I ate at an upscale place tonight, but I would have
preferred the place with wood paneling and an old bar that looks like it
came out of the movie Goodfellas.
I love writing I just decided. It can definitely be tedious, but I'm not
married, and nobody fell out of my octopus, so I really have nothing better to
do other than obsess about the trivialities of life that peck at my soul,
particularly the drive to murder people who are boundary-less and the absurdity
of life. Might as well take that and put
it in writing. Actually, that's probably a really bad idea, but here we are.
I'd rather be compulsive with writing than with
murder, although murder would be more satisfying. At least I can turn the aggravation of the
pot-smoking housemate and the loud mouths on the block into possibly something
funny or I could murder them, and it would be funny to me (only). If I'm gonna be weird and on the fringe of
regular people, I might as well write.
Some people are compelled to do a lot of things like have sex or shop
too much. Since coronavirus there are
even more douchebags making YouTube videos. I'm sure the list of compulsions goes beyond
some simple indulgence at the mall.
There's a whole virtual world stimuli to get all wound up about. But I don't particularly like being on the laptop
and I don't care to participate in consumerism.
I often think of taking everybody out. My blogs have been about icing various
landlords and other people who truly have it coming to them. Think Kill Bill, Astoria New York. My new thing is I make iMovies about killing
other people’s ex-husbands. A friend
asked “are you ok?” Idiot.
It seems like it’s not worth it to be in New
York if you’re not coupled off. The cost
of living in NYC is too high. The nature
of roommates is hell. Landlords are
pieces of shit. I need a husband. Those women with soccer mom bowl hairdos have
husbands. I wonder if the prerequisite
of Gen-X nuptials is weird hair. This
also is true for North Jersey. I also wonder
if the prerequisite to live in North Jersey requires one to have a wardrobe of
garments that look like you raided Ru Paul's anal cavity.
No one reads this blog so I can write whatever I
want.
I'm obsessed with retro.
I’ve read that people who ruminate over the
past have a deep inability to accept the present. I've always had it; 50’s doo wop music, antiques;
shoes from the 40s. It's a compulsion
all by itself. I own three different
kinds of percolators. All of my
furniture is vintage. I have a 1920's
men's dresser that I love. It's
beautiful. I might need a trauma
therapist. I love thrift shops. My
ovaries sing Oh Danny Boy as I let my hand sift through the polyester
and faux fur 1940s hats at the local vintage shop. My new thing is I scroll through eBay on the hunt
for a mid-century sideboard, because obviously that will solve all my problems.
I also search for china cabinets because my mother had mental illness and left
when I was six and subsequently never owned one. I have a collection of vintage martini
glasses from the 50s. After previewing
my collection that I methodically unwrapped when moving into my brownstone, my
gay Haitian housemate said with open eyes "okay." When we became acquainted and he learned I hadn't
had a boyfriend in a very VERY long time, he exclaimed, "Now I get the cocktail glasses." The gays concur that it may not be mental
illness as much as a deep need within the soul to buy stock in eBay, or perhaps
have a sexual experience with a board member.
Can vintage shops serve as self-medication? Why did that question make me think of Carrie
Bradshaw? I’ve never lived in the
village in a brownstone, so Carrie Bradshaw I am not. My miliue is not current.
I should write about Tiger King to seem relevant but ah, no.
