As pin-pointless as I prefer my written passages to be, I can’t read prissy opinions on current events and sit on my hands for very long before feeling forced to address these times. But do I feel the need to share thoughts on the democrat’s division, soldier’s deaths or local weather forecast? No; if there was a way to go online and network without being bombarded by Hollywood entertainment headlines, the brain could be spared 50-100% of the idiocy it registers daily. My latest headaches, therefore, are the aftermath bitchfests for Miss Rhythm Nation’s naked boobie. Americans are so jacked up over this; their non-stop disgust has encouraged that 50-year old balloon of flesh to begin its invasion on my life. The early morning’s generic star-frosted cereal suddenly resembles milky nipple piercings, thanks to a corrective essay-spurting public disguised as shaken innocents.
Innocents, my ass. Half of you conservatives are going to willingly let a magnified scan load in your browser. And then you’re going to sit there and have a good, long stare.
Most of us have not one, but two eyes that are both easily averted. There was nothing profoundly powerful or life threatening about Janet Jackson’s hooter. The only thing absurd was your overblown decision to get miserable and encourage others to react negatively. So if you’re going to write up your latest prediction on the end of civil living, throwing out sources from the definition of crime, you’d better include your sorry asses in the works cited section. Cause I’d be over this by now and been spared annoying backlash, had you wiped your fucking tears and moved on.
Ticketmaster just sent me an e-mail command: Don’t miss Sara McLaughlin!
**steadying grip on imaginative magnum** “I don’t intend to.”
See how swift and relieving, that was? I’m already over it. Did I take it to the Boston Globe and cross-post in every column? No. And instead of getting angry, I enjoyed myself. Cause in my head, when that sappy bitch’s brains blew out in the middle of the street, her blood splattered across several passers-by who’d bought her album and automatically blacklisted anything with a parental advisory label on it.
Remember, kids. Artist regardless. No matter how acceptable you claim an album is, someone out there thinks it sounds like shit.
We spend so much time blaming celebrities for our demise that even Britney Spears recently noticed the reaction to her marriage/split and said, “Do you realize we landed on Mars that same day? Why aren’t we talking about that?”
Another thing that burns me, literally but thrillingly, is a fresh alka seltzer tab. I’ve gotten into the habit of treating them like candy cough drops, keeping them handy and occasionally amusing myself by pressing it to my bottom lip and the tip of my tongue. In fact, this entry was stalled several times in mid-sentence so I could make out with antacid medicine and stare off at my heart’s current desire: the new 200 disc holder, full and unzipped on my bed.
I’m happy, even if the best part is over. I wasn’t going to know until I had every album I wanted, what that felt like. The persona was embarrassing, though. I’d pretend like I hadn’t even browsed their inventory aside from their want lists, and stood with my forehead against their storefront windows, grinning at the keeper who approached. Holding up a handful of titles they’d been looking for, my sickeningly cute, animated avatar insisted that I was on a quest to help them become closer to fulfillment. We’re talking “okie”s, “howdy”, “LMK!”, “thankies”…had I been slinking any lower, I wouldn’t have been sending my ends out. A feedback list toppling with “she is a total sweetheart” when all I was thinking inside… “Open. Your. Door. Let. Me. In.”
“How thoughtful. Would you mind having a look at my list and seeing if there’s anything you’d like in return?” First person to know what another one wants, has a big advantage. That’s just a generalized fact, and the kind of fucked-up belief I’ve been notorious for abusing.
Strangers hold knowledge of mine and don’t know to think much about it. People who get to know me more and more, eventually start to lose information. My life is full of people who started on opposite ends and never made it all the way across, cause of me. But the fact that I have split myself in two when it comes to give and get is neither here nor there. I’m not a mob boss with a husband and a hustler, so it doesn’t much matter, anyway. You can’t be sick if you aren’t infecting.
Or some shit like that. Maybe a better analogy. I’m typing too fast now to actually stop and end that last paragraph with a nice bullshitter that smoothes over casual insertion of my deepest concerns. Might need a backspace there. Actually. Dropping hints is so passé, and contributes to an even bigger fear… that of running out of secrets and feeling utterly conquered. Where’s Janet’s right breast when you need to be air-lifted from a sticky freewrite?
I always prided myself on the alternative of a jammed machine. That way, while everyone else is victim to the rotations and process, I’m able to get up close and figure out what we’ve got. Something troubling me? I’ve jumped right into the groove of a gear to hide, and I owed it all to the wooden pillars strategically wedged…until recently.
It seems I had the wrong idea, diary. While things looked to be preventable, they were still changing. You want to know the truth? Your cogwheels have sharpened edges, and what you thought was just my body settling at night has really been the sound of metal making its way through dogma.
You’re teething. I’m nauseous.
I’m teething. You’re nauseous.