In which I spent all day in my fucking room.
I worked out, I surfed intensely and endlessly for nothing, I folded some laundry and didn’t fold some other laundry. Except I did go out – I walked my dog. Twice. She’s old. Like, 13 or 14 old. We didn’t walk very fast.
I made lentil soup, like, totally without a culinary net if you will, just throwing stuff in the pot willy-nilly. It came out fucking brilliant. So brilliant I put the recipe on the Internet. Soup is so my bitch. I obsessed about the food I didn’t eat. Dieting is like a form of voluntary insanity. I used to think it required discipline but now I think that you just have to go fucking nuts to not eat all the awesome food you have access to. The body just wants to eat good stuff all the time. It’s hard-wired to eat good stuff all the time. It’s like it wants to make up for the past ten thousand years of not having constant 24/7 access to chile rellenos and walnuts and falafel pitas and goat’s milk fucking brie.
I didn’t really think much about getting a job, but there was like this sort of sub-thought pulse in my head that implied over and over like a mantra that I ought to be doing something with myself, as if it were in any way possible to be both alive and not doing anything. Pshaw. I mean, like, my best unemployed friend, the drummer in my band? Even he got a fucking job this week. People have jobs. Or jobs have people. Either way, at least a job provides fodder: one can always either bitch about work or fume about not being able to bitch about work. Did you dig that awesome colon back there? I totally use punctuation like an employed person, don’t you think?
Thing is, I don’t want a job. I want income. I feel like this is a riddle I must solve and I suck at riddles so I just feel lazy and common about it. I have all this time right now and I should be producing something awesome but I couldn’t for the life of me tell you what that something is. Maybe this life of mine is creatively barren. I can’t gestate anything bigger than 3000 words at a time but if you give me nine years I can give you a blog chockablock full of unrelated styles and aborted directions totally full of the win. Oh yes I can. Just call me in 2019! You have my number.
Every time G’ma leaves the house she turns the kitchen radio on to this easy listening jazz station out of the Tricities and holy fuck I’m sure he’s a nice guy but Kenny G is the worst sax player of all time and I cannot figure out how he ever got famous. Was it the hair? Because I really think that the prettier you are, the more likely the world is to forgive you for being juuuuuust slightly less good than you fucking ought to be at blowing that shiny horn. In addition there’s a new Simply Red song built on top of Hall & Oates’ I Can’t Go For That and both times I’ve heard it I have felt weird, like the 80′s were riding a bicycle over my musical grave.
The guy at the Zen lecture I went to last Friday told us to listen, to listen intently and with our whole selves, as if to hear a pin drop. He didn’t have any pins but we listened anyway.
This entry was an exercise in writing somewhat like this guy.