I swear I am almost fixing to get ready to get inspired about something
Pbbbbbbt. It wasn’t even hot today, but I felt like even the wimpy ass heat kicked my ass. I’d had some pretty elaborate plans to write about three different blog posts, but then I was having trouble getting and staying online at this one place, so I shlepped over to the Weatherstone and by the time I’d gotten here, I was kinda wrung out in the ideas department, a one-man sad state of affairs.
Might have something to do with last night. Got back to the midtown over-the-bar eyrie after Chinese food with a bunch of friends (where I may have gotten the stupidest fortune cookie in my life, which I can’t remember except it said something about my principles meaning more to me than fame or cash, which is utter hogwash, craven beast that I am), did a meditation sit in the hallway, then toppled over into a fetal position and snoozed for three hours off and on. Crawled onto my makeshift bed, was watching Jersey Shore online, and heard some kind of disturbance outside. Got up, looked, there was a bunch of people fighting and yelling. Then there were sirens. Then some schmo lying on the street, with about six paramedics pawing over him as the cops shouted at the drunks. After that, which was around 1:30, there were play-by-play recaps until around 3.
I woke up a few hours later, not that I’m any kind of farmboy but because I wake up with the first light of dawn, and left to sit in one of my usual social circles. “We aren’t baking a cake here,” one Red Sox fan repeated several times. No, and we’re not sleeping, either. So, well, you’re probably goddamn bored with me going one about how I’m not sleeping all that great, so I’ll shut up about that now.
I traipsed around online and read a bunch of stuff, and heavens to Betsy, it looks like those gosh-darned butthurt Republicans are going to win everything in November. Which, of course, means endless investigations over random blowjobs, cumstains on blue dresses, Christmas card lists, travel vouchers and what have you. Gee whiz, if the president can’t get a god’s honest beej on the sly, what kind of country have we become, anyway?
I am a horrible cynic, of course. I say fuck everything. Let’s appoint the winner of a Sarah Palin-Newt Gingrich mud-rasslin’ match president, and just put the most loudmouthed Republicans and Teatards in charge of everything, to see how fast that particular confederacy of dunces can drag us all back to the 14th century. Bring on the plagues. Let those of us non-baronial motherfuckers grapple for the last scrap of Cheetos in the bottom of the crumpled-up bag at the bottom of the Dumpster as the entitled sip mint juleps in their skybox above and bet on us for entertainment. Bring on the fall of Rome. I don’t give a shit. Fuck you, and fuck me, too. Grumble, grumble. Bllurrgh.
Maybe I just need to go to a movie or something. I never get around to going to movies when I don’t have a girlfriend, though. So, either I’m gonna have to find a girlfriend so I can go to the movies, or just learn how to go to the movies all by my lonesome. But girlfriends tend not to like grumpy assholes like I am right now, so, erm, uh ….
Gee willikers. Maybe I’ll fix myself a sandwich. Preferably without roaches. —Jackson Griffith