'
The sermon for Aug. 11, 2002 is: 24 hour party people 7:23 a.m. Good morning, diarrhea. It's 7.23 am and I'm grooving about listening to my computer squeak, beep! beep! beep! in a very groovy way. Actually I'm listening to drum machines and 303's warble like melting clarinets. My legs ache from St Vitus dance and my glasses are all smudged with, hmmm, sweat, hair, the detritus of being stupid and young. La di da. I'm reading Douglas Rushkoff's Ecstasy Club, an E-will-save-the-world novel about ravers in the mid-90s, and this prompted within me a sudden desire to drop. So here I am, ta-dah! The sky's overcast, ta-dah! My fingers smell like my armpits, and my armpits smell like sewers, ta-dah! Life is nice, isn't it? I am also happy because Mrs Burmakau, the widower with whom I am passionately in love with from afar��, Mrs Burmakau, though not actually bombarding me with her dinner menu, excommunication of her neighbours or up-to-the-minute bulletins about what her cat is doing, nevertheless has made acknowledgement that I exist. Which reminds me of what I was going to write in the first place, so if you forgive me, dear Diary, I'm going to start all over. Take 2. Dear Diary, good morning, how are you? I was thinking just now my customary Sunday morning cargo train of thought, when suddenly I became distracted by a non sequitur memory, and my train of thought became derailed. What was I thinking about again? Oh yeah. I was thinking about why I was withdrawing from people, presenting a fa�ade of politeness in most cases, sometimes being outright nasty and mean �� Alison, for example, isn't talking to me anymore, because she says I'm an asshole �� and though some (a lot, doyyy) can be attributed to the drugs (comedown, cranky, need to re-up, cranky, on drugs, cranky because I need to do more) I find that I have a sillier, more romantic motivation. Okay, bear with me here. I want to stop talking, I want to let dwindle my few relationships, so that when I do die I will not occasion anyone anything more than regret. Strange, writing that down�� before Young bit the bullet, he would go on and on about howo the only thing that would stop him was the way his body would be found. He was really worried about leaving a mess, and causing whoever discovered him any extra janitorial work. I mocked him heavily for this, reminding him that not only do they have special contractors for this kind of clean-up, this kind of niche business actually depended on plumpheaded blood-and-guts providers like him in order to get paid! She works hard for the money, Young! I'd say�� are you going to deprive a worthy cleaningwoman of a commission just because you're too fucking prissy to blow your brains out? I am a good advocate for the crime scene janitorial business. At any rate, it just occurred to me that my sometime violent break with those I hold dear is, in its own stupid way, a variation of Young's own pathetic reason to live. Except that I really am losing friends. Why am I telling you this? This isn't what I was going to write about. I should get away from this thing, I do seem to be warbling quite unconcernedly about the secret maneovrings of my clockwork, I mustn't tell anyone these things I tell myself, it's such a naked plea for sympathy.
 
|
