(no subject)
My sister infected me with strange, virulent Colorado germs during her visit here last week, and I've spent most of the time since then holed up in my apartment, tossing and turning in feverish delerium. Being inside all day has given me the chance to spy on my mysterious next-door neighbor and try to find out the reason for her constant shrieks of agony.
By opening my window and listening closely, the shrieks, which I had previously thought to be just incoherent animal noises, turn into words and sentences: I don't want to exist anymore, I have no money and no friends, I don't know what to do. So my theory about secret Nazi torture chambers turns out to be unfounded after all - she is just severely depressed and borderline suicidal, like the better part of the human race.
I want to do an Amélie-style anonymous quirky good deed for her, something that will cheer her up. She doesn't have a garden gnome that I can send around the world, but I will think of something.
I am moving out of this building in mid-October, to a much larger, more housewifey apartment in the building across the street. It has all kinds of unheard-of amenities, such as a toilet that does not predate the Great Depression, and a kitchen with appliances that are not powered by hand-cranks. For a long time I was torn between the housewifey apartment and this filthy starving-rockstar apartment on the top floor of the building I'm in now, which had an ancient toilet but a fantastic view of the city. Both were the same price (~$1400/month), so that was a non-factor. Ultimately I was seduced by wifey's quiet domestic charm and an itching desire to get the hell out of this crazy building I've been living in for 2 years.
At the height of my fever this weekend I had an epic, incredibly entertaining dream about Slowdive's Rachel Goswell, and how she cruelly persecuted me after our marriage fell apart during the 1992 Olympics, in which we both competed. She sent her fearsome Cartoon Monks after me, who could alter reality simply by drawing on a scrap of paper, and they tortured me in all kinds of exquisite ways - but all of this only increased and inflamed my unconquerable Love for her.
I think this dream stems from seeing her play the Paradise on the 11th - I managed to establish a kind of psychic connection with her from across the room. I wore my incredibly rare Slowdive shirt, and she kept looking my way and smiling significantly.
Oh Rachel, why, why did you have to spend 10 years in Mojave 3? Was it to punish yourself for being so unspeakably awesome back in 1990?
You are still wonderful though.
By opening my window and listening closely, the shrieks, which I had previously thought to be just incoherent animal noises, turn into words and sentences: I don't want to exist anymore, I have no money and no friends, I don't know what to do. So my theory about secret Nazi torture chambers turns out to be unfounded after all - she is just severely depressed and borderline suicidal, like the better part of the human race.
I want to do an Amélie-style anonymous quirky good deed for her, something that will cheer her up. She doesn't have a garden gnome that I can send around the world, but I will think of something.
I am moving out of this building in mid-October, to a much larger, more housewifey apartment in the building across the street. It has all kinds of unheard-of amenities, such as a toilet that does not predate the Great Depression, and a kitchen with appliances that are not powered by hand-cranks. For a long time I was torn between the housewifey apartment and this filthy starving-rockstar apartment on the top floor of the building I'm in now, which had an ancient toilet but a fantastic view of the city. Both were the same price (~$1400/month), so that was a non-factor. Ultimately I was seduced by wifey's quiet domestic charm and an itching desire to get the hell out of this crazy building I've been living in for 2 years.
At the height of my fever this weekend I had an epic, incredibly entertaining dream about Slowdive's Rachel Goswell, and how she cruelly persecuted me after our marriage fell apart during the 1992 Olympics, in which we both competed. She sent her fearsome Cartoon Monks after me, who could alter reality simply by drawing on a scrap of paper, and they tortured me in all kinds of exquisite ways - but all of this only increased and inflamed my unconquerable Love for her.
I think this dream stems from seeing her play the Paradise on the 11th - I managed to establish a kind of psychic connection with her from across the room. I wore my incredibly rare Slowdive shirt, and she kept looking my way and smiling significantly.
Oh Rachel, why, why did you have to spend 10 years in Mojave 3? Was it to punish yourself for being so unspeakably awesome back in 1990?
You are still wonderful though.