more about this “special place” you speak of … THUMIA: Awww, Saul, you’re so cute whenever you try to be a good man. People are so naive to consider you above the easy way out. The fact is that you’re little more than a crime spree with terrible timing — TODD: Hey, [redacted]. Yeah, I said it — again. You know, with a little less conditioning, we’d probably ALL be murderers, so stop pretending that the electric chair you claim to control is a throne. I do need a lot, and … I’m sorry for that. But I’m not above reproach and I know that now — really, I do! Do you ever feel like WiFi usernames are the only islands where freak flags can still safely fly? Never mind, FUCK YOU … call me when you get this.

THE TEAL: Post-coital life has been 12 years a slave. Epitonic is gone, so hold that Otter Pop like a vape. The fifth CD I ever owned now just inspires my eyes to roll along with the Lifetime credits over which its single plays: “Anywhere you go, I’ll follow you down.” Everybody here has seen your pictures; now everybody wants to clean your fissures to find the fox ever embedded in your name (that a thousand hounds have long since rendered tame). Aren’t we all undeserving emperors sleep-screaming in a computerized coliseum, faintly praying that each movement of our thumbs will boost the blood flow? And we’re far too wise to specify a final destination. Every so-called “selfless” act amounts to macaroni art — yes, it’s supposed to be a heart. So many decades behind that inceptive smiling lie, now it’s constantly announced: The thought alone can never count. Nope, “almost” doesn’t count. What’s stopping me from changing to Jeffrey Dahmer or Jesse Lacey?

DEV: Well, praise the Lord and suck my DICK! God has officially left the meeting. Dude, history lessons ought to come with trigger warnings — I can’t believe that I’ve been entertained by Black suffering for about a decade now. And to think I thought Kanye West was making me more progressive … I often find myself yearning to be 12 or 13, just to relive the moment when I bought AMG as a book at a store down the street from my parents’ house. I couldn’t drive yet, but Erlewine took me everywhere. Anyway, no hard feelings about that last message — I know that you’re going through some shit right now. I hope that you’re feeling better, man. I hope your success sends all of your acquaintances to therapy! And hey: Never be careless with a good pair of headphones. Keep it mighty tight, my brother! TODD: “One great big festering neon distraction.” Hey, ‘Nard, guess what? California became the whole world! Am I really a hipster just for thinking that this bullshit is always going to be bullshit? At any rate, I know that Fantano will carry the load of blase complaints ‘til the niche they police just implodes. Oh, good Lord, who this time? Man, cancel culture’s a cancer vulture — I fucking thrive on unfair power dynamics. Can’t say that too loudly or I’ll forever be banished to the “Comments” section. You know, it’s weird how these tiny acts of rebellion persist, even when I’m given freedom to teach the next generation lessons based on lists. I’d better get back to writing. Dear Thumia: I’m sorry for calling you the “C” word for … I’ve lost count of how many times at this juncture. My dick wrote you a mostly sincere and, I assume, will-be-promptly-discarded apology letter. I’ve started following the hashtag “macromastia” — nasty, huh? Your assumption was indeed correct: I briefly perused through your OnlyFans thread after consummating our 80th marriage in my head. Oh, Thumie … I may still love you more than me, but, who knows? I just may yet make you Mary Kelley. I know what you’re thinking, because it’s exactly what I’m thinking: “You’re so cute when you think you’re in control!” What time is it? Oh fuck, was this a butt dial? FUCK. GODDAMN IT! SHIT!!!

THE TEAL: Humanity will always be a mixed signal, and art is mental illness with a better business plan. But still, these wings are the weirdest of miracles. Yes, these wings are the weirdest of miracles. The low-key diva sneaks his way back into the scene’s diseased and bleeding stream: “Come on, kids, gather ‘round! My band is a laptop!” I open my mouth up to sing, I’m in college again! From a distance, I’m right as rain, saying things like, “If not for my mom, I wouldn‘t be here (and now I can mean that BOTH ways).” But from this angle, I am the bush league — visions of turnstiles are all that my future can handle. As every bar’s boastfully soberest pinball apologist, every book is a Bildungsroman. Every thought becomes, “Now what did Cardi B do except make all the money? I guess that Noname will remain so. I guess that Simz is staying Little until they can get this Vain Train to finally stop a-chuggin’.” KIDS: 😴 THE TEAL: Bent on staying relevant for however long it matters to the salaried directors of the hippest Christmas flyers; “hey, look — your face was finally featured!” 😳 Legacy! Legacy! Life’s meanest of mirrors. Humanity will always be a mixed signal, and art is mental illness with a better business plan. But still, these wings are the weirdest of miracles. Yes, these wings are the weirdest of miracles. I love my job, yet still complain … what a terribly American way. Those 46,000 “likes” may turn out to be your grandchildren’s only birthrights. At least now I’m able to mold your emotions with added grace and style. Sexism still sells, and I supply miles of bile to you with a smile — hell, there may even still be some bitches in your future! Either way, there you are stupidly scrolling through ghosts of Craigslist posts, ‘cause this global village is the optimal corner for panhandlers a little bit richer. But I like this beast at the borderline, so World, maintain your breaking axis until I make you understand with countless prehistoric musings and two slowly withering hands. Humanity will always be a mixed signal, and art is mental illness with a better business plan. But still, these wings are the weirdest of miracles. Yes, these wings are the weirdest of miracles. All these wannabe savants sounding high on potenuse after downing “I’m an artist” juice. If I die tomorrow, at least I’ll have stayed interesting (in my own private idea of whatever relevance means). Though Metacritic is unlikely to see me — let alone grant me anything higher than “80” — hey, man, keep everything, every trace you can! Small victories are all that we have.

THE TEAL: I want to eat you in the FUCK!!! No distinguishing between my bride-to-be and Twitter feed; girls with crooked teeth remain all I need. The basest reason that you hold the door open might as well be your only voice to have spoken. Slowly but surely, I’m learning how to sleep like a baby in your awkward, untimely embrace. Why’s it a good thing I said what you were thinking? I’m a frustrated ball — won’t you marry me? It’s a joke, but even those can be sincere. Did I ever tell you my favorite one? “I want to eat you in the FUCK!!!” We held hands while masturbating … that still may be the only time I felt that flame. When I fired by phriendly rifle, I swear it sounded just like a tambourine. But I keep bugging Emma Stone for endorsements, defending each decision to teach kinders love songs, guesstimating “Hey, dicks could taste amazing!” and oh … your tears obliterate my soul. It’s a joke, but even those can be sincere. I’m a joke, but even those can be sincere. But if I may speak frankly, we don’t really know how to live in the moment, no matter how hard we try. We don’t really know how to handle each other, no matter how far we strive. But we’ve read and penned volumes on coitus interruptus, parading bright icons as summaries of our lives. Is this eMo(rse) code any less obnoxious just ‘cause mine was whined as a melody most of you won’t buy? AM I RIGHT!? THUMIA: Hey there, my well-endowed bedwetter — loved those two voicemails you left me! Did you forget about the time when I immediately sent every member of your family photos of a man in my man? Face it, Saul: Your heart will always be made of ice and unsolicited advice, stealthy as an elf on the shelf who implores you to kid yourself. Only a [redacted] like you could take a shit this big and still try calling it apple pie — TODD: Hey, Dev, call me when you get this, I’m a little concerned about that last message you left me. Side note: Do you remember discovering the actual name of “An Ode to No One”? No worries if you don’t — I think that innocence and wonder died somewhere between Tom and Twitter.

THE TEAL: This litany of beautifully urban turns of phrase will forever be tainted by manic pixie dream women like me. Sure, playlists never argue … but remember that you, too, stay connected to something that once assumed far too much about U2. I’m about as Christian as "Achtung Baby" or "Tender Prey." I wear my privilege like a paper badge of my proudly own design. Stop it, I’m fine! It’s my vision and I’ll hurt if I want to! Nowadays, I feel exactly like Ares: clandestinely expectant of the moment when the stronger gods all glimpse and flinch at Dr. Poison’s scars. I’m about as Christian as Marvin or Kanye or Cash. Comparative religion’s not an imperative decision — it’s just a narrative envisioned by our parents in the ditch when every painting’s version of a White and female virgin is accompanied by angels who are similarly pale. And we wonder why adulthood’s still elusive to the hood rats who were forced to bear the kind of cross one only gets for sale. TODD: Hey, Dev, let’s call a spade a spade: What am I now but one more silhouetted resident? The only chops I’m still rocking are for touchscreen navigation. I mean, sure, we performers are bottomless pits, for whose benefit? We’re shooting nothing but shit ‘til our asses expire. I don’t know about you, but at this point, I’d rather be honest than responsible.

THE TEAL: Growing up’s a setup for a disappointing punchline. I wanted to be the Walrus, but I’ll settle for a sorcerer whose every spell will never quell or sell as well as “koo koo kachoo.” Better enjoy rock & roll before it goes all Ted Bundy on you. Growing up’s a setup for a disappointing punchline. Is there an “interested” option for this invitation to keep living, or did that event page expire the day you got hired? If so, it’ll haunt Google’s corners until you retire — the limp-wristed victory of lover over fighter. Growing up’s a setup for a disappointing punchline. Struggle with confidence just to settle for competence. All I have to show is a softer heart, a larger thesaurus, and a growing tome of photographs of nothing in particular. Growing up’s a setup for a disappointing punchline. Call it “art” while you still can, before it’s diagnosed. It’s follow-the-Leader-from-bridegroom-to-sidebitch- then-call-His-abasement-a-straightening-path. The Lord put a song in my heart and a dick on my face. Amen.

THE TEAL: Hi, everyone, it’s The Teal. We’re well past the quandary of begging for Rhondas and getting Yolandas. On a good day, we can maybe rely upon the idiocy of irony for the occasional distraction from parental patterns; on a far more typical day, nothing can be adequately understood over the pleas of a world shredding its larynx for want of a DNR form. Hell, all I really have to show for my 36 years on this dying rock is a refusal to stop running away from The Nothing. All this despite being perpetually, casually dismissed as “a lot,” trying like Sisyphus to convince every ableist that I am nothing more than the victim of an open amygdala. This is Saul, signing off … sorry to have wasted your time. THE TEAL (cont'd): I woke up this morning, Blues laughing at the sores on my rectum … she’s an unforgiving captor, but all that I remember aside from this is loneliness, and as a longtime patron of its mighty fine industry, I built my own island. Does this mean I’m a voodoo child? Never mind! From this gleaming throne, now I get to cheat with the whole wide world, always looking but never touching anything but me. (Baby, I’ve got a plan!) Dear reader, stop feigning your patience and face it: Your flesh would sooner burn for eternity than ever publicly boast about sharing its blood with me. Aside from hankering to hit any plane down, this lonesome hobo is a messenger at best, so lie and tell me I’m not the only one who needs this song. Always looking, never touching a thing. I’m a victim virtuoso taught by my mother’s line of prodigies. Watch me work — PLEASE watch me work. And the blues laughs at every bruise; no one does the Fetal quite like you, like you do.

DEV: Oh, Todd, I’m so tired of running. Our egos will always find a way to make the Other into a monster. Not like you need another reminder, but your given name is a misnomer — you have always been the hound. There was never a fox to be found …but the world pretended to help us search only because it is painfully aware that we are absolutely no good elsewhere. I don’t know what I was expecting, but it was definitely more than this. Here we go, Copper, just as [redacted] predicted: The ultimate bid for control. Three cheers for a lame, tame future. Hip hip hoora — TODD: Hey, Dev, it’s me. Do you ever feel completely paralyzed by everything? Like the world knows you’re not actually smart, you just have Wi-Fi? Some days I don’t even know if I believe in my own name anymore. Anyway … thank you for the wine. I tried opening it and accidentally cut myself, so I’m feeling a little triggered. I’m sorry if I don’t say this enough, but I love you, man. Please don’t ever let me down.