daytime t.v. stay at home. day time depression. cocktails from dawn to dawn.
I can't figure out how to be happy like the people in local furniture store commercials. their fake smiles feel comforting, like the way your favorite shirt has a really itchy tag, and you stop in yourself, in your day, in your life, to move the shirt, pull the tag out, the irritation somehow stimulates you, and you don't have to like the irritation to be made aware by it. Like lifetime movies. Right now there's the Anna-Nicole's life story on, next up will probably be charlie sheen or lindsay lohan.
do you ever feel like these people are so real, that they aren't? what would dali's portrait of Anna Nicole look like? Maybe questions are not the best blog material, but they are the itchy tulle dress I loved to spin in on Sundays before church.
It's just that summer feeling, that only Richman knows how to sing about, I kind of wish this summer felt more like Drake's, summer sixteen, but I'm not "out here looking for revenge," I go back to grade school, "Remember this isn't a competition, the only person you're fighting against is yourself!" What kind of pseudo-capitalist pump-up hymn's were we being fed..like constant brushing by my life, or death in that loudspeaker, big smile way, just makes me want to give up even more. I remember someone saying, a writer who I love, saying that looking at ancient artifacts (love the alliteration) brought her back to earth. Sometimes, it's the fact I will never be famous, sometimes it's the fact that I still long to be. Pop-star dreams over pop-tart breakfasts, you know?
More people download and then delete tinder probably because like the celebrity riff raff, it's too real. People at your disposal, playing god by swiping left one-too-many-times. I want to write, but I spent the day mostly sleeping, as if there's an alterior motive for me, if I spent the day (even though it can't be called a day, because I lack decent exposure to daylight and my internal clock is on strike) writing more than anything else, I can be called a writer. But there isn't some pride grade with me throwing around that CV threat, and job insecurity.
There should be a category tonight on jeopardy labeled, freelance. I have a neighbor that does, and my dad's actually friends with him, he's jealous though. Because dad is old, and dad wants to have free time and be retired. you know? he's past midlife, it's time to R and R. Only the man who works part time with him now, is older than I can remember, and retired, then came BACK to work.
You cannot retire a writer, people will always come to you. Whether it's back, or to get a piece about some letters you hid in the back of a notebook to some other (let's imagine) famous writer. Okay, what I meant to be saying is that, I see my life as an insult, a meteor that just happened to kill people when it entered Earth's atmosphere, to be a writer seems to dig the grave deeper.
like this scenes above from Lobster (except for the one to the right)
maybe we're reading this together / maybe I'm reading this alone / that's not what matters, though
c.b.
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