God, I wish I was seeing LCD Soundsystem at Terminal 5. But on the flip side, I don’t want to get sloppy fourth tickets for a Sunday night show.
the Last two days (friday and Saturday) have been rife with experience and tales-to tell. But they really haven’t been my stories, not my secrets or stories to keep or unleash on the world.
I will tell you however, no matter what couple arrangement, or what happines you find in solitude- you’ll never be 100% content; Why, because unless you’re a total narcissist, you’re never completely content with yourself.
drunk, tire,drunk- gniht
This was one of those days. Long and arduous. Having a hangover didn’t help matters much, either. One of those days I have this poem of Ms. parkers on loop in my head:
Inspired, in disproportionate parts, by my close friend K$, Bridget Jones, and some weirdo in “The Secret” (I’m not exactly sure if he’s the one who was arrested for the sweat-lodge deaths…meh), I started a journal.
I wanted to record events/my thoughts for a number of reasons:
1. My memory is shot to shit. I could blame it on massive alcohol consumption, but it’s always been this way. An Ex used to call me his “little goldfish”- because two seconds after something happens, it’s seemingly wiped from my memory. And if you can’t remember, you’re doomed to repeat.
2. I’m an exhibitionist.
3. Every self-respecting journalist, serious about their career has a blog. However, as explained in point two, I’m an exhibitionist and I want to bare it all. I may not be encouraging potential employers to read about my stumble-around-brown-out-drunk exploits (re: bullet point one), and my rants about boys and work, but who knows? Maybe this will take off and this journal o’ mine will spread like Ebola.
4. I want to be held accountable. I figure if I tell people I want to achieve something, no matter how outlandish, if I acknowledge my goals and any progress towards achieving those goals-every day- well, then I’d be too embarrassed not to do something.
5. You can’t ever tell me that I can’t do something. I react like Marty McFly did to “chicken”. I see red and will not relent until I prove you wrong, you arrogant shit…but I’ve been telling myself I can’t keep a journal for years. I’m pretty pissed at myself for being so presumptuous about my “lack” of abilities. Thing is, I’ve never been able to maintain one before because I’m a perfectionist (sometimes); I buy really pretty books to write in but I hate messing them up with my childish, BOLD CAP scrawl. So, I’ve elected to Doogie Howser it and pour it all out into my computer.
6. My life is just beginning and I’ll be dammed to give up on my dreams without a fight - I’m gonna go down swinging.
So, reader, there it is. My journey/ humiliation begins. Enjoy.
So, after much procrastinating, I finally have created a little blog page. Couldn’t be bothered to buy the domain name; I tried that once before (unsuccessfully) when I thought I was going to become a multi millionaire phone dominatrix, however I wasn’t aggressive enough to cancel the domain name purchase- it probably worked out for the best. And now I find myself on tumblr. We’ll see how this goes.