Meta-Contextual Article About Its Composition
By Jimmy Chen
Tuesday, March 3, 2011, 5:45PST, San Francisco – Get off work at 5:00pm, ride bike ~4.8 miles to “Coffee Bar,” a cafe which serves dinner, located in the outer Mission at Mariposa and Bryant. Order a Lagunitas IPA and tuna melt, incurring $12.60 dollars in cost, whose subsequent denominations as change from a $20 dollar bill is one 5 and two 1 dollar bills and 40 cents, the latter paltry amount which went into the tip jar. Kindly asked barista to pour beer into a glass, which was done indignantly with fantasized spit on the part of the pourer, who likely has crushed artistic dreams. Asian-American professional-looking woman adorned with a 3.0 – 3.5 karat diamond ring seated to my right “deeply engaged” in a document which exudes “deadline.” 6 – 7 minutes into rave song playing the same melody over and over again, which turns into a jazz song on one suspects the aforementioned barista’s iPod as this sentence is being writ. Latino waiter/busboy takes my number 5 placard off the table, and in exchange, gives me an oval plate with a diagonally-bisected tuna melt and garden salad — the constituents of the latter conveniently inserted into the former, above the implicated fish mash and below the top layer of toasted wheat bread. The writer of this article is suffering from allergies, and has blown his nose into the same paper napkin 4 – 5 times, depositing more mucous than napkin was designed to handle. The setting western sun throws itself as some intimate cosmic slut onto two people before me: (1) a woman staring at a laptop, her right hand shielding the sun’s rays from her eyes, and (2) a man carefully leaning behind her, explaining something about technology or politics (one presumes); and before the writer of this article imagines the latter positioned behind the former, thrusting his glistening penis betwixt the former’s soft buttocks, he will stop short, and finish his tuna melt, elegantly spiced with the lightest notes of arugula.
6:56 p.m., Still here — Had difficulty “wrapping text” flush left around a pic of myself drinking wine as meta-contextual conceit . Emailed editor/irl-bro  about it, and received no reply; but later on I will notice he will log into Thought Catalog’s WordPress and reticently try to wrap text, but will fail as well. This website’s coding, while “clean,” is not implicit. To be a blogger/writer today is to have to know the most elementary code (HTML/CSS), otherwise your pieces will look like crap. I’m getting old, I’m already drunk. Suddenly got really sad. I tend to do that. I think I’m bipolar, or at least mildly bipolar. Much of my online activity and affected confidence accounts for what may be considered “manic episodes”; when you don’t hear from me, I tend to be in my condominium being “existentially suicidal,” i.e., wanting to non-violently simply disappear from this meaningless and arbitrary universe. I just texted a 22-year-old female romantic interest  and told her I was writing a meta Thought Catalog post and for her to text something provocative, as it is my plan to incorporate a screen shot of our text, but she didn’t reply, a reticence which — if you suffer from anxiety and catastrophic thinking — may be masochistically interpreted as a commentary on her diminishing sentiment. Went on Twitter and realized everyone is sort of insane, at least the people I follow. I’m beginning to think there’s a direct correlation between mental illness and time spent online. I don’t know what to do tonight. It’s only 7:01pm and I’m pretty much done here. Gonna go home now, maybe try to finish this.
7:40 p.m., Writer’s Residence, Potrero District, San Francisco – Got home and binged on tortilla chips and salsa, tempted to take some Claritin®. The 22-year-old female ends up texting something provocatively Neo-Feminist and/or ironic glorifying domestic violence within African-American’s hip hop culture. I have since learned what the “Dougie” is — a dance conceived by Cali Swag District in their song “Teach Me How to Dougie,” [somewhat meta itself, as the title projects subsequent interest in the dance] once interpreted by Chris Brown, that a-hole who beat Rihanna, whose adroit limb manipulations invoke in our 22-year-old female the idealization of being punched, romantically, or at least as a form of ambivalent male attention. Bear in mind I only know this because I had to Google/YouTube everything, ending up doing the Dougie myself, horribly, realizing that the Dougie is hard to do. Politically and/or socioeconomically disenfranchised communities, i.e. black people, tend to heavily embrace and engage in collective activities which don’t cost any money, while affirming demographic alliance. This is why you always see black people standing on the curb behaving very similarly for hours on end. To call it loitering is too simplistic. By the way, I never told you: this entire piece was aggressively edited, revised, and completed the following morning [9:27 a.m., Writer's Employment, Parnassus Heights, San Francisco], as aurally chaperoned by my co-worker’s “test wedding” music playlist, mainly Soul, which I am not a fan of. Put simply, she is getting married in September to a man named “Jim,” and she’s working out the most optimal playlist to present to the DJ, an agenda which incurs the listening of said music, on “loop,” which I laboriously perceive behind me with notable patience. Soul music is presumptive. When we die, we die. As for what I can perceive before me, that is where you come in, comment.
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 The since excised ¶ went: Finished the sandwich and beer, just got an ’01 Napa Cabernet for $5 dollars at happy hour (before 7pm) price (it’s listed at $9.00). Concerned that readers will think my face is too dark; yes I am Asian, which is technically a “colored” race, but really I think it’s the lighting, or maybe a little bit of post-buzz blood to the face. I don’t know if there’s something wrong with my libido, but I usually like to go home to whack off and I’m just chilling here with no concrete plans to do so. I think this is called “maturity.” Depressed business man with wool sweater with a ginger ale sits to my left with a Dell laptop. At this point in the article the writer needs to go to the bathroom, but here is the odd thing with mild-inebriation: one is less inclined and/or capable to expunge the material which has caused it.
 I met Brandon Scott Gorrell in Oakland, California, during a reading of which we were both part. He visited me later in San Francisco, before traveling to South America. We had bourbon at Cassanova, a dimly lit lounge bar on Valencia St., where we admired a pair of breasts deftly painted on black velvet. I fondly recall shaking his hand at a bus stop, and seeing his figure finding a seat inside the bus as it receded towards a vanishing point. I thought I would never see him again, but wound up in a rental car passing through Seattle on my way to Vancouver sometime last year. We had coffee and he invited me over for lunch, prepared by his former-gf (I think, I can’t keep up with his personal life), who endearingly made eggs and hash browns, the latter from potatoes which they harvested together. The lunch touched me. I don’t mention this to ingratiate myself with an editor of Thought Catalog, or to absorb interest from his readership, but simply to convey how these experiences constitute for an irl-bro.
 We actually met, technically, on Thought Catalog. She left a comment which I deemed more appropriate to address in a private email, and so began our correspondence. Thought Catalog is in no way a forum to “hook up” with strangers with internet compulsions. Her and my auspicious discourse should not effect the amorous expectations of other contributors or their readership.
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Even as I write this now I am debating whether or not to erase it all together.
When I say I’m in love with you, I mean I love the story I can tell to my next lover, about my ex-lover, about how beautiful things were, how intense, how storybook, what a couple we were, and how you gradually, inexplicably, painfully, bit by bit, disappeared.
By John Howell
“I used to be afraid of failing at something that really mattered to me, but now I’m more afraid of succeeding at things that don’t matter.”
I was 24 and, while not gay, ever since college I had been getting more attention from gay men than from heterosexual women.
By Ed Herro