Monday, January 24, 2005
I’m busily taking care of “action items” and by “action items” I mean items involved with my vocation which require some sort of action on my part in order to puddle them through on to the next step in the process of becoming taken care of, at least for another day. Now stop fucking bugging me.
I’m telling myself today that I have to write a longer blah blah. I know lately all I’ve been doing is saying like “uh, the jurk storr called, out of halibut” and putting up some retarded picture and being like “hi, I’m still putting crap up, but it’s not like any kind of, eh, you know” the problem being that I just don’t give a fuck. I read blogs that seemingly care & I’m like “oh that is so 1972.”
Then I realized that fuck it, 72 was a hell of a year, so maybe I should try this actually typing crap until that Microsoft guy tells me it’s been a page. Then and only then will I do the etcetera dance. Eh, or not.
No, no, no, seriously, it’s gonna be meaningful, and truthful, and full of evil lies, corporate slogans, and wherewithalls that would make your head spin, but at the end of the day you’re gonna look back and think “dammit, when I read that one dillio on the innernet today, well, gosh darnit, that meant something, and I’ll carry that knowledge, of what I learned & what I hallucinated that I might have learned, with me until the day that I die.”
And then you’ll crack a miller lite. And then, well, you’ll sit in front of the tv and ponder all the imponderables. Like how that one thing you read on the innernet, despite being so beatifically grand, may have possibly and imperceptibly at the time ruined all other forms of communication for you for the rest of your life, reducing you to a quivering tub of jelly, forever wondering what could possibly top it. Ad infinitum describing to yourself the moment when you will even the remotest possibility of chancing upon something even half as epically poetic.
Sadly, the day will never come, you will get old & gray & withered, having read numerous quantifications on existence by joyce, hemingway, iceberg slim, all that shit, but none of it will have that jene say kwah of having all the meaning yet none of the substance, describing it all in the minutest detail yet telling you absolutely nothing, as the words you are reading right now. I wish I could say that there was still time to reverse this phenomenon but if you’ve made it as far as this then there’s really no hope. You are forever blessed and cursed in irretrievable tandem in that now you know just how inequitably unequible the world can be. Or something like that, depending on various etcetera acred ratios, and, you know, um, formulas. And stuff.