Go K’naan :)!
I’ve been thinking (and bleeding) an awful lot lately. It probably has something to do with that talk I had with my boss a few days ago. Never before had the (GLARING) fact that journalism just doesn’t pay occurred to me. Apparently, unless you’re very very lucky, all you can do is hope for your muse to remain content enough to keep the (hopefully brilliant) articles coming. If you have no intentions of practicing real journalism, nga the only category you’ve ever seen yourself fitting into is the comic/light/haha writing one, you’re screwed.
This hit me pretty hard.
I want to be rich. I HAVE to be rich. I want to be able to afford robot-chihuahuas (that come with audio books) when they get invented in 2020. I need to be able to crash my car into parliament’s gate and call my chauffeur to pick me up in my bigger better car. I want Alterbridge to play in my living room every week and I want to be young enough to be reckless with my hard earned dough. So that shit of ‘Milli vanilli, these peeps are going to keep you as a free-lancer for as long as they can’ kicked me in the face. BOOF. Fucked me up.
There. career gone. I mean yea. We all of us believe that there’s serious art, some Keats-whooping stuff being hoarded by our muses, that if we try really really hard, we can summon this brilliance and stun the gods even. But we still need to eat. Forget that you-must-write-for-writing’s-sake, for-art’s-sake business. We need to be able to afford sexy motorcycles after campus. We need to move out of our parent’s houses before we turn 25. (Failing that, we have to find ourselves rich old lesbians to marry. sigh). Career blood, check. Smile, check
The other other week, my thing with my thingummy went bust in my face. SPLAT. SPLODGE. PWISH! I lost my girlfriend. Or she lost me. Or we lost eachother. Whatever. I swear K’naan had a point with that ‘I was stabbed by satan’ song coz fuck. This is the one that promised to last. The one that whispered sweet nothings to me in its tanuki voice, the one that said, ‘stop being a bitch-idiot. She’s going no where. She’s yours and she loves you more than anybody ever has. You can love her back. Don’t be a bitch-idiot. Don’t blow it.’ Then it blew itself.
As long as I stay away from that one episode of Greys Anatomy where Arizona leaves Callie and goes off to Malawi, I’m fine. Because I’ve got to be above weeping hysterically over such scenes, else there’s no line really (and there has got to be a line, just like there’s got to be a way I can stop my mother going ‘How is Mzfeet? Is she okay? I saw her mother on tv I MEAN WTF. A CHIC IS TRYING TO HEAL HERE!)
In other news, Belle gave me new Lonely Island videos. This stuff isn’t even lame anymore. Or maybe its so lame, it’s wildly hysterical. Too funny, man. Here’s one.
And and and I forgot to say (I’m approximately 10 years late). WAAAAIIIILLLLL. Douglas Adams is dead? He died in 2001? He wasn’t even 50. Shit. I mean, God help me, I don’t want to live up to 50. Five more years is all I ask. At 26, i’ll probably be rich ish. I’ll have amassed the most beautiful, most awesome LIBRARY in the world. I’ll have a wardrobe full of shoes and four grey cats. with blue eyes. I’ll have six 19 year old..er…friends who’ll find themselves unable to do their homework in any other place but my house. After school. Heh heh heh. Giggidy. But 49? Douglas should have lived longer. He was bloody brilliant! Shit. Suicide looked at his work and trembled. No mortal can/could/will even begin to feel suicidal while reading this man’s work.
I picked up The Salmon Of Doubt on Saturday and I’m deathly afraid of finishing it. What’ll I do when its gone? Here’s a particularly bombastic excerpt from Hangover cures:
The brain organizes its memories like a kind of hologram. To retrieve an image, you have to recreate the exact conditions in which it was captured. In the case of a hologram, it’s the lighting, in the case of the brain, it is or can be, the amount of alcohol sloshing around in it. Things that happen to you or, frighteningly enough, that you yourself say or do under the influence of alcohol will only be recalled to your memory when you are under the influence of the exact same quantity of alcohol again. These memories are completely beyond the reach of your normal, sober mind. Which is why after some ill advised night out, you will be the only person unaware of some barkingly stupid remark you made to somebody whose feelings you care about deeply, or even just a bit. It is only weeks, months or in the case of New year’s eve , exactly a year later that the occasion suddenly returns to your consciousness with a sickening whump and you realise why people have been avoiding you or meeting your eyes with a glassy stare for so long. This can often result in your saying ‘Jesus God’ to yourself in a loud voice and reaching for a stiff drink , which leads you up to the next point of inebriation, where of course fresh shocks await your pleasure.’
Therein lies all the explanations for all the shit that I’ve said/ done whilst drunk. People who try to hold you accountable for things done in drunkenness when you’re as sober as a broke judge are just bad mannered. I mean what the hell, man. Pick on me when I’m soused. This ME is innocent!
Ok ok. enough of this. I have vorrrk to do.