30.Oct.2002

coming back to life

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and the icecream man gets death threats

"New York Nights" is probably one of the most fantastic Recoil songs recorded. It is Gershwin-y. That is appeasing, and I will say it might take more than one listen to it before one truly beholds the capacity to appreciate it fully.

There is so much useless drama happening in my life, that at this delicate juncture, it forces me to laugh with much exasperation. I cannot just block two numbers from my phone in the hopes this will lift. I will have to block everybody's phone numbers from mine until I can stomach anything about them. It is no skin from my ever-shrinking back.

Dustin called last night, and I don't know why. He was irritable, grumpy, telling me he felt sickness coming on. I could almost see the toxins in his throat proliferate. Since I once celebrated him as one of my favorite all-time drug-lusts, there's still a part of me somewhat ... joyed ... to hear from him.

Instead of running off to California or Dallas or Ottawa or Minnesota or New York, I am going to stay here and take whatever it is head-on. If that means killing 1/2 the population of Oklahoma, then officer, I am fully justified.

Cat scan results after much hesitation from Nurse Dumbass: "There are no apparent abnormalities." So we're looking at PCOS, and we're looking at one singular pill that could fix everything, and we're looking at Happy Ravie. Happy, cancerless Ravie.

My future roommate told me I had a dying mouth. I found that extremely poetic considering he loathes poetry. We have nothing in common and yet we're building an infrangible cronyship as the days progress.

Regardless of a dying mouth or no, I feel something coming back to life.

I love you, David Gilmour.

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time & machine