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Monday, April 09, 2007

So the operation went well. I think I’ll survive.

Still, the lovers strike. JJ, get me my shovel. The boys are broken after all.

After days of no sleep, no food (but much inspiration and zealousness), no fresh air, too many myspace annoyances have pushed me to that place in my mind where I hide dedication. I finally sat down and went through a list of people that are mostly strangers, to realize that the faces that were familiar were gone. It seems that a lot of people decided to delete their profile while I was away hunting mammoths. I don’t care for hollywood or script bots. I don’t care for your star-system biz. I’m more interested in the one who can play the oud.

One of the reasons I flipped my profile to private was because I was getting ridiculous amounts of service spam. Now that I’ve gone private, it’s much easier for me to deny a request from Sherry-No-Cherry without viewing the profile and feeling bad about it. I don’t need any more friends, I can barely stand the ones I’m with. (I think the next person who asks me to go see the “pumpkins” should be dragged into the street and maimed.) Being that myspace is like a tree of undefined parasites, I decided to prune. Fred did it and he seems much more at ease now online. We don’t have to deal with those people anymore. They are gone. All they ever wanted from us was the ease of our springboard. (Et que personne le sache qu’ils sont tous des mal baisés! Ton mari est un connard et ta femme fait le con.) It’s incredible how the internet has morphed the sophomore into magnificently tagged and erect penises.

Who needs the back of a bus when you can get behind a clever moniker and obtuse signature references? It doesn’t change anyone. A fish is a fish no matter the attack.

Anyway, David and I almost came to the conclusion last night that the comatose urbanites are people too and that they need our support as much as the next goose. Blasé you say? Try getting a depressed heartbroken guitarist to get excited about music again. (On s’en fou de la pouffiasse! Ouais, elle n’est peut-être pas si pire mais regarde, tu as en ta possession un engin magnetic. La guitare merde. Ça c’est du coq.) Being calm is one thing, but trying to remain unmoved when the train is passing by less than a foot away from the tip of your nose could cause serious injury. You may not feel the pang immediately, you usually don’t, but the day you’re drinking your potage through a tube you might think back and see that moment as the day the cow jumped over the moon.

Stand your ground son. That ain’t no mound of skulls you’ve stepped upon.

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posted by Primessa Espiritu
1:59 pm

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