So where the hell have I been? What the fuck have I been doing? (no one asks). Well I’ve been getting my dick sucked every week (figuratively) in a writing class (with whom I can now officially never share this blog), doing some writing for that, and putting my nose to the grindstone at work.
What? No “real” pussy? Surely you’ve been absent from the narcissism blog because of all the fucking tail you’ve been “up in.” Right? (that’s you asking me right there. that’s generally what you sound like, I’m serious.)
Ok yes I got a little pussy. And yes, it was a fucking crazy story I neglected to tell you involving her murmuring things like “what are you, some kind of god?” and “don’t you want to bend me over my bed?” While I got hung up on things like: Uh WHAT?! You aren’t on birth control and we just did that thing bareback?! Does this shit still happen at 36?! Don’t you fucking east coasters learn ANYTHING in school about reproduction and shit?
Followed by, OHMIGAWDICAN’THAVEABABYWITHTHISWOMANSHE’S CRAZY. I mean definitely insane. Don’t get me wrong, she’s smart and cute and has her career in serious order but FUCK is she batshit. Lesson HIE finally learns at 36: don’t fuck on the first (blind) date. One might (and still might, I won’t know until 10 days hence) have to father a child with some seriously damaged goods. You really might. Welcome to accidental parenthood, shitbag (that was you again…and I thought it was a little insensitive).
In Other News
I’ve been mildly interested in the phenomenon this song and video represent:
I’ll sum it up thusly: this was a thing in 1995. Every single fucking word, especially the grampa style biting and broken keyboard buying. Shit, “especially” nothing, we did all of it. I did all of it. And then we all grew up to plant the seeds of hipsterism in Williamsburg and Greenpoint. WHAT DOES THAT MEAN?!
I was thinking about how what started as a cheap way to get some crazy interesting yet stylish clothing noone else was wearing became a super restrictive and exclusionary codified uniform. When I moved to New York one of the coolest phenomena I noted as being special and unique about the city was the ability of anyone to pull off any outfit and make you jealous of how amazing they looked in it. I’m talking about spandex shorts with a dirty sweatshirt and ski boots looked fucking cool as long as the person seemed confident in them because this was NEW YORK and style was in a person’s attitude.
That’s all out the window now. Part of my hope is that the return of thrift store fetishism (oh come on, “fetishism”?! sure, i guess. I’m drunk so shut up) puts outlandish individuality back in the ballpark of “desirable ways to look cool.” And then I had some cool water and sobered up and realized oh yeah. It’s impossible for anything cool not to be codified, reproduced and mass produced. So. I won’t be dusting off my tight red polyester pants and huge collar faux fur jacket from the thrift shop on Claiborne in NOLA any time soon. The world is a poorer place, believe me.
At least saxophone riffs are coming back