Today's moment of "I only care because of the irony":
The most dreadfully inconsequential people in the world with the most mediocre of ambitions reside in Lancaster and they found a poem/song I scribbled on a napkin and dropped in their house.
It was a Buddy Holly/Roy Orbison/Frankie Valli/Cliff Richard pastiche wherein, instead of merely deifying and worshipping his lady-love-baby-love, the singer steals her from prom, stoves in her head and buries her in the wood. He uses the ensuing manhunt to finally make his darling a star. It was the culmination of Romantic desire and the product of having to watch the In Dreams section of Blue Velvet on a constant loop for my course. Seedy, clinging and beautifully skewed, I had a momentary lapse of judgement and indulged in the meekly thwarted chauvinism of the 50's, demonstrating an undercurrent of desperate sexual violence behind all these charmingly impotent and ever so inoffensive pansies finally set free to say what they really wanted.
Naturally, being as dull and unimaginative as they are, these Lancastrians thought it was some form of genuine tribute.
I don't know whether to be flattered or disappointed at their expectations of me to be the least subtle sociopath ever. Their judgement is of no consequence to me, since I wrote for a target audience of one. They've laughingly pasted it to a wall to scoff at.
EXCEPT
Except, except, except I know the poetry one of them used to affix to their shared cupboards. It usually ran "I wish I was a fly/Or maybe die/because you make me want to cry/But instead I must try/and write poetry."
This man, ironically, is a woman beater who confesses that he sometimes wants women who have wronged him to leave his house in case he kills them out of jealousy. He has hit women on more than one occasion and has a habit for misogeny hidden only by his utterly inoffensive and charming impotence...
Oh, shit. I think I've just written him an instruction manual.
IN OTHER NEWS:
I have a dozen grey hairs in my beard, several are fully from root to tip. There are a few on my head, too. I expect to be utterly snowy by 25, bald by 30 and dead by 27.
And I'm reading a book a day, but they are all racist tomes from the ages between 1100 and 1920. They've covered almost every permutation you can imagine, and the one I finished forty minutes ago settled upon a prejudice against Mormons.
I've been reading last year's 20six entries, getting back into Bright Eyes and hope to attend as many demonstrations this summer after that utterly moronic statement about a forthcoming "Summer of Rage" in the Guardian. Am I 16? I'd rather be 23.
The most dreadfully inconsequential people in the world with the most mediocre of ambitions reside in Lancaster and they found a poem/song I scribbled on a napkin and dropped in their house.
It was a Buddy Holly/Roy Orbison/Frankie Valli/Cliff Richard pastiche wherein, instead of merely deifying and worshipping his lady-love-baby-love, the singer steals her from prom, stoves in her head and buries her in the wood. He uses the ensuing manhunt to finally make his darling a star. It was the culmination of Romantic desire and the product of having to watch the In Dreams section of Blue Velvet on a constant loop for my course. Seedy, clinging and beautifully skewed, I had a momentary lapse of judgement and indulged in the meekly thwarted chauvinism of the 50's, demonstrating an undercurrent of desperate sexual violence behind all these charmingly impotent and ever so inoffensive pansies finally set free to say what they really wanted.
Naturally, being as dull and unimaginative as they are, these Lancastrians thought it was some form of genuine tribute.
I don't know whether to be flattered or disappointed at their expectations of me to be the least subtle sociopath ever. Their judgement is of no consequence to me, since I wrote for a target audience of one. They've laughingly pasted it to a wall to scoff at.
EXCEPT
Except, except, except I know the poetry one of them used to affix to their shared cupboards. It usually ran "I wish I was a fly/Or maybe die/because you make me want to cry/But instead I must try/and write poetry."
This man, ironically, is a woman beater who confesses that he sometimes wants women who have wronged him to leave his house in case he kills them out of jealousy. He has hit women on more than one occasion and has a habit for misogeny hidden only by his utterly inoffensive and charming impotence...
Oh, shit. I think I've just written him an instruction manual.
IN OTHER NEWS:
I have a dozen grey hairs in my beard, several are fully from root to tip. There are a few on my head, too. I expect to be utterly snowy by 25, bald by 30 and dead by 27.
And I'm reading a book a day, but they are all racist tomes from the ages between 1100 and 1920. They've covered almost every permutation you can imagine, and the one I finished forty minutes ago settled upon a prejudice against Mormons.
I've been reading last year's 20six entries, getting back into Bright Eyes and hope to attend as many demonstrations this summer after that utterly moronic statement about a forthcoming "Summer of Rage" in the Guardian. Am I 16? I'd rather be 23.
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http://photos-g.ak.fbcdn.net/photos-ak-snc1/v2565/134/114/500491340/n500491340_2702846_7571203.jpg
If I ever end up at any of those despicable school reunions, I hope it looks a little like that.
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