whew. just finished laying ceramic tile in my kitchen. it's really light blue-green and white checkerboard. i have yellow walls - official name "american cheese" - so my kitchen is now really 50s diner style i guess. it looks great, but i guess i could have been doing about 1,000,000,000,000,000,000 other things than making my environment pretty. i mean, i'm proud of my handiwork, but if you look at it another way, it's really a very refined and well-disguised form of procrastination.....i didn't feel like dealing with my life, so i took it out on the kitchen. you know? i mean:
it's the fucking new year
my fucking saturn has returned, or whatever early thirty-somethings say when they are fed up with acting like a teenager
i quit my job in december and have had all the time in the world to start recording all this new shit i've been writing
i could take my shit and start setting dates to play
i could start looking for where i'm gonna land new work
i could have done a lot of productive things, instead i stayed inside for three days, cleaned three layers of asbestos linoleum (for all i know) and 70 year old muck off of my floor and layed tile. here is gloomy evidence that at certain times of my life i would rather sit on my frickin knees for hours at a time smushing messy shit into my floor than do what i love (or need to do to stay sane, as i've admitted -or bragged- to others). why is it so easy to lose sight of the real marrow of living. since when did my kitchen floor become the ultimate priority of my life?
jeez. i get so distracted.
it's the fucking new year
my fucking saturn has returned, or whatever early thirty-somethings say when they are fed up with acting like a teenager
i quit my job in december and have had all the time in the world to start recording all this new shit i've been writing
i could take my shit and start setting dates to play
i could start looking for where i'm gonna land new work
i could have done a lot of productive things, instead i stayed inside for three days, cleaned three layers of asbestos linoleum (for all i know) and 70 year old muck off of my floor and layed tile. here is gloomy evidence that at certain times of my life i would rather sit on my frickin knees for hours at a time smushing messy shit into my floor than do what i love (or need to do to stay sane, as i've admitted -or bragged- to others). why is it so easy to lose sight of the real marrow of living. since when did my kitchen floor become the ultimate priority of my life?
jeez. i get so distracted.

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i wanta move to nyc and start a band with you and eat perogies with junior at kiev.
gotta moog?