It’s over, I’m afraid. I’ll be here if you need me.
Not that it matters, but Hate The Future began about four years ago, when I was fresh out of college, in a boring job, and having the generic existential crisis. Since then, I’ve gotten married, written for some magazines, made a few friends, survived a car accident, taken vacations, gone to concerts, seen doctors, voted, published a novel, sat through sibling graduations, thrown up, acquired a second dog, moved twice, fucked in the afternoon, watched movies, slept through alarms, kept secrets, celebrated birthdays, revised, regretted, relived, repeated myself. 
I still have the boring job and existential crisis, but they seem no longer to call for work like this, if indeed it was work. It may simply have been the kind of procrastination that has the flavor of work. A stretching of neurons, that they might not atrophy under the feeble fluorescence of a boring job. I set limits just to disobey them. I told myself a thousand posts would be the endpoint and cruised right past that goalpost, too. Even now I can’t wrap things up. There should be no idiotic farewell, I’m sure of that, and here I’ll finish tapping it out.
Inspiration, as we know, doesn’t last. I might have quit two years ago if not for laziness, inertia, the comforts of routine and the very warm following that unexpectedly cropped up. You’ve been very kind, all of you, especially on the frequent occasions when I wasn’t funny at all. To the countless photographers and artists whose work I unapologetically stole, my thanks. I believe I’ve confused, misinformed and offended as many people as I’ve made laugh, and it’s on that balance alone I am willing to claim success. Not that provocation was the objective. But I’m no comedian, either. I don’t know, maybe you can tell me—why the hell were you reading this? 
The illustration above comes from Bruce McCall’s Zany Afternoons, my favorite book as a kid. I grew to adore all the usual science fiction, but McCall has a singular vision that will always stick with me—a blending of the now and the soon and the recent past—a dreamy nostalgia for disasters that hadn’t happened yet, like time was a pure contradiction, expanding in every direction. Our moment is one human’s fantasy, another’s history. The present, they say, lasts about three seconds.
I don’t think I’ll ever be able to stand it.      

It’s over, I’m afraid. I’ll be here if you need me.

Not that it matters, but Hate The Future began about four years ago, when I was fresh out of college, in a boring job, and having the generic existential crisis. Since then, I’ve gotten married, written for some magazines, made a few friends, survived a car accident, taken vacations, gone to concerts, seen doctors, voted, published a novel, sat through sibling graduations, thrown up, acquired a second dog, moved twice, fucked in the afternoon, watched movies, slept through alarms, kept secrets, celebrated birthdays, revised, regretted, relived, repeated myself. 

I still have the boring job and existential crisis, but they seem no longer to call for work like this, if indeed it was work. It may simply have been the kind of procrastination that has the flavor of work. A stretching of neurons, that they might not atrophy under the feeble fluorescence of a boring job. I set limits just to disobey them. I told myself a thousand posts would be the endpoint and cruised right past that goalpost, too. Even now I can’t wrap things up. There should be no idiotic farewell, I’m sure of that, and here I’ll finish tapping it out.

Inspiration, as we know, doesn’t last. I might have quit two years ago if not for laziness, inertia, the comforts of routine and the very warm following that unexpectedly cropped up. You’ve been very kind, all of you, especially on the frequent occasions when I wasn’t funny at all. To the countless photographers and artists whose work I unapologetically stole, my thanks. I believe I’ve confused, misinformed and offended as many people as I’ve made laugh, and it’s on that balance alone I am willing to claim success. Not that provocation was the objective. But I’m no comedian, either. I don’t know, maybe you can tell me—why the hell were you reading this? 

The illustration above comes from Bruce McCall’s Zany Afternoons, my favorite book as a kid. I grew to adore all the usual science fiction, but McCall has a singular vision that will always stick with me—a blending of the now and the soon and the recent past—a dreamy nostalgia for disasters that hadn’t happened yet, like time was a pure contradiction, expanding in every direction. Our moment is one human’s fantasy, another’s history. The present, they say, lasts about three seconds.

I don’t think I’ll ever be able to stand it.      


If suffering, a philosopher thought, is predicated upon existence—and indeed he remembered unlife as categorically painless—then its continuation relies exclusively upon survival. Homo sapiens has a choice in its survival, and the morally correct option, when it came to the reduction of suffering, was for the human race to quit. Childbirth, the philosopher concluded, was the arrival of one more receiver and source of pain to share in the increasing woe, spiteful answer to a cascade of everlasting genesis.

"Limits," The Alarmist #1

If suffering, a philosopher thought, is predicated upon existence—and indeed he remembered unlife as categorically painless—then its continuation relies exclusively upon survival. Homo sapiens has a choice in its survival, and the morally correct option, when it came to the reduction of suffering, was for the human race to quit. Childbirth, the philosopher concluded, was the arrival of one more receiver and source of pain to share in the increasing woe, spiteful answer to a cascade of everlasting genesis.

"Limits," The Alarmist #1

—Hey, there’s Billy and Dad.
—Mhmm.
—Mom, you missed our landing pad.
—Did I? Oh dear.
—You’re not turning around!
—No, I suppose I’m not.
— …
— …
—Can we ever go back?
—Sit down, dear, you’re making the car wobble.

—Hey, there’s Billy and Dad.

—Mhmm.

—Mom, you missed our landing pad.

—Did I? Oh dear.

—You’re not turning around!

—No, I suppose I’m not.

— …

— …

—Can we ever go back?

—Sit down, dear, you’re making the car wobble.


A bioengineer, shortly after a stunning breakthrough, despaired. A dozen test subjects, following several rounds of unprecedented gene therapy, no longer ne­eded to urinate or defecate, having digestive tracts that now operated at 100% efficiency …

“Oasis,” Untoward Magazine

A bioengineer, shortly after a stunning breakthrough, despaired. A dozen test subjects, following several rounds of unprecedented gene therapy, no longer ne­eded to urinate or defecate, having digestive tracts that now operated at 100% efficiency …

Oasis,” Untoward Magazine


I love the decision to call these pieces “miniatures”—for me, strangely enough, this designation makes them larger; they stand independently, as scale models of universes.  Can you talk a little about your decision to call these pieces “miniatures”? 
Two wonderful Steven Millhauser stories come to mind: one, “In the Reign of Harad IV,” is about a diabolically talented miniaturist, who manufactures worlds too small to be sensed; the other, “The New Automaton Theatre” is about a visionary who elevates wind-up toys into the realm of subversive, god-like art. I wanted that degree of precision combined with that mechanical elegance: paragraphs that did only one thing, had only one turn, but executed it perfectly, with no room for error … and yet somehow, as you said, contained infinitudes.

"All Manner of Interstylistic Mayhem": An Interview with Miles Klee | The Collagist

I love the decision to call these pieces “miniatures”—for me, strangely enough, this designation makes them larger; they stand independently, as scale models of universes.  Can you talk a little about your decision to call these pieces “miniatures”? 

Two wonderful Steven Millhauser stories come to mind: one, “In the Reign of Harad IV,” is about a diabolically talented miniaturist, who manufactures worlds too small to be sensed; the other, “The New Automaton Theatre” is about a visionary who elevates wind-up toys into the realm of subversive, god-like art. I wanted that degree of precision combined with that mechanical elegance: paragraphs that did only one thing, had only one turn, but executed it perfectly, with no room for error … and yet somehow, as you said, contained infinitudes.

"All Manner of Interstylistic Mayhem": An Interview with Miles Klee | The Collagist