happy saturday

After doing nothing more than running a gallery opening, watching movies all night with my lovely boy, and coming home to chain smoke and go to sleep, I woke up this morning to the sound of my iPhone alarm -- a horrible, piercing sound that doesn't just bring the dead from their slumber but also makes me want to throw the piece of shit across the room and get my 9 extra fucking snooze minutes. I'm digressing. So I'm due in at the office just before nine, alarm blares at 7:15. As I reach down to the little pile of books and boxes my phone is resting on to turn it off I realize I'm feeling like I haven't slept much more than what a short nap would feel like. I am exhausted and so not interested in the Cindy Crawford anti-aging-give up the modeling endeavors-infomercial that plays softly from my crap-ass excuse for a television set (props to me for falling asleep watching Lifetime every night). So I snooze once, and snooze again. Lacking motivation to get out of my warm bed I lay there, "just gonna rest my eyes another second" ... an hour passes before I wake in a panic realizing that it's 8:35, and I barely have time to brush my teeth or even look in the mirror before I speed the drive to work which when done legally should take almost a half an hour. After teeth and deodorant it's now 8:40, no time for coffee, and yes I'm wearing some combination of what I slept in and what I had on last night. Today was a day for an Italian shower, but thankfully I'm only here until 4 and it's cold enough to make me feel pretty much clean all day long. I get in my car, it's freezing, neighbors in my cookie-cutter development are starting their cars, travel mugs in hand, waving to one another... and then there's me, I've got my aviators and "don't fuck with me right now" face on, get in my car and fuck the warm up, I'm GONE.

...

So I'm wondering in a moment of panic what would be most appropriate to drive to work on. No time to choose, so risking the many obvious bad choices in 14,987 songs I pick shuffle. Who would have thought this would be the only stroke of luck I'd have in the morning? God was clearly on my side. As I swing around my corner without stopping, "Windowlicker" by Aphex Twin comes on. I found some odd solace in this trip of a song. Needless to say I was prompted to speed and got to work in 15 minutes (thankfully) without getting pulled over. Here I am, looking and feeling like shit... my only comfort is my iPod and the fact that I woke up with my hair looking pretty decent... but I've got the coon-eyes of a sleep deprived octogenarian.


Oh, I got to work on time.

The blogosphere is teeming with people who are dying to get noticed

i.e. the blogosphere is dead.

my heart hurts

very much

lundi, 100.

I often find myself with too much time on my hands, trying to make sense of the things I encounter on a daily basis. I'm ground down to the bone from stress and other constraints and triggers, the need to strive for some sort of ideal that I don't believe exists. This time of year tends to bring out the worst in people. We carry along in our lives from day to day trying to construct something perfect, something wonderful... questing after happiness or whatever idea resembles the meaning of that word. We are, however, constantly vulnerable to and at risk of coming into blunt contact with a destroyer. At any instance this world we've drafted in our minds can be torn to shreds, ripped apart -- and there we are, shaking and afraid like children left to pick up the pieces and put it back together again, risking nothing but a reoccurrance... and so we find solace in the orchestration of a perfect song, a beautiful melody riddled deep with touching lyrics that hint at a life that exists only within speakers... a painting, vivid and bright, of a world unlike our very own... in a movie or play whose scenes are really just figments of another fucked up person's imagination. Things like this stand as confessions. We openly admit that our own lives are filled with garbage and so we must create an alternate plane to temporarily exist in. Who are we trying to impress? What are we trying to hide? I don't even want perfection, I'd settle for things being just so.

for patrick thompson, the party dolphin

do i need to see an analrapist?

For those who may be unfamiliar with the term, an analrapist (as named by Dr. Tobias Funke from Arrested Development and pronounced uh-nal-ruh-pist) is an analyst and a therapist. These days I think I'm in need of some assistance. My deep seeded self-loathing has launched me into a downward spiral of destruction --- everything in my path is being obliterated: my sense of calm, logic, comfort, 'relationships', et al. My question really is this, when does voluntary self destruction become a condition and not a choice? There's no other way for me to behave.

I've been watching a lot of the Craft lately, scrutinizing small details, reading the lines between blah and blah and

that's all irrelevant. Last night I picked me up some new wheels. Wheels of my own. New car smell wheels. Wheels that'll gladly take you places. A NEW WHIP... shit...