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The sermon for Sunday, Jul. 14, 2002 is: portrait of the artist as a young whiner
10:21 p.m. I'm listening to Tindersticks' soundtrack to "Nenette et Boni." I'm considering taking one of those interminable, insufferable internet personality/IQ tests, mostly out of revenge. I'm exhausted. There are blisters on my fingers from playing tautly stringed instruments for days and nights on end. Perhaps I'm a little hungover as well. My voice is hoarse. My feet smell. My hair has the consistency of sandpaper or a cat's tongue. I've been wearing the same pair of pants for three days. I smell of cat in different regions of my body. There are circles beneath the circles beneath my eyes. The back of my throat tastes of regurgitated mushroom sauce. There's a not unpleasant pressure pushing at the gate of my nether regions. I haven't shaved. I may have developed a soul patch. I am exhausted. I am exhausted.
 
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