This Won’t Hurt A Bit: Tax The Dead

this won't hurt a bit(2)I was at the hospital last week, handing some paperwork over to someone in the morgue, when they filled me in on a little bit of information I wasn’t yet privy to. They’re bringing back the dead, so they can tax them. That’s right. It wasn’t enough to cure mortality, now they’re reanimating people so they can continue taxing them. They had a waiting room in the back already filled with 5 or 6 people they’d brought back and fixed back up. Now, obviously, these couldn’t be people who’d died very violently. There’s no guys walking around with their head split open like everything’s fine. These are people who died from disease, old age, shit like that. It was finally formally announced on the news yesterday evening. The governments stance was that these are people who were taking up space while doing nothing (hence, ya know, being dead and all), and had an entire business industry (the funeral industry, morticians, etc.) tied to their “condition” (ya know, the condition of fucking death), so they should have to pay their fair share like everyone else.

This just proves the point that human beings are no longer seen as anything other than a product. That’s how it was with the insurance industry, even well before this whole undead epidemic began. People advertising life insurance are selling us to the life insurance companies. The life insurance isn’t the product. We are. And speaking of life insurance, there’s another entire industry going down the tubes. Who needs such a thing when you can’t die? People are dumping their life insurance left and right. Health insurance as well. Why not? What’s it matter? We’re immortal now. I cannot tell you how many people I see in a given day at work who don’t have health insurance. I mean, that number was always really high anyway because the health care industry is such a sham, but you know what I’m trying to say. So yeah, they’re taxing the dead. Here’s a bit from an actual article I read this morning on the entire matter from noted zine “American Thief” journalist Amanda Shriver:

The biggest problem, Mr. Duvall ensured me, was deciding whether or not to treat the previously dead like the a newborn. Technically, they had ceased to exist, much like an unborn child, and so when they were brought back, it was a big discussion on whether or not to allow them to be claimed as dependents on their families tax forms, much like children are for the first 18 years of their life, and if so, how long would they stay independents? This was brought down by the technicality that unlike children, these were people who, while yes they’d ceased to exist for a period of time, had lived full lives and were still adults, so there’s no reason to not tax them.

I guess this is just capitalism at its purest form. Literally taxing those who have moved to another plane of existence. They used to say the only things in life that were certain were death and taxes, and boy howdy did I never realize how true that statement would become.

Shriver’s excellent article, titled “Death: A Commodity”, can be read in this months American Thief zine from your local print shop. In fact, I may even just post the entire thing here for my next entry. But she’s right. Death used to cancel out taxes, but now that we can cancel out death, nothing can stop us. Listen to me, I work in a hospital, okay? I see people die every single day. They want to go with dignity. Now they can’t even go with that because they know as soon as they’re gone, they’ll be brought right back, fixed right up and taxed all over again. There’s no end to this cycle. As if we didn’t treat the ill poorly enough to begin with, now we’re trying to tax them, all under the guise of “giving them a second chance at life” when so many of them are done with it in the first place. My mother used to tell me that by the time you get to be in your 70s or 80s, you’re so tired, you’re so ready to move on, that you’re no longer afraid of death. Or at least not in the way you once were. Now people aren’t scared of death. They’re scared of being brought back to life.

I know I’m just a nurse. I know I’m not anyone anybody should be listening to, but I am on the frontlines of life and death day in and day out, and let me tell you, everything we used to know is gone. Now, if you commit suicide, which is technically a crime, they can bring you back and sue you for it. They will throw you in jail for having successfully killed yourself. A living will is no longer just a ridiculous combination of words. It’s now literal. We are unstoppable. We are immortal. We are indestructible.

And the worst is only just beginning.

“This Won’t Hurt A Bit: Memoirs From A Post Medical World” is a satirical health column created & written by Maggie Taylor. If you enjoy this, you might like her fiction, her webcomic “In Space, No One Can Hear You Cry” or her new site “Sad Party” where she encourages others to share their sadness so others feel better. You can also donate to her SquareCash.


Positive Nihilism Wallpapers

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I made you guys some wallpapers tonight because I was bored. Enjoy.

Hey. I’m Maggie. Did you like these things? If so, you might like some other things I make, like my depressing webcomic, “In Space, No One Can Hear You Cry” or my new site, “Sad Party”, where I encourage others to share how bad they feel so other people can feel a little better. Thanks to stopping by!


Close To Monsters #19


Today’s “Close To Monsters” is brought to you by The United States Of Uneducation

Hello. My name is Maggie. I make things, for you and for my own survival. If you like this stuff I made, you might like some of my other stuff, like my depressing space webcomic “In Space, No One Can Hear You Cry”, and the site where I ask others to say how bad they feel to help others feel better, “Sad Party”. Check it out. Hit me up. Let’s be miserable together.


The Unhappy Manifesto

Despite my best efforts to be a goody two shoes, perfectionist, law abiding young lady from the age of coherence to now, I’ve always apparently just been nothing more than inherently polarizing, without even realizing it was a bigger problem than I thought. I mean, I knew some people didn’t like me, hell I don’t even like me, so I get it, but I didn’t realize to that extent that they didn’t like me. However, after some very recent events this past summer, I know realize that to a lot of people, I’m just sorta not all that good I guess. The worst part is, I continue to be sorta not all that good to the people I most want to be hella all that good to, and it’s….it’s fucking heartbreaking.

I’m in no way ever trying to make myself sound like a perfect person, like someone who puts others before herself at all times or wants to gain the sympathy of complete and total strangers via a pity party blog she runs on the internet, but I do want it made clear that I at least try and do good by others. Because of how I’ve been treated by pretty much everyone throughout my life, I go really out of my way to be nice to those I let get even remotely close to me. I’m so closed up, that even the ones who think they know me rarely now me as well as they think they do. A few years ago, I told an ex girlfriend of mine something, and her response was “I never would’ve known that!”. Be aware, this is a girl I spent about 9 years being close friends with and then spent a year romantically involved with, and yet even she “never would’ve known that”, in regards to what I just told her. So, I try and be the best to the people I really care about, try to be genuinely nice to the people I don’t even know all that well and still try and retain an identity not at all known by anyone at all. It’s a tough life, y’all.

And yet, despite all of this, despite my best efforts, I am not a “liked” person, because even the people who I’ve known for years don’t know me that well and the others, the ones who have claimed to love me and want nothing more than my happiness (like the people I mentioned from this past summer earlier in the post), end up not really meaning that. I am not important. I am expendable. I am not good enough. I am polarizing. So, okay, I’m trying to work with that. For so long I wanted to please. I wanted to make my parents proud despite their obvious disinterest in my actual well being as a person, and I would try to reconnect with people I used to know who cut me off out of nowhere without saying a word, who I thought I mattered to. I wanted to make people love me. I wanted to create things people would be happy about. Now I’m trying desperately not to care as much. I’m trying to be ok with not being ok enough.

So I’m polarizing. Alright then. I’ll learn to work with that. The people who really do like me like me and that should be good enough. The problem is that you’re never sure who those people really are. You think you have a good idea, but…but people are so goddamned two faced. Now, with the advent of social media and online profiles, we as actual people, are nothing. Our profiles are everything. That’s the best of us distilled down to our successes, our triumphs, our goodness, and I don’t want to be one of those people who say “technology is bad!” because it isn’t. It’s helped created friendships I only could’ve once dreamed about, but to so many, I am just “that girl with the depressing blog” and not a real person, but I am real, and I do care. People may see me as polarizing, and, well, that’s on them. But I see me as I really am. I really do try and really do care. And even to the people who hurt me, to the people in my past, my parents, the people from this summer…I understand. We’re imperfect creatures. I don’t blame you anymore. We are who we are. If you find me polarizing, I might find you transparent and abusive, but I guess that’s just who we are, and only we alone can decide if we want to work on who we are. It has taken me two decades to get here, but, I know now that I am more than the sum of your opinions of me.

Reach out to me. Get to know me. I want to create a community out of sadness. I want to build a home from despair. Trying to be perfect got me nowhere, but accepting my imperfections have gotten me so far. Be polarizing. We can do it together.

I believe in us, flaws and all.

Hello. My name is Maggie. I make things, for you and for my own survival. If you like this stuff I made, you might like some of my other stuff, like my depressing space webcomic “In Space, No One Can Hear You Cry”, and the site where I ask others to say how bad they feel to help others feel better, “Sad Party”. Check it out. Hit me up. Let’s be miserable together.

ADDENDUM: I am aware that a new “This Won’t Hurt A Bit: Memoirs From A Post Medical World” was supposed to come out Monday, October 23rd, but alas that could not happen. I apologize and it will return next Monday. Thank you for understanding.


I Don’t Give A Fuck About Birds

A few years ago, a pigeon flew into the comic shop I frequented while I was at the register.

Literally everyone else stopped and stood and gawked at this poor, confused bird and oohed and awed and I merely stood at the register looking at my phone, waiting for the guy to come back from fighting it to finish my payment. Reflecting back on this moment makes me realize just how absolutely detached I am from the world. And before I go on, I want to clarify, I’m not saying I’m better because of this. If anything, I wish I could be like everyone else. All people seem to need is a little distraction that they’ll tell to their friends, family, co workers. These stories will grow. The others who hear it will add on. Suddenly THEY were there and it happened to THEM too.

 “Yeah this pigeon came in while Mike and I were at the store and it screamed that his name was Rungar and that the owner had killed it’s father, and then the owner and the pigeon drew samurai swords and it got fuckin’ WEIRD, man.”

pigeonEventually the tale of the heroic pigeon who slain the murderous shop keep to avenge his fathers untimely death will be written in the aviary history books and told to the young chicks in school, when birds eventually rule the world like we all know they will. But, before we get too ahead of ourselves (I like to fantasize about bird societies as much as the next girl), let’s discuss my detachment from society. People just need little things to amuse or entertain them. A bird flying into a shop. People slow to a crawl to see a fender bender. I mean, Twitter basically was invented for this reason, filling people in on the mind numbing minutia that we all go through, day in and day out.

But what happens when you’re like me, and you’re so disinterested in the world, or at least the world as it pertains to people, that you wonder what’s wrong with you?

I mean, let’s face it. That’s not normal. I mean to me, a bird flying into a store isn’t new. I’ve seen birds in billions of places that birds are not expected to be. Shops. Restaurants. College campuses as they prepare their morning lectures on philosophy. Birds are weird, dude, they really get around. But I’ve seen it. Nothing interesting about a fender bender. No reason to slow yourself down to witness people calmly exchanging insurance information. Is it in the hopes that they’ll witness something better? That somehow this mundane simple exchange of insurance information will come to violent blows? And if so, what does THAT say about society? That we’re bloodthirsty? That’s…discouraging, to say the least.

Then again, I just about wrote an entire novel about a bird society and their pigeon warrior god, so maybe violence is built into human behavior.

It worries me. It makes me contemplate the possibility that maybe I’ve taken so much bullshit from people over the 28 years that I’ve existed that I simply don’t care to participate anymore. I don’t care about New Years. I don’t get involved in trending topics. I DON’T CARE ABOUT A BIRD FLYING INTO A STORE. In a way, I suppose I could also look at is as a blessing, because maybe it makes me detached in a good way? Like, maybe I’m above it all because I realize that low shit doesn’t matter. I don’t know, I’m just reaching to find any reason to not hate myself these days.

A bird flew into a store and the world didn’t change one bit.

But I guess if that’s what humans need to make their mundane, repetitive, tedious lives a bit more entertaining, even if for just a few mere minutes, than maybe it’s a good thing they can be so easily bemused, and I secretly wish I could join in too.

I for one welcome our pigeon overlords.

Hi, I’m Maggie Taylor. Like my blog? Maybe you’d like my other work too. You can view more content like my depressing space webcomic “In Space, No One Can Hear You Cry” or my new site “Sad Party”, where I encourage people to revel in their sadness so others don’t feel so bad themselves. Also, you can donate at my SquareCash if you’re so inclined. It’d be more than appreciated.


A Picture’s Worth A Thousand Lies

There’s one photo that encompasses my entire childhood (that I will not be posting here).

My stepfather was a professional photographer. He not only made it his living, but his hobby, so much so that we often had to pose for stupid photographs like the one I’m speaking of, which has me sitting, nicely dressed, backwards in a dining room chair, making me appear as if I’m on the back of a NYT bestselling crime novel I’ve just published to rave reviews. Not only this, but we actually had a large framed photo on our wall where my stepsiblings I all got two rows to ourselves to make goofy faces and then smile at the end, because that’s the sort of household I grew up in. Give someone an outside appearance at a happy family to cover up the inner turmoil. That’s the thing I love about photography, more than anything. IT FUCKING LIES. 

This photo irritates me on a number of levels. Not only was I ever a happy or a good looking daughter (hell, I’m not even the best looking woman in the world. I mean, I know I’m up there, but I’m not #1), but it signifies the fact that not only was my childhood a lie…but it’s a well documented one. Having your parent be a photographer means being stuck with photo album after photo album of family photos ranging everything from christmas mornings to graduation. So the photos lie just as much as I was lying about myself to everyone around me regarding my lesbianism and so much more. And it’s all documented. Wonderful. It’s not necessarily that I HATE the photo, but it’s more along the lines of…I hate what the photo is showing. The photo itself is well taken, but it’s presenting yet again a false image. That other one I mentioned? That one with the rows? That was hung literally next to our front door as an instant image to be seen when you entered as a guest.

Oh, what a happy family!

Far from it, lady. Childhood is hard enough, but it’s even harder when you have to deal with declining mental health or a rejected sexuality. I’m certain the difficulties vary person to person, but for me personally…it’s the photos that are the worst. A lie of a lie. And the worst part is that it makes me feel like I didn’t even start really being alive until I came out, so there’s a documented childhood for a person I never identified as. That’s…unsettling to say the least. It also explains my enormous self hatred for having my photo taken as a kid, to the point where I’d leave the room or cover my face. I didn’t want to be documented. I DIDN’T KNOW WHO THE PERSON IN THE PHOTO WAS. Other people look back at photos and say, “What a happy child I was!”. I look back and say, “Who the hell IS this?”

These days though, I take a lot of selfies. It’s not because I’m vain (you have to first have self esteem for that, so I’m safe) or anything, but simply because I finally kind of like how I look. It’s a small consolation for the hell I had to put up with, but at least what I’m working on fixing my self esteem. But, that’s what suburban life is, at least when I was a little girl. Parents didn’t want their neighbors to see how screwed up their family was. Judgment was important to them. They wanted their family to be portrayed as happy, good, people. So they kept trimmed lawns and took lie filled photographs and they upheld to the highest standard an image of excellence and perfection to hide the problems they had. Nobody talked about divorce. Nobody talked about mental illness or homosexuality. It’s amazing how far we think we’ve come from the 50s, when really the only thing’s that’ve changed are our cable packages and how we process our food. There’s still bigotry, and hatred, and total lack of decent humanity, ESPECIALLY regarding treating your children and, a lot of times, often, yourself right.

So yeah, there’s one photo that encompasses my entire horrible childhood.

But there’s a billion that encompass my bettering adulthood.

And that’s kinda cool.

Hey, I’m Maggie Taylor, and this is my blog. If you like what I do here, you should check out my depressing space webcomic, “In Space, No One Can Hear You Cry”, or my new site “Sad Party”, where I ask others to revel in their sadness so others can see they’re not alone. If you wanna support me, you can always donate at my SquareCash. I’d really appreciate it.