Who the King?

who the King?

diseased hillbilly heathens
seethin fire and brimshit
this shit
is lit
if we get hit
just bend over
and it’ll hit
you leading the charge?
well I’m calling the shots
julaladin haqqani
ain’t on me, i’m sorry
hillbilly gangsters
upon me
i’m cappin em off
n i’m the captain now
please breathe and step off

Ronald Regan had a dream too
Afghanistan was just a fucking track to
Henry Kissinger wrote a fucking book too
Tear down this wall was just a fucking track to
World domination is just a game to

Now I’ll show you the fuck who’s the King


I found this one hiding in my filing cabinets as I was re-shuffling my shit. From the paperweight and font, I deduce that it was written somewhere as I was on my way to College for the first time.

Robots are sociopaths:
Robots make us think of mortality in a different light.

I pawned off my XBox 360 in the middle of the first June after having flunked out of my university and trying to cope with the reality that - holy shit, I'm an adult now.

Authority Figure

I was looking at another person's blog yesterday, and I was astounded by how professional it was. It was the real deal, the bee's fucking knees.

Blogs don't exist anymore

Enraptured souls, I think that's what they called it. Ten years ago, when I was still learning what it meant to believe in something so much that you'd die for it. To believe in something so fervently that you'd kill for it too.

A Note From My Past

I received a letter from one of my buddies who's in Basic Combat Training right now.

a poem

I dream to a requiem

                   and sapped of my energy


Imagine that you’ve just entered a room. 

It’s not anything magic or strange, just a fucking room. Say the DC Hilton, or some similar establishment. The Renaissance Hotel in downtown Seattle. Some place like that. And in walks… Donald Fucking Trump. What do you say? What do you do? We all know what we’ve all thought of doing from time to time. 

Found notes from a year ago

I found this note.

It's from last summer. Cheers.

here at a lost empire of trade

I haven't commented, yet, upon the place that I've found myself as of late. Not my station in life - but the actual place that I'm living.

one brain-fried slump
with a side of bleh

I haven't written anything for nearly three weeks. That's almost a fucking month. Jesus fucking fuck.

Nothing of note, that's for sure. The only substantial thing I've written in three whole weeks was a few paragraphs as a comment on someone's Medium article about podcasting. That was earlier today, though, so does it even count?

I might be cursed, but that's entirely unrelated.

I thought I might mention that for anyone who is concerned - a lot of my previous posts are partially based in fiction. Example: I have never actually been to Africa. That string of posts were to distract me from my own reality. There are a few other things I've written here that are stretched to fit a storytelling perspective.

In reality, my life seems more dull to me than it might appear to an outside observer, so in order to create an emotional connectivity, I change things around. It's the feeling expressed that is true, not necessarily the details.


My coffee is cold. My laptop’s Sold State Drive betrays the silence with an involuntary tick as it kicks around the ideas of what it’s learned about humanity through the lens of my words over the past three months.


“Inspiration” is a double entendre - meaning both and at the same time - the genesis of thought - AND the influence of thought.

To put it another way, the creative works and people that inspire our success as writers, AND the events of reality which have seemed to somehow influence our works in some way.


An etherial whiz surrounds me in a haze - a dispassionate rendering of agnosticism approaching from the hills. Carried in upon the fog and the mist.


Am I the shadow of someone that I used to know? Certainly the edges of my frame have been worn down by the solemn pursuit of solvency. But what AM I?


Literary Agent: You with the face,

Can you get me some money so I can quit my job and finish this fucking novel? This is the “greatest novel in the fucking world.” That was in quotations so you can’t question it - I read it somewhere on the internet so it’s fucking true.

IF not, you can also pre-order a copy at www.guylaen.com/thesouthend.


There’s a dry heaving cold in the dark of midwinter. I’ve always hated it.

It’s been said that we are the heroes of our own stories. I’m not the hero of mine. The hero of my story has always been someone that I’ve aspired to be, and for a very short while, I was - but in the blip of my existence that period of time was the blink of an eye.


Riffing is the biological design of comedians - I think. That's not a scientifically researched statement, so don't take that as fact. I just thought I'd throw that out there. It's probably not true but it sounds good, doesn't it?


John Hodgeman asked John Cleese why jokes are funny. Cleese said that people always confuse humor with laughter. And that there is a difference, but they overlap. Something which I've been stewing on pensively over for the last few months.