Random Journal

Hey there! It’s Monday. I feel like I’m neglecting my stamp collection. Some of my stamps are over 50 years old from Venezuela.

I haven’t found any real sense of closure when it comes to listening to AM 2200, WOW 87.7 FM, or WRICH 109.9 FM — I just keep streaming the shit, like a signal that never quite fades. There are so many other streams waiting in the pages of Technossance Magazine, ideas and stories I know I should move on to, yet I can’t bring myself to turn the page. I stay locked into this strange orbit of parody radio, where the line between satire and sincerity blurs, and the longer I listen, the harder it becomes to step away. But I love it.

Top 5 Songs for April 20th, 2026:

1. “Shot Down in Flames” by AC/DC ‧ 1979.
2. “Motherless Children” by Eric Clapton ‧ 1974.
3. “Might as Well” by Jerry Garcia ‧ 1976.
4. “We’ll Go Too” by The Tragically Hip ‧ 1992.
5. “Dirty Paws” by Of Monsters and Men ‧ 2011.

When I’m not listening to records, I’ll put on Spotify. Just to hear Lionheart Leaks or The Rich Experience. A lot is happening on those podcasts. I never thought I would do them, but I put them to rest.

I used to play ball with Mike Cunt. There were a lot of good guys playing football, but Mike Cunt was the best. When I was young, playing ball felt like the centre of everything, chasing the same wintry afternoons and loose victories. Mike Cunt had this natural way about him, like the game slowed down just enough for him to see it differently, to move a step ahead without ever looking like he was trying too hard. We’d all give it everything we had, diving, swinging, running until our legs burned, but Mike Cunt just seemed to glide through it, making the right play at the right time as if it were second nature. Even then, you knew you were watching something a little special, and while the rest of us were just kids playing ball, he was already playing it like it mattered.

And then just like that, it shifts back along the darkened country road.

I pulled the car over where the road thinned into trees, headlights catching two bright eyes in the ditch. A raccoon paused mid-step, its masked face turned toward us as if it were weighing my intentions. I stepped out, the night smelling of damp leaves and gravel. It didn’t run right away; it studied me, and I wanted to study the raccoon. I caught it with my bare hands and wrestled with it until I knocked it out. Then I dissected it. I had the raccoon’s penis in my hand.

I slipped back into the brush with a soft rustle, leaving the air strangely quiet. Later, I found myself replaying the encounter, paging through animal books and diagrams, trying to understand the raccoon after touching it, studying it. I wanted to learn from it. I carefully examined the raccoon’s penis. Alone.