Who am I why am I here and what does it all mean and should this be punctuated?
Other people blog about all of the fabulous, exciting sex that is apparently waiting to be plucked from the tree of life. I should be a cougar, right? I should be sitting at the end of a bar ordering rusty nails and wooing the next generation of Benjamin Braddocks into my lady lair. Why doesn’t that appeal to me? Am I neutered now? Did that happen? Have I become some sort of asexual freak? Aagh. I need to go red lipstick and shiny jumpsuit shopping tomorrow. This shit isn’t funny any more.
One of those weeks.
I’m having one of those weeks wherein songs from Jesus Christ Superstar keep playing on an endless loop in my head. Is there a medication I should be taking to address this issue? It’s really torturous, both for myself and for the people around me who incur my wrath.
I think what I need is a full psychological makeover. I clean up ok physically, but on a personal level – meh. I’m kind of over humanity, but miserable about it. I lack the ability to give a shit, and I’m not really trying.
Jesus Christ. Superstar.
I spend too much time watching Investigation Discovery (A.K.A. “The I Married My Murderer” channel. The worst thing about these shows is the weird thrill that the narrators seem to take with telling the stories of gruesome murders – with metaphors so bad it’s like they’re trying to be awful. You can hear it in their intonation and overly-heavy pauses: Did Terry Flannelson really go to Wendy Victimhead’s apartment to drop off a gift basket for Easter? Hmmm? Or did he have… other reasons? Was he hopping on over, whiskers-a-twitchin’, with a basket…of murder?
And so it goes. Hosanna, Heysanna, Sanna, sanna-ho-sanna, heysanna, hosanna. Over and out.