stoned as fuck on ny-quil trying to get better enough to work tomorrow. I need the money, since I've got my next tattoo all picked out and got an artist that I want to do it and I just need the $$$ to pay for the shit.
also because I recently was reminded how much fun dating could be if I could find people that aren't scared of me, so going out would be nice, even though I know that the odds of meeting another person around here that I would deign to fuck are 1 in 10,000. but shit, that could be worse.
went to the dermatologist this morning. he's gonna fix my skin, he says. I just want to be able to go without makeup. makeup is so much more fun when it's an option, not a necessity, you dig?
(I am not kidding about being high as fuck on nyquil. I feel like I haven't since I quit smoking pot. it's kinda fun.)
reading the Outlaw Bible of American Literature is making me want to sell everything I own, buy a motorcycle, strap my laptop on my back and hit the road with a drug supply that would do Hunter S. Thompson proud. but I've never ridden a motorcycle, and don't do many drugs. so I'd probably replace that with two fifths of my only true love, John Jameson.
(back in my seedier--and more interesting--days in New Orleans, Colin and I used to threaten to get Jameson bottle tattoos that read "one true love." it was that cute "i'm-not-in-love-with-you" posturing that usually ended with one of us kissing the other and pulling clothes off and wildly fucking on the living room couch. well, it really wasn't the living room, since his apartment was a shotgun style studio, but if there'd been walls, it would have been a living room...)
maybe I should take up alcohol and drug abuse again. I'm certainly writing like crazy. . .
I don't really feel that way. but I do feel like I've got too much CRAP and not enough meaning in my life. the meaning that I tend to find only with some endless highway in front of me, Joy Division or Lucero on the radio and no worries but where I'm going to sleep at night. I can't live without a road trip, it's cliche but I love it.
finally read bits of Kerouac in the Outlaw Bible. do see where my writing prof told me I write like him. damnit. now I'm doomed to people thinking that because I throw words together crazymeshed like this, I'm just another gen xy whatever the fuck beat-obsessed wank.
it occured to me Wednesday that Garden State is the Reality Bites for my generation, and like that film, a bunch of kids too young to really know how it feels have latched on to it and quoted it incessantly.
but really. if you're between 22 and 32, watch Garden State. tell me you don't relate to the endless medications, the futility of the job hunt that everyone presses you towards, the "what the hell is normal, anyway?" questioning, and the way music defines your life. what a good movie.
more nyquil now, I think.
also because I recently was reminded how much fun dating could be if I could find people that aren't scared of me, so going out would be nice, even though I know that the odds of meeting another person around here that I would deign to fuck are 1 in 10,000. but shit, that could be worse.
went to the dermatologist this morning. he's gonna fix my skin, he says. I just want to be able to go without makeup. makeup is so much more fun when it's an option, not a necessity, you dig?
(I am not kidding about being high as fuck on nyquil. I feel like I haven't since I quit smoking pot. it's kinda fun.)
reading the Outlaw Bible of American Literature is making me want to sell everything I own, buy a motorcycle, strap my laptop on my back and hit the road with a drug supply that would do Hunter S. Thompson proud. but I've never ridden a motorcycle, and don't do many drugs. so I'd probably replace that with two fifths of my only true love, John Jameson.
(back in my seedier--and more interesting--days in New Orleans, Colin and I used to threaten to get Jameson bottle tattoos that read "one true love." it was that cute "i'm-not-in-love-with-you" posturing that usually ended with one of us kissing the other and pulling clothes off and wildly fucking on the living room couch. well, it really wasn't the living room, since his apartment was a shotgun style studio, but if there'd been walls, it would have been a living room...)
maybe I should take up alcohol and drug abuse again. I'm certainly writing like crazy. . .
I don't really feel that way. but I do feel like I've got too much CRAP and not enough meaning in my life. the meaning that I tend to find only with some endless highway in front of me, Joy Division or Lucero on the radio and no worries but where I'm going to sleep at night. I can't live without a road trip, it's cliche but I love it.
finally read bits of Kerouac in the Outlaw Bible. do see where my writing prof told me I write like him. damnit. now I'm doomed to people thinking that because I throw words together crazymeshed like this, I'm just another gen xy whatever the fuck beat-obsessed wank.
it occured to me Wednesday that Garden State is the Reality Bites for my generation, and like that film, a bunch of kids too young to really know how it feels have latched on to it and quoted it incessantly.
but really. if you're between 22 and 32, watch Garden State. tell me you don't relate to the endless medications, the futility of the job hunt that everyone presses you towards, the "what the hell is normal, anyway?" questioning, and the way music defines your life. what a good movie.
more nyquil now, I think.
VIEW 11 of 11 COMMENTS
[Edited on Feb 19, 2005 8:35PM]
I will email you that paper, btw, even though I don't like it right now. It's funny, cos when I passed it in, I was like "this is really just a draft, so any feedback you have would be much appreciated," but she went wild for it. Professors are weird.