Awake. Eyes open, roll over, its 11:29 am. Fuck, my head! I would almost say that girl tried to kiss me last night, what was that about? Does she have a troubled soul, or even a name? Maybe she just needs to get laid - and cosmically, what IS the difference anyway? (Get up, scratch balls, yawn) She was probably so drunk she couldn't find my cheek, but so what? I mean, really, if your soul is troubled, chances are it is only going to be about something that is trully important to you only as far as it affects you're chances with a hottie. Really, then, the soul troubling doubts fostered from repressed memories of that spelling bee where you pissed your 1st grade pants could really be no different from the fact that you haven't had sex this past month. (pop some rasin swirl bread in the microwave - fuck - I can't tell the differnce between a microwave and a toaster in this damn fog.) What I'm saying is this: I don't care if you are worried about a business aquisition, or your unhappiness with your job at the bank, or your dogs loose stool - I'm a freudian, man, I don't care if it's your dead dog or your soul patch-whatever you think your thinking about-it's all about sex and babies, baby. (Sit down to the bacon and eggs or whatever, watch Frank Lloyd Wright biog on net flix, eat.)
So, its all about sex is it? Right now, I think that it can be simplified to that. Yes I know, I know, (sex->reproduction->imortality, don't forget money fame power etc) When it comes to life, maybe, by the standards of some Zeus, sex is the most banal, wet talkin, bromide being, base of all the fixatives of the mortal position. But fuck, it the best one for beating the angst that we have down here, Mr. Zeus. So just deal with my bromide.
Anway, I'm up, holding my head and taking my acetametaphine (I can't spell tylenol, oh shit I just did, lets put that in there.) and here I am wishing for a cat.
This place is perfect for a cat. Low ceilings, ikea lounge, nice nasa pillows, yeah, a cat would love it here. One furry beast and this college dump will lose all turd cloistered bungaloo and start to feel like frank lloyd wright did it up good and cozy.
...
...There is nothing worse in all of architecture than the imitation frank lloyd wright ranch house...
...
Nothing, and I mean nothing, will drive unease and angst with such gut wrenching slow torque as one of those low church, knick nack, cat housing, doll house hiding, irrational-long-slowslung, shit houses. Its like they were trying to invent the hot dog of [democracy], couldn't quite squeeze the [worst common denominator] into a bun sized package, but did...just...get..... arrrrhahh! There: Democracy got fucked up the ass by a diamond squeezing sweaty horse dick after taking a metric ton of laxatives, and then the demos-denominator shit out a house, wham, "our little love nest on the plains."
Goddamn plains.
Anyway, back to my hangover... Why is it that all social interaction since the invention of booze by cavemen has seen itself fit to be a wet affair? This is not good. When kids are just kids, they don't drink, oh no, they don't need a stiff one. Fuck the booze, they have the imagination. Oh yes, and don't you dare think that you're social interactions as a thirty something with a career and a hot wife to hide are any more stressfull. You my friend have thirty something years of experience with all kinds of failure, sweaty sex, and early onset self esteem to back you up. A kid, he's got what?,,?, previous experience being three feet tall and sucking bitch tits to fall back on. All he wants is approval, while you have at least presumably fucked something once or twice. No, don't tell me you need a drink.
Lo, the child. He has experiened nothing, but that stops not his iron imagination from dreaming up the unimaginable, all while learning at a pace far more furious than any you could match. Think that navy seal had determination learning how to walk again? Balls! behold the child as he learns to walk for the first time! Watch in awe as three children entertain themselves five hours in a row with nothing more than dirt and sticks, hill and stream. Your ancestors where destroyed by such wilderness! To these children, it is but merry pasttime. A pleasure house.
Ha ha ha! -The laugh of the fearful, fearless child.
A child can stroll into any social situation, and by god, survive without booze. Power of imagination. So what of it you ask? Only this: Maybe booze runs off with our imagination. Maybe it's not that we are not given the privilage of drinking after childhood has run its course, but it is that we have our wonderfull imaginations, sharpened wits, and razor toungue taken from us, stolen by that sneak theif in the night, the stiff drink, the lager, and the port wine.
As an economist, I have to ask myself one question: Do I feel causality? Or just costs sunk?
