Ugh.
Nothing in particular is wrong. Except I'm hungry. And broke.
Thanks to all who graced my party on Friday. 'Twas a blast, I say.
I hate how this time of years fucks with me. Having to walk like a penguin cause the world's a damn hockey rink. When it's so cold that your eyeballs start to freeze and you can hardly see anything but a red haze. The evil howl of the winter wind, coming for your fucking soul.
To vaguely quote the Eels: The medication's worn off & it hurst, not a little a lot. So I'm going the fuck back on it. Fuck our pill-popping society and me being part of it.
I spent Saturday night working. Now, I should define some thigns here. 'Working' isn't homework, nor is it what you do to earn money (although I call it that, too, when I've let my guard down...or when it seems just plain stupid to call it whoring myself out to the capitalist gang-bang). 'Working' is working on my 'art,' if we're going to be generous enough to call it art.
You know what? I hated it. I got some good stuff done, but...fuck. Writing is so goddamn unrewarding. I should've been a musician. Fuck this Robert Bly/Sylvia Plath/Charles Simic infected world of droll and depressed nonsense.
Goddamn insomnia. And emotional exhaustion. I've been constantly beat for weeks. Fuck it.
I'm gonna go get a sandwich.
America, when will you be worth your million Trotskyites?
Nothing in particular is wrong. Except I'm hungry. And broke.
Thanks to all who graced my party on Friday. 'Twas a blast, I say.
I hate how this time of years fucks with me. Having to walk like a penguin cause the world's a damn hockey rink. When it's so cold that your eyeballs start to freeze and you can hardly see anything but a red haze. The evil howl of the winter wind, coming for your fucking soul.
To vaguely quote the Eels: The medication's worn off & it hurst, not a little a lot. So I'm going the fuck back on it. Fuck our pill-popping society and me being part of it.
I spent Saturday night working. Now, I should define some thigns here. 'Working' isn't homework, nor is it what you do to earn money (although I call it that, too, when I've let my guard down...or when it seems just plain stupid to call it whoring myself out to the capitalist gang-bang). 'Working' is working on my 'art,' if we're going to be generous enough to call it art.
You know what? I hated it. I got some good stuff done, but...fuck. Writing is so goddamn unrewarding. I should've been a musician. Fuck this Robert Bly/Sylvia Plath/Charles Simic infected world of droll and depressed nonsense.
Goddamn insomnia. And emotional exhaustion. I've been constantly beat for weeks. Fuck it.
I'm gonna go get a sandwich.
America, when will you be worth your million Trotskyites?
contrast:
lately i don't even discuss what i do for money. when people ask, i just stare back at them doe-eyed, like when rollergirl's ex-classmate recognized her as a porn star.
