let’s stay up all night and learn everything about each other.
and my dumb ass STILL ended up on some entertainment booshit. ohhhh, but it is entertaining. Apparently, Crystal Harris (who, at 25, is younger than I am) called off the wedding before she and Mr. Hefner could tie the knot. The best part though, is that this cover got printed up in anticipation of the nuptials:*
oops. this is awkward. p.s., I miss Holly and Hef. Holly would have never pulled this shit. I bet every bit of money I have ever earned that she was truly in love with him and would have stuck around. but he had to keep looking for new places to put that old, old penis.
*i just realized that in three sentences, I managed to refer to a wedding in three different ways. Me 1, English, 0.
sometimes, for everyone to drop what they’re doing and dress and do their hair as though it were 1981. is that too much to ask?
I was just reading through my first blog, and this was a little creative writing exercise (i never do that) that I attempted one day. Or maybe I was just spilling feelings onto the page, I can’t really remember. Anyway, I was 22, so don’t hold anything against me. okay? thank you.
These glances, these (un)intentionally expectant, expectorant laughs, they always make me hard from the inside of the bones out. I mostly feel it in my jaw. I fear my teeth will eventually suffer. And I mean really suffer.
Feeling myself changing — but is it really growing, as they say? For some part of me feels perpetually like the exact same floating thoughts I always have. Having never done hard drugs, I can only imagine what it must truly be like to step outside of oneself or to see things or feel things that defy explanation — or can I only imagine?
Sometimes I feel like just that — thoughts floating in the nothingness (kind of like the nothing from The Neverending Story, except the “nothingness” isn’t quite as scary, and exists in a world where the story in some measure does end). One constant — the ramifications of existence, mortality, plague me day in, day out. Day out. And I mean every day.
For the first time, I saw her face, what lay underneath. All of the pain, the reality she had been inwardly and outwardly contemplating but not really feeling, rushed across her face like the worst kind of flood. And I was there to see it. She may never know, but I was there. And then back to the gray (grey?). Are these fleeting moments all we really get? A big game is talked among the Oprah crowd (a crowd I might be a member of, I’m still not sure) of becoming an honest soul, of living a life of truth every single moment of every single day. But what does that really mean? The precious, few moments of true life I feel I have lived (moments where it couldn’t get more “life” than this) I couldn’t possibly experience every second. I think I would literally implode, or melt, or…something. And I’m serious about that.
The mundane — or maybe not the mundane, but something that sounds a little less depressing (maybe the quotidien — but then that sounds a bit too pretentious) has to dominate. It just has to. And there’s nothing wrong with that, I don’t think. We need it to temper, to add structure, stability, safe predictability. Something to come back to when life has pitched and bobbed, rattling us to our very core. Because even thought it sometimes seems boring, we are ultimately creatures of habit — most of us, anyway. The Average Joe’s of the world. The older I get and the more I learn, the more I feel I am one of those. And it’s starting to feel good (I think).