Inspirrational: (adj.)

Displaying a cloying and incoherent positivity.


Once, while in a conversation with some impending school chums, a woman told me in utter seriousness that, “… life isn’t measured by the amount of breaths you take. It’s measured by the number of moments that take your breath away.”

She said this without a touch of irony – she just sat there radiating with shallow, dopey optimism like a Thomas Kinkade painting.

“So, death then?” I joked, hoping to change the mood.

Half the table laughed. The woman smacked her teeth and told me I was gross. And I learned who my friends were going to be.


I’m not saying good things don’t happen. They do. Every day. All around the world. People exhibit acts of pure love, kindness, and selfless altruism. People are beautiful and good and warm and glorious to one another… probably with the same frequency that others shoot, stab, or strangle one another.

Good things are… well… good.

Our planet is a remarkable little pearl, stuffed to the gills with the awesome, the beautiful and majestic.

I get just as choked up at images of galaxies and nebulae as the next guy… maybe even moreso…

The world is not a cold, dead place. And in the face of hardship, sure – hope’s an essential tonic.

But for the love of Jeff, that doesn’t justify some of the bullshit people say when trying to be inspirational.

In fact, could there be anything less inspiring than someone trying to inspire you?

The half-knowing looks. The huckstery, broad smiles and honeyhallowed voices, and the awful, awful catchphrases.

Life is far too complicated… more rich, remarkable, nuanced, and complex a thing to be summed up in such a bland little chirp of philosophy.

And thank god for that.


Lathergy: (n.)

When you’re too lazy to bother shaving.


I haven’t shaved in weeks… and as a result, my face has metamorphosed into a pockety landscape, reminiscent of my cat’s lounging pillow.

I cannot grow facial hair the way most men grow facial hair.

My cheeks are patchy and errant, two tufts of steel wool, the color of a doormouse.

My moustache is a downy wisp of a thing, barely there. A meringue.

And yet, the longer I wait and more I edit (I’ve since jettisoned the cheekpuffs, leaving only the moustache and everpresent tuft of chin scruff), the prouder I become.

I used to roll my eyes at those baroquely moustachioed man-chaps… and with good reason, sure. It takes a certain kind of twerp to wear a 19th century moustache while talking on an iPhone. All those tiresome hipsterettes with their twee little moustache tattoos on their fingerside. Enough, I say. Enough.

But the longer I wait… the more I see.

My moustache… it’s growing fuller. Broader. I’ve never let it get this big before. So many Movembers and Moustache Marches I’ve sat by, soft-faced and sidelined. But now… I see it, growing darker… potent and powerful.

Get thee to a penny-farthing.

Community Word, Noun

Community Word! — Dresstiny: (n.)

When you find that perfect dress that’s cheap and fits you just right.


I’ve been meaning to do this for a while.

I’m opening up Words That Aren’t to all you lexinauts out there. You may have invented definitions of your own – and I’d like to give you a place to share them other than that scumtrap fool’s tavern, Urban Dictionary.

This clever, delicious word was originally shared on my twitter page (cough cough: @wordsthatarent) by @thepixiepinup.

I’m especially pleased with this, as it’s something I simply wouldn’t have thought of before… because I don’t shop for dresses.

The female point of view, ladies and gentlemen… it’s the garlic powder of perspectives… it makes everything better.

I highly suggest you send @thepixiepinup warm congratulations for her neologistical prowess.


Precarryous: (adj.)

The piled instability brought on by trying to lug everything all at once.


You could just take two trips.

But you know this already.

You could even use the exercise, if you’re being honest with yourself.

But of course you know that, too.

You spent so much money on all of those groceries. Money you worked hard to earn. You took time out of your day and braved the throng and din of a grocery store on a Saturday afternoon… all so you could get everything you need to carefully prepare a meal for your partner.

If you were to add up every stitch of time that brought you to this moment… the work, the travel, the careful and conscious preparation… you’d have to measure it in hours.

But you wanted to save yourself the time of making that second trip.

And that’s the reason you dropped your fucking eggs.