Shark Week
So you're by yourself in a pizza place and you're thinking Jesus its lonely here and truth be told you really don't feel like interacting with anyone on any sort of meaningful level but you call anyway, you raid your cell phone looking for that one number thats going to make the difference because its got to be in there and that's pretty much not happening, right?
But get this, its Shark Week on the Discovery Channel.
The other 51 weeks of my year are so miserably shark-free but this week, no; this week there are sharks.
And really, you're pretty much content to go home and flip to Discovery and watch the sharks, no talking, no touching, ect. but you're calling anyway and shits getting vaguely desperate because you already decided to try talking tonight but now no one is answering and you know the sharks make you seem crazy but fuck it, right? no one's picking up anyway.
And then when you finally get there, given up on human contact, popcorn at the ready, remote in hand: they have that show "Dirty Jobs" on, with some sort of shark motif. Really? Because plain old fucking sharks weren't edgy enough? And you're getting legitimately pissed because some fuckhead needed a "spin" on sharks on motherfucking shark week and this is pretty much what causes a manic episode.
So change gears for a second.
And now we're thinking: one of my favorite ways to go out would have to be driving at night, windows down, cigarette lit, music a-blasting, and then bam, t-boned or something, who knows. And I always knew this was really trite and really juevenille, and had accepted it on the premise that it was kind of like the ending of a good movie. You know: your death slash life gets mixed up with the meaning of the song and thereby takes on somekind of meaning in and of itelf yadda yadda yadda. But here's the thing, right? Movies don't end like that, TV dramas end like that. And I nearly lost it right there in the Border's parking lot. That I cannot construe a reasonably dramatic ending is almost too much.
And this is all going pretty much full speed and I'm thinking: this is what you might sound like as a loonatic. Which is halfway exciting in that its a finality sort of. The real danger of watching TV is that you have some VERY loose notions of psychoanalysis and you're constantly applying these to yourself, attempting to determine when and where that line between you and anarchy is drawn, as though there is any sort of clear distinction. Not to say I feel insane or anything but the idea that sanity is a clear distinction seems sorta flawed: This shit builds, you don't just wake up crazy.
All of this came to me in a dream.
Not really, but that sort of validates it, right?
Anyway, I don't know what I'm doing here. (Like right here, on the internet). I mean, if you count this, I'm up to three separate journals at this point, each categorized according to some bizarre notion of thought-heirarchy. The funny thing is, though, the people that know me best know that I'm really not into thinking, mostly. The idea that I can fill up three separate venues with thoughts and still have very little to say in everyday conversation is warped right? (Only Chris, this isn't thinking, really, its raving, its babbling, get a fucking job) So yeah, I'm with you on that one, we're on the same page.
But here's the kicker: I'm really not all that unhappy. Actually, mostly I'm thrilled and where does that leave me? I feel like I sort of should be miserable, because it would validate the constant gear-work on some small level but I'm just not.
So there you go: I'm pretty much thrilled and I don't feel the need to push past that.
Word up.
But get this, its Shark Week on the Discovery Channel.
The other 51 weeks of my year are so miserably shark-free but this week, no; this week there are sharks.
And really, you're pretty much content to go home and flip to Discovery and watch the sharks, no talking, no touching, ect. but you're calling anyway and shits getting vaguely desperate because you already decided to try talking tonight but now no one is answering and you know the sharks make you seem crazy but fuck it, right? no one's picking up anyway.
And then when you finally get there, given up on human contact, popcorn at the ready, remote in hand: they have that show "Dirty Jobs" on, with some sort of shark motif. Really? Because plain old fucking sharks weren't edgy enough? And you're getting legitimately pissed because some fuckhead needed a "spin" on sharks on motherfucking shark week and this is pretty much what causes a manic episode.
So change gears for a second.
And now we're thinking: one of my favorite ways to go out would have to be driving at night, windows down, cigarette lit, music a-blasting, and then bam, t-boned or something, who knows. And I always knew this was really trite and really juevenille, and had accepted it on the premise that it was kind of like the ending of a good movie. You know: your death slash life gets mixed up with the meaning of the song and thereby takes on somekind of meaning in and of itelf yadda yadda yadda. But here's the thing, right? Movies don't end like that, TV dramas end like that. And I nearly lost it right there in the Border's parking lot. That I cannot construe a reasonably dramatic ending is almost too much.
And this is all going pretty much full speed and I'm thinking: this is what you might sound like as a loonatic. Which is halfway exciting in that its a finality sort of. The real danger of watching TV is that you have some VERY loose notions of psychoanalysis and you're constantly applying these to yourself, attempting to determine when and where that line between you and anarchy is drawn, as though there is any sort of clear distinction. Not to say I feel insane or anything but the idea that sanity is a clear distinction seems sorta flawed: This shit builds, you don't just wake up crazy.
All of this came to me in a dream.
Not really, but that sort of validates it, right?
Anyway, I don't know what I'm doing here. (Like right here, on the internet). I mean, if you count this, I'm up to three separate journals at this point, each categorized according to some bizarre notion of thought-heirarchy. The funny thing is, though, the people that know me best know that I'm really not into thinking, mostly. The idea that I can fill up three separate venues with thoughts and still have very little to say in everyday conversation is warped right? (Only Chris, this isn't thinking, really, its raving, its babbling, get a fucking job) So yeah, I'm with you on that one, we're on the same page.
But here's the kicker: I'm really not all that unhappy. Actually, mostly I'm thrilled and where does that leave me? I feel like I sort of should be miserable, because it would validate the constant gear-work on some small level but I'm just not.
So there you go: I'm pretty much thrilled and I don't feel the need to push past that.
Word up.