The F Plus - 175: I Am I Am I Am (Annoying)

Episode Date: May 7, 2015

Does any modern society appreciate poetry more than the creative types over at Tumblr? Yes, of course. But would any other modern society be so quick to ape the creative output of Sylvia Plath in order to eke out some undeserved attention? Maybe, but for the purposes of this episode summary let's just pretend the answer is no. In this episode, we have a very, very specific rule; We are only reading pieces on Tumblr that have been tagged #SylviaPlath. The results will surprise you, but only a little bit. This week, the F Plus reinvents apple sauce?

I am, I am, I am, I am, I am, I am, I am, I am, I am, I am, I am, I am, I am, I am, I am, I am, I am, I am, I am, I am, I am, I am, I am, I am, I am, I am, I am, I am, I am, I am, I am, I am, I am, I am, I am, I am, I am, I am, I am, I am, I am, I am, I am, I am, I am, I am, I am, I am, I am, I am, I am, I am, I am, I am, I am, I am, I am, I am, I am, I am, I am, I am, I am, I am, I am, I am, I am, I am, I am, I am, I am, I am, I am, I am, I am, I am, I am, I am, I am, I am, I am, I am, I am, I am, I am, I am, I am, I am, I am, I am, I am, I am, I am, I am, I am, I am, I am, I am, I am, I am, I am, I am, I am, I am, I am, I am, I am, I am, I am, I am, I am, I am, I am, I am, I am, I am, I am, I am, I am, I am, I am, I am, I am, I am, I am, I am, I am, I am, I am, I am, I am, I am, I am, I am, I am, I am, I am, I am, I am, I am, I am, I am, I am, I am, I am, I am, I am, I am, Hello, freethinkers. Welcome to the F Plus Podcast. It's an artistic place with terrible things. Red with enthusiasm. In the room tonight we have Frank West. I have a friend who looks exactly like Sylvia Plath. And I ain't no Hindu, but I think she might be her reincarnation. Boots ring here.

We should name our child Sylvia Elliot Kurt Cobain Smith Plath. You know, just to see what happens. Come quads up. Poetry is fun. I like poetry. From Lou Reads the Internet for you at loureads.com. This is King Lou Fernandez. He's been trying so hard to pretend he's well-adjusted.

What I could see is boner while we were reading Sylvia Plath. And Lemon. If Sylvia Plath and Lana Del Rey were somehow able to work on something together, I would imagine it would be the most depressing, the most astoundingly beautiful piece of art.

There's more than one Sylvia Plath, Lana Del Rey short bit in this document. Hey, F Plus. Hey, Lemon Tree Hey, F-Plus. Hey, Lemon. Hey, Lemon. How are you doing? Fair. All right. Well, how many of you motherfuckers went to college?

I did. I done did. All right. Well, you know, think that makes you better than me? Want to fight about it? Look, so when you were... I went to fight in college. Got it? Look, so when you were in the dorm rooms of girls that you wanted to sleep with,

how many of them talked to you about Sylvia Plath? All? Was it all? Yeah, I think all. They may have, but I did not pay attention to them. All. Sure. Good for you.

Well, tonight's episode is not about Sylvia Plath. Tonight's episode is about hashtag Sylvia Plath on Tumblr. That's right. This is an all Tumblr episode. This was

a suggestion by Comixologist from quite a while ago that we really should have gotten to earlier but the idea here is we're only going to be reading Tumblr out entries from people who have tagged their work

hashtag Sylvia Plath so we're going to expect a lot of poetry you know on bell jar kind of standards, I would assume. Absolutely. We're pretty much guaranteed to meet the quality of Sylvia Plath's poetry.

Right. I mean, you weren't just allowed to tag Sylvia Plath if it doesn't meet the standards. Obviously, there's a committee that decides this thing. Right. Let's start here. This poem is called... I do not know what this poem is called. Oh, there's a committee that decides this thing. Right. Let's start here. This poem is called... I do not know what this poem is called. Oh, it's called Steady Hands Are Meant to Fail, We Built These.

Boots, if you'll take this one, please. Oh, sure. Wait, what? Steady Hands Are Meant to Fail. I'm looking at Tumblr, so I'm just trying to understand anything at all. Yeah, so you're going to want to read from the bottom and then go to the right, and then there's a little parallax effect.

I'm just wondering at the left, as entropy rises, Icarus falls. I'm guessing that's the username. I think that's probably the username. I was also trying to select some text here. Oh, don't do that. No. No. Oh, God! Really don't do that. Well, no, do it.

Then the poem is good. Yeah. Yeah. All right, boots, boots, boots, boots. Oh, yeah. I want to hear some quality poetry. Yes. Steady hands are meant to fail.

We built these memories to break your fall. Strangled cursive promises bent but not quite broken. Weeping quietly over used vinyl records because there's too much living for one life. She said, I thought I was Sylvia Plath reincarnated until I couldn't fit my head into the little slot at the side of my Easy Bake oven. So she cries at haircuts, but not at funerals,

and waits to be broken enough to deserve love. Her first car was blue. She took too many chances, they will say at her funeral. Her head would have fit if she had shaved it. Boo! But Veg Ann really liked this. Yeah, what did you tag your let's call it poem yeah I tagged it I don't know

Sylvia Plath bald people I guess I gave it the tag maybe stream of consciousness spilled ink written mine Stream of Consciousness Spilled Ink Written Mine My Poem

Poetry and Poem What's really amazing is not only did she write a bad poem, but then she managed to misinterpret it in the tags Bald people, I guess Bald people, I think that's what it's about. All right. This next poem is a poem by Seeking Complications.

Lou, if you'll take this. It's about penis, I believe. All right. Peen, or pen, bracket is. Penis. peen or pen bracket is penis. I write on Thompson for stability, lustfully tasting the sweat on my lips with each scribbled word and I avoid Thoreau as he dips

his shaft deep to the pond floor within winter curiosity expelling the subtler spirits he witnessed. Okay. I return to my tent in Diletov Pass, already fondling the creases in my journal spine. Collected poems by Sylvia Plath is where I keep my mood.

Oh, all right. And I let out a quiet whine as I stain the page with ink. I tear through black polyester, gasping in fear and pushing snow tufts into the air. In a ketamine sneeze, biting off my tongue

with my last unit of inspired breath and coughing up a howl before I freeze. So it's a sneeze where you just do you like sneeze special K on other people? Yeah. Maybe. Okay. I'm sorry. I didn't finish. I'm not finished.

Naked and hard. There you go. That's finished. Yay! Wow. Oh. that's... I didn't understand any of it. Except for the penis part. What are some of the tags that you gave your poem there?

Hashtag poetry. Hashtag sometime archive. Hashtag Sylvia Plath. Hashtag Hunter S. Thompson. Hashtag Henry David Thoreau. All right, which one was that least like? Poetry? Yes, poetry.

I'd say, I mean, it didn't have much relation to Hunter S. Thompson, but it really didn't look like Thoreau. I am interested in a ketamine sneeze. I would like to see one. Yeah. It sounds great. If you're going to get a ketamine sneeze, you're going to get it from Hunter S. Thompson. But that's just what he calls shooting you. It's true.

All right. This one is, this is a poem by Nat. And Nat here is less interested in the confines of poem. You know how all the poems that we've read so far have been really rigidly structured? Yeah. Not so much with this one. So come quats up, you're a distracted disciple, and your poem is called I Never Saw Ellen Page.

Oh, your poem has an album cover. That's right. But first I have to tell you something about myself. Can I get a limited edition vinyl release of your poem? That's just for hanging. There's not even music on it. You probably haven't heard of it. Yeah, yeah.

I'm distracted because of my restless mind. I'm a disciple because I follow Christ. I care about God, music, living better with ADHD, and social justice. Oh my god, so Tumblr. Yeah. Tumblr, the poem. Yeah. Tumblr, the poem.

My sister and I were supposed to see Ellen Page on the Late Late Show with Craig Ferguson yesterday. Okay. Okay. Like all great poems, it starts with Craig Ferguson. But alas, we got there too late, and they didn't let us in. I was super bummed. So there we were, stranded in L.A. with a few extra hours on our hands because I was not about to drive home and rush our traffic. What did I do with these hours?

Pretend to write a poem? We pulled into a glamorous McDonald's parking lot. Welcome, ladies! And to pass the time, we took turns reading Sylvia Plath's The Bell Jar. Oh, God. Now, the point isn't that I actually read a book. For once.

Dad! And I didn't finish it. But that I actually had a really good time. I felt... Uh-huh. I felt... Yeah, you felt? I felt like little orphan Annie, sitting cross-legged at the foot of a giant radio,

listening to my favorite 1930s radio show. What? I read a book. It was so much like other forms of entertainment. Sometimes life shows you that reality can be so much better than the internet. Unless you need to Google something like things to do in LA today or how to cook. Or how to cook!

Hey Google! Recipes! Download into mind! Write quotes. How to cook. Enter. Now the point isn't actually that I learned how to cook. I don't know. I don't know. I don't know what I would do without Google,

but I've decided I am going to drastically cut down on using my computer for entertainment. Thanks, Ellen Page, for giving me my life back. So. What the fuck? Just so you know, WikiHouse article on how to cook. Yep. Step one is understand boiling.

Yes, and just so you all know, I've hashtagged my poem with Ellen Page, Craig Ferguson, Sylvia Plath, Internet, Time, and 1930s. It did have all those themes. Yeah, yeah, yeah. Those were words that appeared. Well, that's cool. My name's the crazy, oh, yeah, my name's the crazy Perry.

And I wonder why I never had an idol i mean a a real idol someone who i'd look up to and mimic and fantasize to be me some girls would claim that they've lived all their lives trying to be madonna but i never really got around to wanting to be somebody so much. Sorry, I just never got around to it. Yeah. I wish I could say that I idolize Audrey Hepburn or Sylvia Plath, but even though I like them, I also know that I'd be the world's biggest phony if I did that. It's sad, really.

I have always wanted to be the vintage girl who'd hang a picture of Marilyn Monroe in her bedroom and wall and be proud of it. I would love to do that, but it wouldn't be the truest reflection of myself. I'm the type who would shriek out of ecstasy after placing a large cartoonized picture of all the Harry Potter characters on her wall instead. Yay! So sweet. I hate to be pigeonholed as this. I'd to be pigeonholed as this.

I'd rather be pigeonholed as that. And then, Frank West, you're going to be the third Chloe there. And your poem is called And As I Sat on the Bus. I'm the third Chloe. Oh, I see it now. As I sat... And as I sat on the bus. I'm the third Chloe. Oh, I see it now. As I sat, and as I sat on the bus.

Is that a link that works? Nope. Unfortunately not. And as I sat on that bus, I did not watch Sydney whip by. Instead, I read and read, furiously, frantically, as if someone was next to me, turning the pages.

Sylvia Plath. She's in the middle. Is she there? Sylvia Plath, what are you doing here? Turning the pages. I kind of took it for like a curse word. Take the book, Sylvia Plath. You're my page turner. But I stopped.

I found a beautiful paragraph that underlined it. Never mind that it was not my book. Okay, so this is literally someone else's book. They're turning the page. Yep. By the way,

it's going to turn out at the end that she's two years old. Later, I looked up and around me at all the faces of the people who crossed my life at this infinitely small moment. I wondered what their stories were, and if they were also looking up and wondering what this small, crop-haired

girl was wondering about, and what her story was. Sylvia Plath. Did they notice how I sat still? Very still and mobile as the sunlight arced and played over my face? Still! Not moving! Motionless! Did they notice

I'd vandalized a library book? Did they wonder how far I've gone with a man? Yes, of course. Check out that girl on the bus. She's just sitting there. She's just sitting there. She's not even doing anything.

Look at that fucking slut reading a book. She's not waving her hands. She's just reading a book. God damn it, she's still. I bet she likes the dick. On my plate, I bet she's still. I bet she likes the dick. Oh, my plait. I bet she's never gone with a man. All right.

So this. Boo. God damn. So this poem is by She Speaks Only in Vowels. I know this poem. It goes. No, it's literally just, ooh. So come quats up. You are She Speaks Only in Vowels.

And tell me a little bit about yourself first. I am a writer. Okay. I'll be the judge of that. Hello, I am a writer not many of you guys seem to notice my writing though I have gotten a few really nice comments before I continue to post on this website though I don't have many followers and no one really

pays attention to me I love writing it is truly my passion I am no Sylvia Plath Pablo Naruto or Edgar Allen Po passion. I am no Sylvia Plath, Pablo Nerudo, or Edgar Allan Poe, but I am a writer! Ooh, you know, you had me till the end of your sentence.

I was totally with you. I have practiced my skills and experimented with styles, rhymes, schemes, subjects. Shh! Huh? I have been educated and learned at this for years

all in the hopes to expand my skills and one day touch someone I want someone to be moved deeply spiritually by my work I want people to be outraged and horrified you're halfway there

I want them to feel what I feel understand that they are not the only ones who are angry or in love everyone yeah I want people to know they are not the only ones who make mistakes

or rush into things or hate someone. So, oh, so we have to, like, feel close to you? You are not alone. You are not alone.

I'll be the first to admit that I am an insane person. Yeah, yeah. And writing is the only way I can accurately describe my thoughts. I use extensive metaphors. Oh, great. Unless you, you, you know every inner working of my mind, you, you, you, you

can't decipher, but you, you, you can apply you, you, you yourself. You, you, you can remember a scenario you, you, you felt I described. So if you, you, you want to hear some poetry, come pay me a visit. I write about anything and everything give me a name subject vision i can write you you you a poem book story song whatever inspire me tumblr yay well that's great she speaks only in vowels uh you know i really liked uh your sort of sell sheet uh looking at your Tumblr, it seems like it's mostly animated GIFs of Derek Zoolander

and Miranda Lambert lyrics. But I found this poem. So, yeah, you've sold your poetry, so let's just hear some poetry, man. Just go for it. I can't turn it off. The pain.

Yeah. There's no switch. My chest is a hole. Black is your soul? Yeah. She'd rather die. Past deserted wasteland. I'm dried up.

I'm shrinking. Who? There's no way to stop this The pain There's nothing I can do My body is in mourning Self-destruction graveyard Oh, it went from nine-inch nails to Papa Roach

I feel like I'm dying. Yay! What did you tag that poem? Oh, well, obviously, poetry, slam poetry, spoken word, creative writing, and Milwaukee.

Those are some extensive metaphors. I don't even understand them. It's the lyrics to the Laverde and Shirley reboot. Oh, who's in that? Same two. Okay, yeah. Penny Marshall and the other one.

That's a bold choice. I thought it was the new scene song for Facts of Life. It's going to be a slower show. Penny Marshall and the other one. Yeah. Alright, so fans of the podcast. Yep. No, never mind.

You know what? You don't need to do that anyway, because we got one more poem by She Speaks Only in Vowels. Come Quatsop, you know you own this person, so just give me this one other poem here. I don't think anyone else could pronounce her spelling of you correctly

anyway. I told you I wasn't talking to you anymore. Of course that meant I'll respond if you text me, I wasn't talking to you, you, you anymore. Of course that meant I'll respond if you, you, you text me, but I'm done being pushed aside. I'm done telling you goodnight while I lie awake crying. Okay. I know you, you, you need time. In 11 years I have learned this.

We have so much to learn about love. We have so much to learn about ourselves. So for 11 years we have given each other time. What? So when I am up wondering what you, you, you were doing, who you, you, you are with, how you, you, you are feeling, I am fighting the urge to burden you, you, you.

Uh-huh. But not a day has passed that you, you, you haven't missed me, wondered what I was up to, where I was headed, how I was doing. And this brings me, Pete, you, you, you just need some time. So where are her, where I was headed, how I was doing. And this brings me, Pete, you just need some time. So, where are her expertly constructed metaphors?

I mean, she seems very proud of them. Milwaukee. Milwaukee. Alright. Alright, next poem here Boots your name is Loft in the Middle

of the City Loft in the Middle of the City Loft in the Middle of the City and your poem is called You Do Not Do You Do Not What the fuck listen you can struggle on the title of my poem Do not, do you, do not, what the fuck? Yeah, I got it. I know.

Listen, listen. Yeah. You can struggle with the title of my poem. My poem is really easy to say. I'm going to look at the screen now. It is, you do not do, you do not do anymore, black shoe, in which I have lived like a foot. I'm so sorry. Yeah, no, no, no.

For some reason, I guess it was just the kerning of the lettering was off. I just didn't. Sorry. Yeah, you do not do, you do not do anymore, black shoe, in which I have lived like a foot. Yeah. Great. Yeah. The recent victory of the Miami Heat in the NBA Finals reminded me of an important concept

I failed to grasp lately. What poetry is. The idea, this isn't actually a poem, is it? I mean, I mean... I mean... It's hard to tell. Yeah, by whose definition, because... I'll continue. Okay. The

idea that the underdogs are capable and very relevant and that they need to be acknowledged and respected. Now, the Miami Heat were certainly not underdogs by any means in this series, statistically speaking.

They have the best player in the league, LeBron James, as well as Dwayne Wade, who is basically another best player in the NBA on their roster. God, I didn't think we'd need Bunny Bread for the Sylvia Plath episode, but clearly we do. These characters are

symbolic in my plight in Brooklyn and Stony Brook. I'm not LeBron James, but I too can use my game and intelligence to make clutch moves in life. For it is a treacherous and dangerous path I decided to work on. I have a comfortable existence

filled with food, money, weed, wine, clothes, music, cocaine, but I want to give it up for a higher pleasure. I think this is LeBron James. Like, meow, meow? Like, what are you looking for? I mean, it looks like you're fucking sick. I don't know.

Like, what's the next level? These things are temporary sources of happiness, and they're fleeting. They just end up making the underlying psychological trauma of living with repressed emotions worse. Life is pain and suffering and I was only making it worse. My ego is

dead. No it isn't! Only through intense confession and introspection can I reach catharsis. That was a great poem, Loft in the Middle of the City. Why, thank you. You really should definitely keep writing on Tumblr. It's terrific.

It's really hard to work NBA teams and their players into poems, I find. Well, what do you like to rhyme? What players do you think are the easiest to rhyme? What, me? What Kevin Garnett, when he dunks, I say darnet. He puts it in the net. Ooh, there you go. As long as we're doing in the P. Diddy school of rhyming.

Yeah, well, I mean, we kind of changed the words, though, so it's a little... We're getting a little too creative. I read he did it on the net. I bought my girlfriend a garnet. All right. So, Lou, we are going to be reading a poem by Surf of the Cosmos.

Surf of the Cosmos has done everything possible to make sure that we do not read his poem. We set up the background image to be a starry night. And then... He made his text like seafoam green. Yeah, seafoam green times New Roman. But somehow we're going to try this anyway. All right. So this poem.

Hey, everybody. I'm Surf the Cosmos. My poem is called Simulacra. And it goes like this. Do you think the Pillsbury Doughboy actually likes being poked in the belly? Yeah, he giggles when you poke him, but consider this. Maybe he's been bullied his whole life and just laughs to go along with it, when deep down inside, he hates the painful rape-like invasion of personal space that people inflict upon him for humor and corporate advertising.

I think you're making a little bit too big of a deal out of this, Killsbury Doughboy. One day we're going to find him. Just poke in your fucking tummy. One day we're going to find him dead Sylvia Plath style, having committed suicide in an oven, the crushing pain of his existence having been too much for one pastry to handle.

I mean, that's a, I mean, that's a, you know, that's a meaningful way to commit suicide if you're the Pillsbury Doughboy. Convenient. Yeah. He'd probably be delicious.

Yeah. Well, I don't know. Is he just dough, or would he actually be kind enough to roll stuff into himself? Like sprinkles? Or cinnamon. You know. like sprinkles or cinnamon you know

I don't know if you eat a lot of baked flour with sprinkles on it think it's delicious maybe you should actually make something more yummy I think Lemon needs to google how to cook so I don't know if this is

necessarily a poem but it's got some trigger warnings so that's good I don't know if this is necessarily a poem could be the title of this episode On it Yes I'm going with that Absolutely So anyway this is

Of Cannibals and Kings. Boots, if you'll take this one, please. Oh, okay. Actually, before you dig into your poem, I want to know a little bit about you, if I could. Oh, sure. I'm about world enough and time. Sure. Okay, cool. I'm Vrix...

Vrix... Tun. 22 Wastrel. Sounds smart, don't be fooled. Well, thanks! Here's a link to my theater record. Ugh. And that's kind of it.

Great. Okay, cool. So, we're glad that glad that helped yeah yeah you all know so much about me well you sound smart yeah it's uh it's interesting so many people these days quote sylvia plath and feel a deep connection with her poetry and quotes for better or worse it makes me wonder if she's been bored a little later, late enough to see the internet, late enough to see social networking when she was at her lowest point.

Would she still have killed herself? Sylvia, don't! Someday there will be Instagram! Think of the GitHub commits you could make. If only she posted a selfie and people complimented it. But had she not killed herself, would her work still be held in such high esteem or on such a mystic pedestal?

No. She would certainly not have been what she was. While it grieves me, something awful that her life was so difficult. Were it not for that, we would not have her over, which has helped so many people, like there's someone across space-time

that understood slash square brackets will understand. I think you fucked up that coding exercise. It says syntax error for some reason. Just type past it, damn it!

Why is Tumblr telling me there's a syntax error in my poem? It's such a pity she never got to know the powerful effect she's had. And then I tagged this trigger warning suicide. Sure. Yeah, that was, because that was really going to trigger

me to commit suicide. I like the idea. I like the idea that she would not have been what she was. She would not have been what she was. She would not have been what she was if in the future she hadn't committed suicide? Yeah, if she was born later and was a different person, she wouldn't be who she was. Yeah. I mean, you know, there's some logic.

I can't quite pinpoint it, but there is some logic to that. Like, if she was a depressed lady that was born in 1993, she'd be a different human being. Yeah. She'd be on Paxil. And my name is Ekinog, and I just said, I wish Sylvia

was still alive, and she was all tech-savvy, and she had a Tumblr, and maybe all my problems in life would be solved, and I'll finally be happy again. That's all. Yeah. Good. Just want Tumblr to know about this.

So Little Toilet Paper Roll, he's a member of academia, and he had a passage. I'm going to say he, whatever. He had a passage he wanted to discuss with the students uh so uh frank west you get to be our our female role here and uh lou if you'll uh uh take the passage uh just just tell us the story please okay i discussed this passage with my student today. This was our conversation. Me. According to what you've read so far in the book,

what do you think the gender roles were like during this time? Women have to wake up at 7 a.m., be housewives, cook, clean, have babies, and... No, wait, sorry. Assle... Jowl-juck-fag. That's an accurate reading. And men get to be hypocrites.

Brackets. She was really appalled at the 7 a.m. part. She told me she was definitely not going to be a wife just because of that. Oops. What? Wait, did you try to make her your wife right there? Maybe. Me.

Okay, good. Who made up those rules? Society? Yes, excellent. More confidence would be nice, though. She's throwing away her clothes, right? Why does she use the word fed? What do you think the clothes symbolize?

Was this girl, like, hatched out of an egg? Society? She's the fifth element. Oh, okay, okay. Because once you feed something to someone, you don't get it back? You lose it forever? And the clothes represent her womaninity? That's the word you're reaching for, yeah!

Womaniness. Yeah. Yes. Womanity. it's womaniness yes womanity how do you know because girls are expected to love clothes but why is it loved ones ashes and not just regular ashes

because a loved ones ashes is more personal. The people you love are a part of you, just like the expected role of being a good, normal girl was to her. So, basically, Esther is all girl power. Ew! Very much so. I did that. I totally did that on the fly.

I'm very impressed with myself, by the way. Sure. Is this all the parts of the story of O that I skipped past? Yeah, basically. After that, there was some weird sex. Nobody's ever read those parts of the story of O. Right, right. Yeah.

They weren't even written. It's just Laura Mipsom. Laura Mipsom, Dolores Amit, anyway, clit rings. Yeah, and then after that it's all about her womanity. Kumquats up.

Your name is... I can hyphenate that. This poem is gonna suck. Okay. So this poem is called Bright... Yeah. This poem is called Bright as a Nazi Lampshade.

That's the title of... That was the original title of that Rihanna song. Good change. Good change. Shine bright like a Nazi lampshade. Break like a hymen. You'll break like a hymen. Kamikaze, are you there? Oh, what the fuck?

Like the hymen with my thighs. Hello? Yes? Hello? Yes. Damn it. Come quats up. You're going to read bright as a Nazi lampshade.

What the fuck? Sorry. My mic hardware switch went off. Ah. Ha-hum. Bright as a Nazi lampshade. My mother

asked me to scrub the shower out with bleach today. Our water comes from a well. And for some reason the tiles have started turning bright yellow. I started to look up common water contaminants

for West Bloomfield, but then I realized I didn't want to spend any of my life trying to figure out what mineral in my well water was turning the tiled yellow. Anyway, it's disgusting. That paragraph? yellow. Anyway, it's disgusting.

That paragraph? She told me to wear the purple gloves. And mix a little water in. And turn on the fan. And no more wire hangers. Then I really and truly thought I heard her say,

and close the door, and stuff a towel under it. We getting fucked up? I wore the purple gloves, but I also wore a t-shirt. And bleach water ran down my arms. What the fuck? To the hilt! I smell like chemicals!

Hey, Kumquat's up. Let me just ask you, where's the hilt on your arm? Do you have, like, one of the... That's where the arm blade ends. Of course. That's where it meets the handle of your arm. Oh, it's right above my arm scabbard, of course.

The bathroom doesn't have a window, but I want to hear the rainwater running down the drainpipe, and that's why I'm sitting so close to this wall. It didn't work, and the tiles wouldn't stop being yellow. Wait, where are we in time now? And scrubbed for close to an hour anyway. So this is in the past still, okay. Not aggressively or anything. Not slowly either.

Just right. Just scrubbing until every muscle in my arm was screaming. until every muscle in my arm was screaming. I realized I was sitting criss-cross applesauce in a bathtub and that I probably haven't done that since I was ten years old. Do you remember back in the early 90s when they used to sell criss-cross applesauce? I heard it'll make you jump. Yeah, it was a Daddy Mac and Mac Daddy branded product. Yeah, yeah, exactly.

The lid's on sideways. Yeah, the lid is on the inside. And the label's on backwards. You have to eat the applesauce to find out what's the applesauce is on the outside you probably should warm it up before you eat it too i'm about to that's what i was born to do none of our audience will get this this question nobody will pick up on any of this stuff nor should they that stuff was garbage yeah and well one of them died pick up on any of this stuff. Nor should they. That stuff was garbage. Well, one of them died last year or something like that. Really?

I don't remember. It was the blacker one. You mean like Sylvia Plath? Sure. That's also a person who died. And I, a smiling woman, playing on a loop in my head,

please I want so badly for the good things to happen. Okay. I'm not saying that my mother shouldn't ask me to clean things. I'm just saying I feel ridiculous. Oh, here it is. Okay okay now I get the point of this these are my hands my knees my

lovely lady knees so your hand knees yes right above my hilts they aren't a metaphor for anything. Oh, okay! Good poem!

P.S. This don't mean shit. I'm out. They're her hands and her knees. That's all she's saying. What makes destroying them so offensive? If cellar door is the most beautiful phrase in the Inglis language, I think thumb stump might be one of the ugliest.

Fuck. So, your mom asked you to clean the bathroom. You said this is basically the Holocaust. And I'm gonna tell Tumblr about it. Is that the general idea here? You have too many

bleach and ammonia fumes. Oh shit, it's getting worse! general idea here. You have too many bleach and ammonia fumes. Oh shit, it's getting worse! I would tell you what I hashtagged that with, but I think I deleted it. So many deleted Tumblrs. I guess you just summarized everything that's ever happened on Tumblr, so we don't need to ever do Tumblr again.

Yay! Yay! But first, my name's TallBlondeGirl. And my poem is called, Guys, Look at My Story I Wrote in My Essay. Okay. Yep. So, life is ephemeral.

My name is Bex. I'm 22. I'm into literature, fashion, photography, film, and music. I have many interests, obviously. Okay, guys, look at my story I wrote in my essay. Plast narrator goes on to objectify the couple, particularly the female. Stop crying. Open your hand.

Empty. Empty? Here is a penis. I've had a lot of dates end that way. I notice you fidget a lot. Look, please stop crying. Open your hand. It's empty.

Or is it? Here. There's a penis to fill it with. You'd be surprised. It works, you know, with Tinder people. Now, by works, what do you mean? I'll link you to the video. Okay.

Is it on Tinder? Putting your penis in someone's hand is like third base, right? It works. Okay, so here's a penis. To fill it and willing. To bring teacups and roll away headaches. And do whatever you tell it. Will you marry it? It is guaranteed.

Penis. Mmm, penis. I likey da penis. By Sylvia Plath. The use of... I just need to summarize here with the use of it is dehumanizing because I believe that a penis really does

have a brain. I saw it with my own eyes, man. It was bizarre, but awesome. And I cannot spell but whatever because that was a cool day for me. Like, literally, the penis was talking to me and I kind of freaked out and was all, don't you put that thing near my mouth. And then answer back, shut up, bitch. I taste numb. And I was like, how can you taste yourself, Mr. Penis?

And he was all, well, I don't know. I just assume I taste nice because Mr. Big eats all the sweet things. And I was like, yeah, man, okay, sure, if you say so. But you have put me off with your constant talking. You are worse than a woman. God, man, I am out of here. And that was the end of my penis experience. Yeah, you're super cool. I can see from the rest of your tumblr that you really

like to dress like the guy from Clockwork Orange. Good job. Like Alex? Yeah, like Alex. Oh, yeah, okay. She likes to dress like Alex. Oh, that's cool. That is cool. You're right. She probably calls her friends her droogs. That's so cute. That's cute.

Okay, that's, you are fucking infuriating. Alright, uh, next up. Let's see. Alright, um, yeah, I think this one here. Um, so this is, uh, by

Lessons in Geography. Uh, Boots, you'll take that, please. Okay, I'm, uh, Lessons in Geography. Boots, if you'll take that, please. Okay, I'm Lessons in Geography. Oh, yeah, yeah. Maybe that, too. My name is Stephanie Whitney. Sure. Okay. Oh,

okay is the title of my fucking Tumblr. Yep. Okay. Okay fucking Tumblr. Yep. Okay. There's just, Tumblr does a lot to just encourage you to go, none of this text really matters, just so you know. To whatever wretched human beings that think

it is funny to decorate cardboard boxes like an oven and stick their heads through the bottom and attempt to be Sylvia Plath for Halloween. You make me want to vomit unlike any amount of shell-shedding insects crawling over my flesh. In through every hole in my body as I lay in a bath, tacked in a field of pig droppings,

filled with the skin of a thousand cups of curdled milk on a blistering hot August afternoon in the American South. That's quite a response to just a hacky costume. I mean... Sincerely, Stephanie Whitney. What the fuck? I mean, it's like the number one seller at... Yeah, everybody's in that.

Costume Depot. It's a Sovietvia Plath costume. What do you mean we're out of Plath? You know, the movie came out. Everybody commented the people in the Plath oven heads. Nobody complimented me on my bath of shedding insects crawling over my flesh and through every hole of my body as I laid in a bath tacked in a field of pig droppings filled with the skin of a thousand cups of curdled milk

on a blistering hot August afternoon in the American South. What are you supposed to be? Ugh. I just told you. I just told you what I'm supposed to be. Why would I know what that is? No, you started telling that guy. He walked away and I walked over while you were still talking.

Oh, you're a different person. Everybody walked over and said, wow, your costume is so elaborate. Oh, shit. Look, there goes another Sylvia Plath. That's awesome. Oh, infuriating. Look, the two Sylvia Plaths are making out. Oh.

It's so hot. Hey, Frank West. Yes? Is it true that you're Sylvia Plathkin? That's right. That's right. Fucking Sylvia Plath episode of Tumblr. Absolutely, this happened.

Your name is Wazabi. That's two Z's, two with three A's, and two I's. Wazabi. This guy's a really big fan of the seventh commercial in that series of Budweiser ads. No, it's when they spun off and they started to do sushi places. Yeah, it's the seventh, whatever. Oh, whatever. I think we both had unfunny jokes we had to try to

pitch out. The thing is that it wasn't a joke. They actually did that and never mind. Okay. Let's edit all this out. Great! All of it. Yeah! Let's start over. We're done. Okay, back to the beginning. Alright, here's some more Tumblr! Okay.

Sylveon is a ghost type. It's gender specific because it's based on Sylvia Place who's dead, which is why it's a ghost type. Of course! Okay. Is this already a theory? Where's poor Tex? That is why it's a gun. Of course! Okay, yeah.

Is this already a theory? Where's Portek? I hope. For those curious, he's naming a real Pokemon. You mean Sylveon? Yes. Oh, shit. Okay.

That's a real... This man's theory is that they based it on Sylveon. Okay. That's a real... This man's theory is that they face it on the street. Okay. Is this already a theory? I hope it isn't, because then I'd feel silly and unoriginal. Alright, coming very close to the end here. But first, Lou. Okay. This is a poem by alibi is not needed anymore

whoa i like that everyone in tumblr just gets two pseudonyms you're the spinnable heart this yeah i hate people with more than one pseudonym absolutely oh okay the people that fucking change all right so this is my poem is that my name, The Spittable Heart? I can't tell what it's supposed to mean. I don't know what these things mean. Your name is Alibi is not needed, or at least your account. I don't know. I don't know where that...

Your name might be home. I'm not entirely sure. Tumblr, period. The Spittable Heart. And this poem is called Dust to Dust. You know that part in the bell jar where Esther's boyfriend insults poetry by calling poems pieces of dust? Well, I think that's actually a good metaphor.

A really good metaphor. Because dust is made up of human skin. And poems are little pieces of their author which have sloughed off. I didn't know any better. I think she wrote that sentence on purpose. Dust is also particles of whatever environment it was made in and in a poem there's a mix of who wrote it

and where they wrote it and what was around to inspire them. The only difference is that the skin cells in Dust are dead. And poems are very much alive. Hooray! Yay! Yeah, that's cool.

That was cool. But I'm Blue Bike. And I got this to say. What's that? I guess I'm Blue Bike. I don't even understand how Tumblr works. Who cares? Anyway, sometimes during lectures, I spit in my hands, do watercolors in the textbook when reading.

Do people talk to me? Hell no. Okay. Great. Hey, hey, hey, hello, I'm Rancid Queef. Oh, I'm sure you have something meaningful to add. My name's Rancid Queef. That's kind of good. I kind of like it, actually.

My name's Rancid Queef. Are you Sylvia Plath? Because I want to get into your deep clitorature. That doesn't even work. Get into your clitorature? What? That's me, Rancid Queef. Okay, bye, Rancid Queef.

I don't know how female anatomy works. I want to get deep on that clitorature. Very strange. Hi, I'm Fiona Apple. Is this Sylvia Plath of 90s Alternative? And I have this to say. Fiona Apple

is the Sylvia Plath of 90s Alternative. My name's Titanium Teeth! Alright, one last piece here. This is a poem or something by Unreality House. And, okay, so Lou, you're going to be the part in italics, and Frank West, you're going to be the part in non-italics. All right. So, Unreality House. Hey.

Hey. What are you doing? Are you watching girls like the stereotype I am? Uh-huh. You? Cool. What's girls? Just being cool. Cool. Lena Dunham show?

Cool. Is it good? Yeah, it's really good. I'm too into it. Why too into it? Because everyone else is into it. I feel like I should have more distinctive tastes. Okay.

You like my poems, though. That's distinctive. You're the only one in the world! Well, true. You seem to have a big audience on Tumblr, though. Not really. 573 followers. Just a medium audience.

I've got about 573. More than I have. How many? 32. Cool. It's quality, not quantity. There's real primo followers.

You should post more pics. That's how you get followers. You should post more pics. That's how you get followers. Show them titties! Yeah, I don't think so. I'm not as good looking as you, and I'm not ready to get naked. That doesn't matter, really. When you post naked pics, people just

start yelling at you for not being more naked. Just like post pics of your face. When you post naked pics, people just start yelling at you for not being more naked. Just like post pics of your face. When you post naked pics, people want you to be more naked than naked. Absolutely. Take your skin off. Yeah, yeah. On my Tumblr, I'm followed by Pinhead.

He really likes my stuff. Maybe. Is that why you don't use your real name? No. I don't care about that. They're just tits. Mostly, I don't want people to know about my poems. What? What?

What? What in the world? Why? IRL people just judge like you're supposed to be Sylvia Plath. People didn't even like her that much. You can't win. She never got invited to my birthday party. On the internet, I'm just some crazy girl.

There's no point of comparison to my life. My poems just exist. Fuck yeah. That makes sense, but aren't you proud of them? I show some people I trust. Mostly, I just like internet people to read them.

Oh dear. Like me? Yes. That's cool. Yes. Cool. Bye. Bye. Yay!

Follow on Reality House. Wow. It is a hyper-fiction project. I'm not really worried if people in the real world find out that I pose naked on the internet. I just don't want them to read my poetry. They're just tits. You just shouldn't read the crap I write. Oh, F+, what did we learn from any of this?

Hyper fiction publication. It is almost impossible to tell the difference between a young 20-something's ordinary writing and their poetry. Yeah, totally. It's also almost impossible to tell what part of a post you are reading on Tumblr. We already knew that. Yeah, we knew that. I guess we didn't learn that. It confirms the absolute nonsense that is navigating Tumblr.

nonsense that is navigating Tumblr. But yeah, that's such a great point of like, as we're going through this stuff, and it's all things that have been hashtag Sylvia Plath, I think some of them were intended as poems, some of them were intended as, let's say, essays,

and there's fucking, like, what's the distinction between the two? Like, sometimes there's the excessive line breaks, but... Well, I think an interesting point of comparison here is you compare all of these things we just read with a site like, you know, a crazy schizophrenic person on the internet.

Yep. And the schizophrenic person actually makes more sense. Yeah. Yeah, I mean, they're able to... Like, the man has better writing. Oh, definitely, yeah. The schizophrenic person actually makes more sense. Yeah. Yeah, I mean, they're able to... Like, the man has better writing. Oh, definitely, yeah. They're able to communicate ideas in a clear and efficient manner. That's because there's usually at least two or three people inside their heads.

Yeah. But the thing is that those are completely different sides of the same coin, because, like, the schizophrenic person is a fully crazy person that is doing their damnedest to, to appear not crazy and to, to, to express their points cogently. Whereas Tumblr is just like boring human beings. Look at me.

exactly. Uh, the website is always thgfbl.us. Uh, what do you got for ball pit boots? Uh, exactly. The website is always thgfbl.us. What do you got for ball pit, Boots? Yeah, if you want to go to a forum and if you want to take a picture of a giant block of text and then paste it in a thread that is labeled pictures, you can go to ball pit and do that. Yeah, how many pages of that is there? Fuck, forever of them.

All of them. I think as of this recording... What are we at? 38. Wait, what? Oh, I meant the video thread, sorry. Oh, yeah, you're talking about the video thread. The video thread has 38 pages.

The pictures one has 184 pages. No, the picture thread is 307 pages. The pictures one has 184 pages. No, the picture thread is 307 pages. We have different posts per page. It's super interesting. On mine, it's just one page. Yes, you can sign up for an account on Ball Pit.

And also, if you're listening to this, you should be playing The Wrongest Words. It's a super fun game. You can play with your friends. I would appreciate it in these early times if you can make some sort of either video or, I don't know, diary of something of playing it. I think that would be fun and interesting to do. And give the game a shot because I think it's cool. Yeah, we've all been playing it because it's so much fun and it is totally out at the time of this recording.

Yep sure is at the time of this recording. Bye bye. But there's a sadness Hidden in the bizarre Moonlight madness Living in a bell jar Who? Who? Who? Who? Who? Who? Who? Who? Who? Who? Who? Who?

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