|He's Got a Lot on His Mind, I Think
||[Feb. 6th, 2004|09:21 pm]
|||||The Smiths - Rubber Ring||]|
I think half the reason I don't write entries so much anymore is because the first sentence is getting to be really tough. I've used pretty much every solid opener I've got. Supply's exhausted. And to boot, I'm running low on witty titles. Usually, this is where I dip into lyric territory, but there's really only so many good Morrissey quotes before the guy becomes less of an artiste and more of a morose son of a bitch.
I only half meant it, Moz, babe. Put that silver little slasher back in the cupboard. I'm, like, totally your biggest fan. Anyway, once I get through the first paragraph, I'm usually pretty good. Arguably, from there on I'm a fucking bullet train of literary insanity that just doesn't quit.
There are events that have happened in my life, and it seems only proper to dictate them to you. That has been our relationship up till now and I think it's worked out pretty good if you ask me.
I guess someone forgot to send me the memo or whatever, but there are, apparently, venture capital meetings held monthly in some hotel downtown. Incidentally, there was one this past Wednesday, and yours truly was there in full fucking form.
And by full fucking form, I mean I was half-asleep in my chair, reticent portions of arguably-undercooked salmon still on my plate, and arms dangerously close to reaching out for the support of my burly compadres' shoulders. It's times like these that I think that the high-octane enterprise of business may not be for me. Bobby, who you will of course remember from this jaw-dropping, tour de force of an entry, who is literally so in love with the whole scene that his very pants are given animation, was about two seconds away from falling face-first into what may or may not have been raspberry cake.
It was an ordeal, dudes, I'm not even joking.
Thursday was like, "Whatever, dude, I'm Thursday. What the hell were you expecting?" I then told him he was cruisin' for a bruisin' and he hightailed it out of town. Friday shows up, and his very presence gives me a tingling vigor that just makes me giddy all over (and I am talking all over). You might've noticed that I'm not out doing something on Friday night, and that I am instead writing this entry. Personally, I think that's intrinsically depressing, but there's this whole lack of job issue that you might have read about it. It's something of a social cockblock, but really, I'm just reaching for some type of defense here.
But, yeah, Friday's here. So I'm upstairs, right? You know, in my room. It's a pretty sweet room, you know, you should totally see it some time. Anyway, I hear my sister scream from downstairs (she's 8 (I, um, think (yeah, I'm pretty sure that's right (god, I hope she isn't reading this))) and it turns out that some friend of my brothers was ratta-tat-tatting on the kitchen window. Surprisingly, my brother goes apeshit. He runs out the door, screaming how he's gonna tear this "prick"'s "fucking head off" and my dad reigns him back in. It bears mentioning that his girlfriend was here at the time. It also bears mentioning that this kid's wearing fucking eyeliner and painting his nails black.
It's like the skater punk image didn't work out for him, and now he's trying his hand at the whole goth thing. Kid's in eighth grade, by the way. Also, his existential sustenance is literally contingent upon listening to HIM on the way to school. Oh yeah, nearly forgot, kid's going apeshit. Back to that, Tom. Popular theory for me is that he was just trying to impress his girlfriend, because the friend of his in question is, more or less, his only really good friend.
I was talking with him afterward, mostly due to my mom's request, partly because I'm seriously becoming unhip. I'm gonna let you in on a little secret here. I used to be a total dick. This isn't a wavy-lines, flashback moment or anything, so keep cool. Long story short, I felt that everyone was out to get me, that the world revolved around shitting on me. Naturally, any attempts by the world to prove otherwise were ignored. I think I may have even told the world to go drink bleach at one point or another, I don't really remember. I kinda tried to block all this shit out.
Anyway, I think that's kinda what he's going through at the moment. In any event, he's made a good impression on me that he "doesn't care" what I think, and I'm nowhere near old enough to be surprised. It's cool, though. I didn't care what anyone else thought either, still sorta don't. Things like these, you've either got to work it out yourself, or you just stew with it at the back of your mind forever. Not a whole lot of middle ground on the issue, as far as I'm concerned.
And, uh, let's just clear the air right fucking now. I never wore eyeliner or painted my nails black. That's just too low, even for me.