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The Shart Limbo- You Gambled and Lost.

Come, take my hand and let me show you a world you've probably never seen before. Or maybe you just passed through and glanced at it from the window then decided there were better places for a Bed and Breakfast.

I live in a space-time place that I have deemed the Shart Limbo. It's a combination of the doldrums, limbo, and an existential shart that dumped you right smack dab in the middle of it with no way out, no reception and no wifi. But there is a Starbucks. And outside of that Starbucks is a homeless woman with one solid fake tooth begging you for money. And you feel like a dick walking in to buy your red eye while the change makes an effort to jingle in your pocket.

For those of you unaware of the technical definition of a shart, let me be the first to welcome you to this choice piece of knowledge. A shart is a fart with unintended consequences. That is to say that while you were crop dusting, you shit your pants. No one is immune to the shart; some just have the good fortune to be wearing darker pants. A shart is also known as the gambled and lost fart.  You had your suspicions but you decided to be a sneaky asshole anyway- now your covering your ass and trying not to run too fast to the nearest bathroom.

It's not bad enough to be rock bottom. I WISH it was at rock bottom. Jesus on Christ, I'd be having a ton of fun if I finally hit rock bottom. The great thing about hitting rock bottom is that you don't even realize that you're there- but everybody else does. And that at least gives you a sense of security, even if you're too broke to buy toothpaste after you suck a proper dick for your cough syrup fix. Rock Bottom is somewhere- Shart Limbo isn't even good enough to be bad enough to be that. It's several steps up but a million steps away from success.

There are two kinds- Shart Limbo that prevents you from being a successful failure and the Shart Limbo where your success is cognitively dissonant to your dead dreams. That means that while you've always dreamed of being a respected musician/writer/painter/graphic designer/model/illustrator/ect/, you're at a desk job working for a company you don't quite understand but making enough of a living to go out and get drunk and talk about your latest "work". Eventually you settle with your lifestyle, because your living is good enough and good enough is as high as the bar is willing to let you go. And then you will become an art and culture critic.

The other Shart Limbo is where you still have enough willpower to stop yourself from vomiting all over your decency, but your nausea is still overwhelming enough to make you a piece of shit. It's when you have all the assets for success but you don't have any dreams. Or if you do, you realize that your dreams are fucking stupid. Or you dream the wrong dreams that don't lead to anywhere ( e.g: my last post). But you've still got a place to live and you kind of have a job but you really just wake up so you can go do what you have to do for people to consider you a real person so that you can get fucked up and forget about the fact that you have absolutely no ambition or meaning in life.

I took a gamble. I lost. I gained a muffin top, I burned bridges TWICE, I pissed all my time away on waiting for something to happen and nothing ever did because I still don't know what to do to make things go get success. I should have been networking. But I was eating ice cream and crying, yelling at the characters on the screen. Suicide is too much work and too much mess. You can't even do it right in Shart Limbo- you'll end up embarrassed and cold in your hospital gown.

I ended up here because I concentrated all my efforts on gaining the affections of a dick, even though dicks don't have feelings. They don't even have a proper mouth to kiss you with. I got real fucked up over it, pined till I went insane, moved away, and now here I am. Piss shakingly scared of the real world and utterly incompetent. Still a creep. Still a pervert. Damaged goods. Like a bruised apple that hangs out in the corner of your busted shopping cart.

But I've got a BA- which affluent shit wants to throw me a fucking bone for a bone and skyrocket me into club 27 fame?


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