Tuesday, August 27, 2002

My black mood has not abated. I've decided I'm going to be poor and lonely for the rest of my life.
Because of my lack of meaningful social contact, I'm becoming weird.

I've commenced to wearing a black suede and fake fur cap with earflaps around the hovel. It is 95 degrees outside.
I've been talking to my cat. About art history and English Literature. Oddly, his comments reveal that he is an inveterate Deconstructionist with a penchant for postcolonial novels.
I sit around a lot, doing nothing. Not even thinking, staring at the wall.
I sing along with grossly inappropriate torch songs at unpleasant volumes: Lazy Line Painter Jane, Goldfinger, Dancing Queen.
One word: EMO.
Getting emotionally invloved with multi-episode storylines on G. I. Joe. I did not need the narration bridges for 'Arise, Serpentor, Arise.'
I admit to watching an episode of G. I. Joe called 'Arise, Serpentor, Arise.'

What I am not doing:
Reading anything worthwhile.
Writing anything at all.
Going to hang out at trendy Indie bars like Henrys or Orange County Social Club. God forbid I should meet new people, see old friends or enjoy myself when I can be self-indulgently miserable.
Drinking safe and reasonable amounts of alcohol.

The really sad bit is this: I see happy people about all the time, but I can't remember the last time I was happy. Not even for a minute or two. I distinctly remember smiling and laughing a great deal, but now I have the same moody, maudlin and self-servingly-sad air as a Sentimentalist Poet or bitchy adolescent.
Too bad absinthe's illegal. It poisons you as you drink it.

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