All In a September Day's Nothing

I am sitting in my room listening to Asobi Seksu. This casts a gray veil over my eyes. I've just finished spending a good portion of the afternoon reading Identity Crisis, its a DC graphic novel involving the Justice League (yeah, I get down like that). Its dark enough outside that I have my room light, like a halo over my head, shining in holy advertisement. I'm debating whether or not to give The Notorious Betty Page another chance. The DVD is piled atop my bureau along with other DVDs that I don't consider essential enough to seat as part of my main collection. I debate this in between guilt sessions, self-appointed, glowing from Grass' Tin Drum that beats louder and louder for overdue attention, that was in fact propitiated, instead by a comic book. Also in mind, is an essay by Aldous Huxley about The Dalton Plan. I think about how this method of teaching seems really stimulating and does in fact serve prosperous results. I recall the essay and realize how much more I've enjoyed Huxley's writing over the evolving reads and moreover, how bad my memory truly is.

Soon dinner is served and I interrupt myself for my stomachs sake. Somewhere on TV, The Last Samurai is showing. Tom Cruise teaches samurais a valuable lesson which they've in turn taught him. This is happening somewhere on some channel on my television set, which remains off. Mary Harron definitely deserves another chance.

Yesterday I shopped with Kiki, rather I accompanied Kiki as she shopped. This made me realize how well behaved my spending impulses have been as of late. Of course, they have had no choice, four dollars occupied the vast, abandoned tunnels where my checking account used to be; that was until Thursday when they were joined by yet a few friends to warm but not remove the murk from which they are now currently based. I spotted a few books I wanted from Strand. Camus, Nabokov, Woolf, all the old friends threw cutting glances and I edited our visual conversations short, as short in fact, as my wallet. Kiki, seemed cheerful. I like when she's cheerful, it makes things alright.

At this moment I am now thinking whether I want to hear Peter Gabriel or 2pac. Here Comes The Flood or Never Had a Friend Like Me. Whatever I choose is just to provide a soundtrack for my debate and self-abasing guilt, for my stomachs and their financial appetites, for Lily Taylor and Helen Parkhurst, for the attention of superheroes and the negligence of reservation.

I don't know where I'm going with this but I just hope I can say that and everything else, honestly.

Confessions of a Crap Artist: Monetary Diet

I should get another job. Something that I could use to pay rent with or pay for a plane ticket or some synths and midi controllers. But I can't stand the idea of dressing up a resume or the nerve sucking anxiety of the commute to an interview, the pretense, the forced smile that sticks in place like a stiff neck, I don't know how to convince someone that I want a job when I actually really don't.

"So what would you contribute to

this company to help it grow."

I don't care about any job, I just want the money and I'll gladly pretend or at the very least keep my thoughts to myself and refrain from any difficulty towards allowing my employers to get out of me what they want in exchange for what I want in return. But I can't say that in an interview and its getting really hard to keep my mouth shut, trapped tight within in a smile.

"I won't bring anything to the table, I'll just do whatever job

it is I'm applying for and I'll do it well. I really don't care for

it but it pays decent enough that I could do the things I

want on my off time and forget I work here."