In service to her majesty, my dead lover.
It must be something in the water in Rhode Island that makes gay men love Billy Joel so much. Why else would I be bombarded with him at karaoke night? Why did I go in the first place? Obviously to be horrible and say awful things about the people singing. And did I? Did I.
What have I got to lose?
I feel like I should be somewhat more upbeat this week, but I don’t know if that will happen with any kind of rapid motion.
In such a dog-bitten mood I wish I had the motivation to write a few new songs, but I’m a bit out of it lately. Pen to paper is not the direction my hands have uptaken. Just remote controlling through endless choices of home improvement shows, most involving people swapping their rooms with someone else and each doing the others up. I don’t even know what the shows are called anymore. They’re all awful. Then I find myself watching fuckumentaries on MTV about boys poking through strange girl’s bedrooms looking at their bras and searching for semen on the bedsheets. And Camp Jim, which at least puts faggy men on tv in a way that makes them look mean and vindictive, like they actually are in real life (not like Jack on Will and Grace).
I’ve got to stop thinking of my life as an endless loop of boredom because I’m getting too old to be thinking like that. I’m going to have my mid-life crisis last year so I’m already over it. Everything gets swept into the past so quickly anyway, I don’t suppose it matters if I pretend. No one knows what the truth is. How do you know anyone’s truth? You can’t. I’m an unfinished novel burning backwards towards the concluding revelation that it was all just a dream. So, now that I’m waking up maybe it’s time to get a drink.
What have I got to lose?
I feel like I should be somewhat more upbeat this week, but I don’t know if that will happen with any kind of rapid motion.
In such a dog-bitten mood I wish I had the motivation to write a few new songs, but I’m a bit out of it lately. Pen to paper is not the direction my hands have uptaken. Just remote controlling through endless choices of home improvement shows, most involving people swapping their rooms with someone else and each doing the others up. I don’t even know what the shows are called anymore. They’re all awful. Then I find myself watching fuckumentaries on MTV about boys poking through strange girl’s bedrooms looking at their bras and searching for semen on the bedsheets. And Camp Jim, which at least puts faggy men on tv in a way that makes them look mean and vindictive, like they actually are in real life (not like Jack on Will and Grace).
I’ve got to stop thinking of my life as an endless loop of boredom because I’m getting too old to be thinking like that. I’m going to have my mid-life crisis last year so I’m already over it. Everything gets swept into the past so quickly anyway, I don’t suppose it matters if I pretend. No one knows what the truth is. How do you know anyone’s truth? You can’t. I’m an unfinished novel burning backwards towards the concluding revelation that it was all just a dream. So, now that I’m waking up maybe it’s time to get a drink.