fuckity fuck!

OK, so, things were definitely looking good. I had ill-advisedly decided to run away to Salt Lake City with my friend Lydia (one of my new fave people) to see Johnathon Richmond (of The Modern Lovers) on Wednesday. It was an excellent setup, barring my complete lack of knowledge of J-Rich (slightly alievated by a listenting session with my ole chum Julia, cultural genius).

Parenthetical? Yes. It's about to get pathetical, though.

Let's just say that the show was great and we ended up hitting the streets of SLC some time later. At a yet to be determined moment, someone got into the car and stole both of our cellphones and both of our bags. We were both sure that we both locked our doors, but it still fucking happened. I'm kind of trying to go less crazy about it and just learn the fucking lesson that life is trying to teach me right now. I'm FUCKING TRYING HERE.

Elegy for my beloved things:
-My notebook from Europe, with all my friends' address information, random writing and pictures, notes to myself, etc.
-The greatest pants EVER, these black pinstripe pants from H&M - interview wear and night life wear in one!
-My beloved eyepatch! Eyepatches are totally the new mustaches.
-Earthly Powers, by Anthony Burgess, which wasn't even MY book and I was totally excited to read because of the meaty recommendation Tabs and Nettie gave it
-My passport (whoops!)
-All my toiletries, including the only cologne I've ever really liked, Gaultier's Le Male complete with suggestive male-bust bottle!
-My fave light jacket, this sweat denim thing with my last button from Amsterdam and my only fucking button from my only fucking French friend!!!

I'm pretty much over all of that stuff. But Verizon just cockslapped me with the knowledge that my piece of shit phone would cost $120 to replace, since I hadn't paid for fucking insurance because I'm already paying out the nose for fucking cell service. Let's say it together: FUCK YOU VERIZON, YOU FUCKING MINDFUCKING FUCKS!

Feeling better about that. Things are moving on well enough. I was denied another job and I'm being toyed with by the place I actually want to work more (local flower shop, it would be so fucking Six Feet Under). Last night, in the climax of life's unnecessary horriblishness, I broke 'my' bong (it belongs to my friend but was being bongsitted by my friend/roomie Kurt). It looked like a piece of minimalist art, and now all my potheadish dreams are ruined like bongwater-stained carpet!

To top things off, while masturbating I think I re-fucked up my old gimp knee. Obviously, people having as little sex as me have to get more athletic in their masturbation, just to keep things interesting, but some unpredicted spasming found my knee doing that evil, rapid, popping in and out of place thing. I'm trying to walk on it and I might actually NOT have to go to the hospital, which would probably be the last thing to drive me over the edge.

Did I mention the rent's due?

Things are fucked but I'm trying to roll with it and learn my little lessons. Maybe my knee is trying to compensate for my new creativity rush, by forcing me into a brief period of time in which I cannot escape my 'studio.' Actually, my previous brush with convalescence found my writing a shitload and working every day for two weeks for a couple of hours each day. Let's just say that is pretty much unparalleled productivity for me. Whoops. Whatevs, my room looks fucking amazing right now, so why on earth would I want to escape it?!

Happy America's Birthday. I have neither the time nor the desire to pen a thoughful critique on the fucked-up state of our nation. Instead, I will endorse the drinking of beer and the watching of explodey things.