Oh well.What the hell

There are now two of us writing this post.

The first guy keeps wondering about just what part of his 6 day week, Sundays-are-for-church existence would be worth blog space. He’s quasi resigned himself to a lame ass dialup connection, to keeping the music low at home, to a TV that hiccups every 5 minutes and to the fucking rains. Way too much sober time, too many roll-your-eyes-&-sigh quietly moments, just frigging too much of what yours’ and my parents happily subject themselves to.

The second guy is the absolute bastard. The absolute, absolute bastard.

He’s barely 2 years old now. Was born during some merry confluence between Bacchus and Knopfler in the ethereally slothful and filthy confines of Room 452, one of several identically fashioned and inhabited rooms on campus. Rocked his house for two glorious years, and took an inordinate amount of glee in clucking sympathy for seniors and friends who moaned about how sucky life is outside college.

And he’s been watching his own descent into an ordinary life with this sideways, knowing, infuriating smile…and he hums some sardonic Dylan or Cobain to this new schmuck in the mirror. Bugger watches me agonize over lost gym hours and tax planning and how sober I look before I ring the doorbell, and he’s always humming something in the background.

To be true, there are times when he gets to get back to form. Those “Roll up your sleeves boys, we’re getting haaappy” times. Difference being…those times are now suddenly affordable…but they need to be scheduled. Both for day of week and time of day.And you can never really have them twice in the same week.


Currently listening : Things have changed – Bob Dylan.

The aah fuck moment

“Strange memories on this nervous night in Las Vegas. Has it been five years? Six? It seems like a lifetime, the kind of peak that never comes again. San Francisco in the middle sixties was a very special time and place to be a part of. But no explanation, no mix of words or music or memories can touch that sense of knowing that you were there and alive in that corner of time and the world. Whatever it meant ”

- Johnny Depp, Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas


These posts are always the most fucked up ones to write.

The ones where you want to pen down your feelings. When you need to choose between letting yourself loose and being unapologetic about it, and between the usual analyzing, postulating and self counseling crap you’re wont to find here. When you realize that writing about it doesn’t help you deal with the shit…it just dilutes whatever precious little you do feel about anything anymore.

I’ve packed the rest of my stuff from the room…and will be handing in the keys tomorrow. There were visions of being the last rebel here…blaring the music louder than ever, breaking the rest of the champagne glass set, stocking up on booze and cigarettes and pot and movies and porn…just for that one last frigging day. It’s a cliché I can’t bear to recreate anymore.

This be the moment where one wishes he hadn’t forgotten how to cry. The booze could do the trick…but 2 hours later, he’d wake up and feel the same way abt stuff. So all he’s left with is a half filled Word doc, and the mess in his head.


Currently listening : Time to take her home - The stone temple pilots.