ain't no cure for the summertime blues

07.22.04 @ 10:38 p.m.

I am still alive! Sometimes even I doubt it, but it is true. What's stopping me from writing is the rather distressing prospect of typing up the 12 or so pages of notebook I wrote in Los Angeles, but I intend to, eventually.

For now, be content knowing that John Entwistle's album Whistle Rymes is pretty awesome and very John--black humor cunningly disguised as rock songs. And holy lord, my dad bought Thirty Years of Maximum R&B thinking it was some Costco compilation. When he described it as such, I was pretty sure I had all the songs on it. Oh, how wrong I was. It makes it a teensy bit of a waste, having purchased "Dogs" and "Relay" and Pete shouting that it was "a fucking rock and roll concert, not a fucking tea party" off iTunes. Is good. Is adorable.

I'm too tired to sort out my head. And it's too hot to think. I can't even imagine what it'll be like tomorrow, when it's slated to get about 100� F. I shall try to remember the tale of the little brats on the roof this morning and other horrors of work. (Fuck. I was okay with it, now I find I will have to work with Asshole Boss John only for two weeks. Three possibilities: A) I will kill myself B) I will kill John C) I will quit way earlier than planned. Secret option D) I will bitch and moan but I will keep on keeping on, like a total wuss.)

<< � >>

Previously

fuck it @ 08.01.05
fanciful imaginary sea voyages to come @ 07.20.05
*dies* @ 07.19.05
more ootp @ 07.17.05
harry potter: driving our children into devil worship @ 07.17.05