"Over! What a stupid name!"
I'm sick of being the glue that holds things together sometimes, y'know? Like a goddamn katamari sans the violent combustion at the end. Well, we'll see about that. Let me be rubber! Get away, get away, because you'll only stick to me and I've got enough bad names and guilt as it is - at least enough shit to make a fly vomit. Responsibility's in vogue, though - which makes me another hopeless fashion victim. In any case, I'm not running away. I'll be your carpet, your sudarium to soil, your black on white, your mortar (your martyr?), your whining winner. To no one in particular, Mister.
Had art school flashbacks last week, in the form of a gallery opening like a sore on this pristine artless town. Gettin' a little seedy, are we Breckenridge? Soliciting foreign poon at that, not a mountain, evergreen, or elk on those canvases tsk tsk. Met the artist and pondered at his left elbow the stercoraceous displays of his French-ness, trading polite broken english like soft shattered glass. Nice enough, really, but I wonder why we do this? Why I do this? Comancheros of commonly known academic cliches, being polite, trying to sound deep while spewing some inherently vague and therefore easily agreeable crap in an effort to walk away with some built-up excuse for mutual esteem. Eh, I pitied him, which probably makes me the weaker one with resolve as brittle as fresh celery on that hors d'oeuvre table - eat it, try not to choke.
But the negativity shall end now! The gallery owners are great people, making their yellow mark on the man-made snow, burying their frustration with the gravedigger of good intentions. It felt like actual friendship - it fills my heart with blood. I might even absorb some of that warmth we've been getting. Ready for all the bugs and birds and dust and grass and dog shit to thaw.
I keep slamming this cake-timer down to keep it ticking like my caffeinated heartbeat. Is it time to put the icing on? You bet.
Had art school flashbacks last week, in the form of a gallery opening like a sore on this pristine artless town. Gettin' a little seedy, are we Breckenridge? Soliciting foreign poon at that, not a mountain, evergreen, or elk on those canvases tsk tsk. Met the artist and pondered at his left elbow the stercoraceous displays of his French-ness, trading polite broken english like soft shattered glass. Nice enough, really, but I wonder why we do this? Why I do this? Comancheros of commonly known academic cliches, being polite, trying to sound deep while spewing some inherently vague and therefore easily agreeable crap in an effort to walk away with some built-up excuse for mutual esteem. Eh, I pitied him, which probably makes me the weaker one with resolve as brittle as fresh celery on that hors d'oeuvre table - eat it, try not to choke.
But the negativity shall end now! The gallery owners are great people, making their yellow mark on the man-made snow, burying their frustration with the gravedigger of good intentions. It felt like actual friendship - it fills my heart with blood. I might even absorb some of that warmth we've been getting. Ready for all the bugs and birds and dust and grass and dog shit to thaw.
I keep slamming this cake-timer down to keep it ticking like my caffeinated heartbeat. Is it time to put the icing on? You bet.