Sunday night is all right

Unless there is a rape involved there is no such thing as an accidental pregnancy.  If I ever catch myself using that term I will have no choice but to use a pair of needle nose pliers to rip out my tongue, which I will then cook over an open fire and serve to dinner guests have driven up from Portland.  I was very recently at a dear friend’s house while he, his entire family and I sat peaceably in the living room and watched golf on television.  I recall at one point posing the question as to why we were watching golf but no one could provide me with an adequate response.  George Clinton just announced that he is penning a memoir and it should be out sometime next year.  I eagerly await this tome and plan to metaphorically devour it while listening to classic P-Funk records.  I often listen to P-Funk while at work and it always increases my productivity and the overall quality of my work.  I feel bad much of the time when I am not sleeping. 

Only just a couple days ago Trent Reznor announced the imminent return of Nine Inch Nails and premiered a new song, a new album title and release date as well as dates for an upcoming tour.  At some point I flashed back to another college memory where I am standing on a bridge looking down.  I am imagining myself stepping off the ledge and falling and falling until my body collides with the pavement and whatever is left of me finally vanishes.  I feel an incredible peace come over me and everything around is calm.  It is a very cold night and I watch my breath in the air.  I think of someone, a face that has not one name but limitless names and she comes to me, black hair, dark eyes and her hands reaching out.  Her voice is gentle and she says something I do not understand – I don’t even recognize the language – but it immediately provides me with comfort.  She is warm and forgiving and I go with her instead of jumping off the bridge. 

All of my thoughts and memories are becoming disfigured and they spill out of brain, fall to the floor and die.  There is someone who lives in the wall next to my bed and at night he says my name and I put the pillow over my head because I am scared.  I don’t want to talk to him or know what he looks like but I don’t know that I have any choice in the matter. 

This Thursday at 7:00 PM pacific standard time I will be sitting down inside the local multiplex and viewing Man of Steel.  A beautiful ally of mine recently pointed out that in some ways everything in my life has only served to kill time until the release of this motion picture.  My anticipation could scarcely be higher.  Recently, I was exiting my flat when I realized I may have to end my life very soon since after Man of Steel comes out I will seemingly have nothing left to live for.  At once I began weighing my options over how to best exterminate my filthy, degenerative existence and concluded that my favorite was still to jump from an exceedingly high place and allow my bones to be turned to powder and for my flesh and blood to stain the pavement.  I began planning a trip to Seattle before remembering once again the new Nine Inch Nails album and subsequent tour to take place later this year.  Consequently, I postponed those plans. 

True to my word I recently purchased the latest Carl Barks’ Donald Duck reprint tome and the Merry Christmas Mr. Lawrence Criterion Collection blu-ray.  I have not yet metaphorically dived into the Donald Duck volume but I did watch the blu-ray last night while eating strawberries and drinking a tall glass of tap water.  I always make sure to drink water straight from the tap.  The bottled water business is possibly the most ingenious thing in the history of mankind.  However this claim will only last until someone figures out how to bottle uncompromising hatred and self-loathing.  When it is possible to bottle those I will be the purest source and the best-selling brand will be named after me.  Incidentally, I loved the movie and have not been able to stop thinking about it.  It runs through my head as I stare out my window and wonder why I am so unhappy and why I have never been able to contribute a single worthwhile thing to this world.  But did I actually love this movie?  Or did I simply convince myself that I did in order to justify the inflated prices of Criterion blu-rays?  That is a question philosophers and historians have puzzled over for hundreds of years and I cannot pretend to have the answer.

Speaking of movies at some point during the last week I was at the cinema and watching The Purge starring dreamy hunk Ethan Hawke and attractive lady Lena Headey (Ms. Headey also starred in the movie Ripley’s Game.  I love the character of Tom Ripley.  Dennis Hopper’s portrayal from The American Friend is probably my favorite and hot tears always stream down my face when I watch that movie.  Why doesn’t anyone answer my desperate cries for help?).  The Purge was entertaining, non-demanding lark.  I have no complaints there.  What I do have complaints about are the 8 or so teenagers who would not stop talking during the movie.  The second they entered and took five minutes to figure out their preferred seating arrangement I immediately despised their existence (not quite as much as my own but still a considerable amount).  I am constantly baffled how people can be so rude without hesitation.  I am certain they all thought they were cute, cool and funny.  I tried to calm myself by imagining them as adults where this behavior would be well behind them but this did not work because I have come to realize that people do not change and the majority of us remain miserable wrecks our entire lives.  I was twisting and folding my cheap tie in my hands throughout the duration of the picture and resisting every urge to slam my face into the bannister until my eyes were gouged out and my skull caved in, forcing my brain matter to splatter all over the theatre stairs.  I had calmed by the end of the movie.  Who was I to judge them?  Surely, I have done countless things just as and more annoying to others during my life.  These youngsters did not deserve my negativity.  They were merely enjoying the leniency and behavioral privileges of youth and it would be wrong of me to deny them that. 

Later that evening I changed my outfit nine different times before deciding on the one I looked least ugly in and then I went out to meet my friends.  I fell in love at some point but quickly fell out of it when I realized I would destroy the relationship with my woeful inadequacies and neurotic insecurities.  I fall in and out of love no less than 19 times on any given day.