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@morigela
Dear diary.
Today on Discord, I wrote the words
The old lady with murder-eyes who years ago chased me with scissors in a bus station parking lot in Lyon at 4:45 AM was trying to tell me that I'm a lesbian. 💜
My quest for the most cursed sentence in history forges on. I do not know pain I do not know fear. Hail Satan.
-Morigela
28 years old, no money, no prospects, no future; just overwhelming debt and eternal existential fear and hatred from within and without. Maybe I am dead and this is hell.
I will never financially recover from the decision not to kill myself two years ago.
Ngl we never got the meme mileage we deserved from the Large Hadron Collider.
The thing is nobody at pride is evaluating you to determine if you’re queer enough to be there because they’re too busy thinking “it’s so hot out” and “why is this lemonade 12 dollars?”
listen to sexworkers but only the ones filming anonymously from the comfort of their bedrooms and never the ones who are trafficked or groomed and are forced to do scenes that they don’t want to with people they don’t want to at the risk of their livelihood or even life because those stories bum me outttt and therefore don’t count despite making up the majority of cases.
28 is the oldest you can get in your 20s. 29 is crazy young like leave them alone weirdo. 30 is old 31 is super young
California should secede from the US and also invent teleportation so I can get a burrito in perfect safety and take a walk in the redwoods whenever I want.
you think that you're so alone in the world then you read literature from hundreds of years ago and you realize that other people have always felt this way
Bear religion probably fucking rocks. You're a fucking bear, you're the deadliest thing on earth, once a year an endless supply of salmon just flings itself up the river to gorge on and then you nap for 3 months.
The most delicious food in the world is protected by tiny demons who can defend it from everyone except you. Your natural armor is thick enough that you can just eat the damn hive while they buzz around you. God's chosen animals right there
Regular bears tell stories of angel bears sent by the Bear God, pure white and twice as strong as any normal bear could be, who rule the summit of the Earth and kill all who stand in their path.
And they are right, those bears exist and totally do that. Humans just have fake angels as a cope.
love the idea of bears being the chosen species actually. having a near death experience and glimpsing heaven and realising it's just full of bears, no humans at all, humans not ensouled actually, humans an accidental byproduct of God's plan for bears
The danger with reading a lot of medieval literature is that your tastes start becoming a bit medieval, which makes it difficult to write for a modern audience.
it’s been said before and it’s not even close to the worst thing but it sucks how our current robber barons are such philistines. like these guys aren’t even building libraries or concert halls. they can’t even pretend to enjoy art, and they don’t see any value in signaling that they appreciate art
this current batch of the fithy-rich is BORING. They're BORING. Oh you have a yacht that's bigger than anybody else's yacht but functionally no different from one of your fancy houses? BORING. You have yet another fast car? YAWN. You ate a burger but like, a special burger? whatever. FUND AN OPERA ABOUT ANOTHER RICH GUY YOU HATE, DIPSHITS. How about you put a concert hall with your name on it in every city in the US and fund their operations for the next decade, if you're so rich????? unless you're too poor to afford that????? How many people do you, personally, directly employ, and what are their salaries? Do you pay well enough to command the loyalty and willing service of any masters of their craft? It would be so easy to win the absolute love and adoration of the masses in this climate but no, they wanna build bunkers and play politics in order to save a few more miserable nickles.
@capriceandwhimsy reminds me of your rabbit hole about yachts
I hate when people use sightings of birds and cats as superstitious "signs." "Black cat crosses your path" you idiot, that's not "black cat," that's Mardi (short for Marder), she's your neighbour Ulrike's cat and she's very sweet to people her human introduces her to. That crow is not "crow," that's a member of your neighbourhood flock of crows, and you probably see her every day so you could probably get away with giving her a name. If you think of an animal as an "apparition," you're kind of ignoring that it's literally a very norma part of the world around you.
Reason #47521455 why I can't stand divination.
Your fave is problematic: Pyaari Edition
This is an anti-despair checkpoint! You must share something you're looking forward to before scrolling on.
She played bass on 10,000 songs, including the most-played track of the twentieth century. She was paid $55 per session. Her name never appeared on the albums.
Gold Star Studios, Los Angeles, 1964. A woman in a cardigan walks past the receptionist, a Fender Precision bass in her hand like a briefcase. She doesn’t sign autographs. She signs a timesheet.
Her name is Carol Kaye. In three hours, she will record what will become the most-played track of the twentieth century. She’ll pocket fifty-five dollars and head to another studio, on the other side of town, for the next session.
The record label will never put her name on the album.
Between 1957 and 1973, Carol Kaye took part in roughly 10,000 recording sessions. Not as the featured artist, not as a guest, but as a hired hand. She was part of an anonymous collective nicknamed The Wrecking Crew—elite studio musicians who actually played the instruments on your favorite records while the famous bands posed for promotional photos.
The work was relentless. Three albums before the day was over. Stale coffee in paper cups. No rehearsal. The charts arrived minutes before the tape rolled. If you couldn’t read a chart and nail the take in two tries, you didn’t get called for the next session.
Carol could do it on the first try.
She started playing guitar in grimy bars at fourteen because her family couldn’t pay the electric bill. Music wasn’t a romantic dream for her. It was survival. It was a job—factory work with better acoustics and lower pay.
But she was faster and sharper than almost everyone else. She corrected charts in pencil while the producer was still explaining what he wanted. In one session in 1968, she told a famous producer his arrangement sounded like a dying dog. She chose her own line. They kept her version.
That descending bass line that drives the Beach Boys’ “Wouldn’t It Be Nice”? Carol Kaye. The propulsive groove of “These Boots Are Made for Walkin’”? Carol Kaye. The acoustic-guitar intro to “La Bamba”? Carol Kaye. The iconic theme from Mission: Impossible? Carol Kaye.
She invented techniques on the spot, out of sheer necessity. When the bass sound was too muddy for AM radio, she stuck felt under the strings and used a hard pick instead of her fingers. The tone cut through the static like a blade. It became the sonic signature that defined 1960s pop.
Bassists spent years—decades—trying to crack the secret of the Beach Boys’ gear to get that sound. They were studying the wrong people. They should have been studying Carol.
She received no royalties. No residuals. No gold-record ceremony. No credit on the album sleeves. When “You’ve Lost That Lovin’ Feelin’” hit number one, Carol was already back in a studio cutting a soap jingle.
The biggest bands mimed her bass lines on TV variety shows. New York marketing departments decided a mom in classic clothes didn’t fit the rebellious-youth image they were selling. So they simply left her name off the album credits.
For thirty years, almost no one cared. The truth only began to surface in the late 1990s, when music researchers found the same union contract numbers on thousands of hit records. The very documents meant to preserve studio musicians’ anonymity betrayed them.
Think about it. Every time you heard “Good Vibrations,” “River Deep – Mountain High,” the Righteous Brothers, Nancy Sinatra, or Sonny and Cher, you were hearing Carol Kaye. She composed the soundtrack of an entire generation’s youth.
And yet the records still say nothing. She’s now over eighty. She wrote instructional books. She trained countless bassists. She is finally starting to be recognized by music historians who uncovered the truth about The Wrecking Crew.
But she never got what she deserved: her name on those albums. Credit for the music that defined an era. Recognition that those bass lines everyone associates with the “Beach Boys” were, in fact, Carol Kaye’s.
Fifty-five dollars a session. Ten thousand sessions. The most-played track of the twentieth century.
And the world didn’t know her name.
