fat old sun.

One of my favorite poems which also very much expresses how I am feeling right now:

An Asphodel

O dear sweet rosy
unattainable desire
...how sad, no way
to change the mad
cultivated asphodel, the
visible reality.

and skins appalling
petals--how inspired
to be so lying in the living
room drunk naked
and dreaming, in the absence
of electricity...
over and over eating the low root
of the asphodel
gray fate...

rolling in generation
on the flowery couch
as on a bank in Arden--
my only rose tonite's the treat
of my own nudity.

Allen Ginsberg

Currently listening to: Summer '68 - Pink Floyd

I am tired I am tired of running of having to carry my life like it was a basket of eggs.

I have a bent eyelash and it is annoying me a lot.

Anyway, my main preoccupation these days is the X Files. I am infatuated with Fox Mulder. My pattern with pop culture seems to be embedded in throwback. Does that make me a hipster? Possibly, but I'm totally guilty of good nineties throwback lately. shoegaze, X Files and plaid. I can see Urban Outfitters is jumping on that bandwagon, as their window displays are oversized flannel shirts hanging on waify mannequins (along with a teepee made of florescent plastic=vomit). It's bizarre that the decade I feel is "mine" is suddenly appropriate throwback. I think David Duchovny is always appropriate, however. Sorry, Tay.

So, I've had three PBRs and one grasshopper (so delicious). It reaffirms my light-weightness. I really need to be doing my several 10 page papers (one of which is due tomorrow on revolt and revolution in Eastern European cinema), but I decided drinking and Criminal Minds and intermittently trolling Facebook albums was far more appealing. I'm also taking some vapid quizzes that are telling me that if I was a kitchen appliance, I would be a microwave. This is probably because I could very well be cancerous. I don't know how, but somehow I always manage to pull my shit together (that was a terrible sentence, I am so sorry). In these circumstances, it feels like someone is sitting on my chest and force-feeding me sleeping pills. I just want to get drunk. Come on, responsibilities.

If I sprayed Rogain on my hands would I get ridiculously bushy hand-fuzz? Just wondering.

I probably shouldn't blog when I'm drunk.

Currently listening to: Souvlaki Space Station - Slowdive