Friday, July 23, 2004
I’m like antsy about something, or maybe some things and I can’t quite nail it on the head as to what it is. Well, there’s a small subset of items it could be, but I thought, or I think, that I have, or had, those all well in hand at least in my conscious mind.
I thought def leppard would soothe the anxiety, and, well, as a matter of fact, they are.
The internet is kind of annoying me right now. Not that there are actual things on there that I don’t like, although there probably are, or rather, most definitely I’m sure there are, as in that there is so much shit therein, but, well, the degree to which I look at it too much, I like, sit there, my browser about to click somewhere, and I’m like, where? I’ve looked at everything already, and even though I haven’t, and I know there are 82 million better things to do than clickety clickety I yet still click.
Well I haven’t for at least a good hour now. Maybe more. Actually like 2.5 hours. Pretty good. Especially since I’ve just been sitting here. But I’ve been reading. A book. An actual paper physical book. Bret Easton ellis. Boy, or should I say man, is a genius. Bona fide. Don’t trust me on it. Pick up something he wrote and show it to yourself.
Bah. You already know this. And if you don’t, why am I helping the career of someone who is already like super famous, and I ain’t talking about Pringles backup dancer famous. Actually, though, why not? He deserves everything he’s gotten and more.
Hmmm. Bleh. I gotta go home & clean house. Like, clean a lot of house. Like, get shit clean. Like, cuz we’re gonna have visitors. Dignitaries, even. And the state of the casa at this moment, is like acceptable only to me. And the degree of acceptability in my frame of acceptance is not accepted by many others, in fact none. Well, scratch that. I am not the ultimate slob. No, there are much worse I’m sure, including me 10 years ago. And this other guy. And that one chick. Yup.
God I could write this crap forever. And I do have shit to do. Peace.