Blast of Silence

All blogs are boring.  All blogs are narcissistic.  Believing that your thoughts could be the momentary idyll for a thousand or so other alienated human crumbs is nothing short hubris.   

Time out.  I’ll get down to writing about events as soon as I can get through the mire of half-thought-out self defeating nihilism that rattles through me whenever I sit down at the keys.  Think of it as Morning Pages of Fury.

Time in.   

Morning pages and writerly head clearing exercises are for cat ladies and pear-shaped elementary

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majors who want a wittle discipwine to fool them into thinking they have tawent.  Ergo: I am a cat lady.  (For mead-pad clutching faggo art-clods, and 13 year old goth girls exchange "Morning pages" for "Exquisite corpses.")

Time out.  I wore neon green shirt to work this morning.  I purchased it a while back (on the recommendation of my friend Patrick M____ a consummate fashion victim, who appears to give up the amount of ulcer real-estate in his stomach to fashion that I do to music and movies) at Dudespress.  (I am the nail in metrosexuality’s teak coffin.) It’s a nice shirt though, and I flatter myself to believe that my Quixotesque frame cuts a fine figure in it. 

Time out.  I didn’t mean to become parenthetical guy.  (I suck so hard at life.)

Time in.  Coupling the shirt with a dashing striped tie combo, I chugged to the office at the speed of coal.  Taking my place in the maleroom (MALEroom) to begin the day’s affairs, a secretary waddled into the room.  "Move it, Limeade," she chuckled. 

Time out. Everything I wear ends up being a clown suit. 

Time in.  But that’s OK.

(Time out.) (Cats to feed.)

 

       

   

This entry was posted on Thursday, July 14th, 2005 at 11:09 am and is filed under Uncategorized. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can skip to the end and leave a response. Pinging is currently not allowed.