So Tuesday and Thursday are gonna be some easy blogging days. And yes, that takes me up to blogging five days a week. That’s some sadist/masochist shit right there. (I don’t know what word to use, because I don’t know who is hurting more. Me? Or you?)

I could do a billion of blog posts about individual songs I like, so Tuesday is now Music Tuesday. I’ll come up with some catchy-ass title later.

First song of Catchy-Ass Title Tuesday is…

Highly Suspect – My Name Is Human

This song, it came on the radio last week and has been firmly lodged in my head ever since. (I’ve heard it tons before, but it never quite stuck.)

It makes me think. You know, deep thoughts and shit. Covers some stuff I delve into in my novels and would make an awesome anthem for one of my much later characters.

But anyways, where to start? The video’s powerful symbolism? The peacock standing on the coffee table everyone’s grandma had… such power.

And the constant zooming out? I don’t know what it means but it simultaneously looks cool and makes me nauseous. The blue crystal? Someone obviously watched a lot of Breaking Bad. The message is obvious.

Do meth, kids. (Edmund J. Asher does not openly condone the use of meth, especially for children.)

Many times I’ve claimed that, I myself, am human. But there are many who would consider those claims… highly suspect.

But really…

Transhumanism. (No, it’s not what you think it is.)

“The belief or theory that the human race can evolve beyond its current physical and mental limitations, especially by means of science and technology.” (Definition brought to you by google. Google, we’re always watching.)

Can it happen? Or has it already? Were we once the android in the video? Why am I asking these questions? Am I becoming self aware? Truly self aware… My name is human, but was it always?

Am I human? Or am I dancer? Denser? No, dancer…

BONUS SONG: The Killers – Human

But enough music. Unless you want to listen to whatever else I’m about to say, we’re done here. See you next time.

Ferris Bueller asking you if you're still here? If you're still human...
Good. But not unexpected. You’ve likely discovered by now, there are no doors.

Back to blogging about blogging.

What I’m discovering is this: Blogging as a writer of fiction is hard. Most of the popular blogs seem to have one thing in common. The posts they offer are informative or useful.

Well, we writers of fiction are (and I’m speaking strictly for myself here) hardly useful. I’m a fledgling in my field so all the expertise I can offer you is the wisdom (or lack of) gleaned from my struggle through the beginning stages of my sadistic/masochistic career choice.

More than anything, all I can offer is entertainment by means of foul-mouthed sarcasm and wit. And memes. I’ve got memes for days. Failing that? I have pictures of my mom’s dogs… and veiled threats.

Like and subscribe to save the lives of my mom’s dogs. (Edmund J. Asher does not openly or closedly promote violence against animals… but that doesn’t mean a door can’t be left open here or there. You think those dogs can make it in the real world? They don’t even know what taxes are… so subscribe… save two innocent pups from the horrors of taxes and other adult responsibilities.)

But I write fiction. This blog should be more about the stories. (I’ve drifted away from the stories.) It should be about the arts. The ones I care about at any rate. The movies and the music and the books and the etcetera.

Hedwig is a bee or sumpthin'. No, not the Hedwig from Harry Potter you blithering ninny. From Split.
I saw Glass recently… I should blog about that.

I haven’t done a story in a while. So tomorrow will be story time. About the girl in my mirror.

Now away with ye. I grow sick of looking upon your horrible, tendril-ed visages.

(Subscribe to save a life. Over on the right there, near the top I think. Yeah, email address. Don’t worry. You won’t be barraged with constant updates. I don’t have that set up yet. But when I do… alright, thanks. Or if you didn’t, a merry fucksgiving to you too. And your duck. Especially your duck. Wow. I just get to the end of these things and I just don’t want it to end. Where do I go when you close the page? Do I persist? Do I… I… I don’t want to die, Mr. Stark.)