Where be all them white womens at?

If there’s anything I abhor more than a regular Sunday, it’s a Sunday without an appropriate and unifying theme. Sundays are, without a doubt, the most miserably awful day of the whole bunch, except maybe Wednesday. You awaken late, surrounded by the smell of Albertson’s Charcoal Filtered Vodka (in a plastic bottle) and kerosene, brain-damaged and reeling from your post-Saturday Night Stress Syndrome, and suddenly it hits you. It’s Sunday.


The reality of the fact settles in like a fat man on a little stool, gross and inescapable. Sundays always have an air of finality about them, a creeping dread and sense of mortality usually experienced only at rest homes, or when the Yankees make it to the series. Today’s usual torpor was compounded by the complete lack of a central idea. Typically my days revolve around some specific event or concept, like hating my major or throwing tennis balls at young children from the safety of my roof. Today was the complete god damn opposite, however. It’s as if the manipulative script goblins that plan out the events of my life just said ‘fuck it’ and let things happen without any guidance whatsoever. They probably took the day off to play golf and mourn the fact that it’s Sunday. It’s not like I didn’t have things to do, it’s just that they were all so completely unrelated and scattered that no pattern or meaning could be drawn from the day.

A short hike in the brutal heat, a 50 second visit from an old friend, a half gallon of orange juice, 14 batman comics cover to cover, various phone calls to other peoples’ parents, and a huge god damn fire up the hill so I couldn’t drive home. What do these things have in common?

Not a fucking thing.

Perhaps my need for a foundation of meaning in my day to day existence is some kind of twisted side effect of my fiction addiction. I assume this because the things that bother and disconcert me make zero sense to Humanity At Large, and if there’s a fundamental difference between me and John Q. Fuckwad, it’s that I read too much.

The background music of sirens, helicopters, and news vans probably adds to my anxiety. Between them and the god damn legion of screaming babies my neighbors have produced/accumulated while I was away at college, it’s a miracle I can think at all. I’ve never known so many people-larvae to scream with such constancy or dissonance; what the hell are they feeding those things that they can howl like timberwolves before they can even walk upright?

Things seem to be calming down now, at least. I unhooked the phone, turned on SomaFM, and sat back to laugh my ass off at random internet things. When all else fails, turn to your friend and mine, the internet, for surely you will find people whose existence is so meaningless and warped that you feel like Winston Churchill on angeldust after sampling their pathetic lives.

Here’s a highlights reel:


If you can read this shirt, the bitch fell off the Rascal.

This crackhead sat next to me in my Precalc class in high school. Another of Moreau’s Finest.


I hope MXC is on tonight. Over and out.


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