2005-02-20 - 1:43 a.m.
There's something lonely about having a drink without having a smoke. Ever see The Big Chill, and one of the neurotic broads who wasn't Meg Tilly says she feels like Alex should be here? It's like that. I got my music, I got my scotch, purchased for the purpose of celebrating a weekend alone which really just turned out to be one drunken friday evening alone. But I have nothing to smoke. And I have no one to drink with who knows the ancient and vastly underappreciated art of shutting the fuck up.
In Perfect, I wouldn't need a water chaser even though this is the second consecutive evening me and scotch have decided to keep each other company. I wouldn't need headphones regardless of the hour, I'd be relaxing on a comfortably plush leather couch, with an attractive, smart and deep woman practicing the ancient art of shutting the fuck up while lying on my chest, while drinking my scotch with me, while smoking a joint with me. In Perfect, people might starve, but they don't go without their weed, booze of choice, music or a beautiful individual in every respect with him to share absolutely no thoughts you might be having at any given time. In perfect, my writing wouldn't feel stilted and self absorbed, no one would care that I didn't capitalize the name of a fictional place ripped off by some shitty commercial. In perfect, my mind wouldn't be screaming about the very dead metaphor that I continue to kick, nor would it have bothered to fix that typo three times until it was readable.
Hope anybody who bothers to read this is doing well. I'm not doing as poorly as my last few messages seem to suggest. Or maybe I'm just good at bullshitting myself, but either way I'm not all that unhappy.
