I’ve taken a mightier interest in squares and rocking chairs this summer, in the collective unconscious of us all, and in the way Trey sprinkles gifts onto my ungrateful step-child of a soul. Shit’s getting real. good.

I bask in the rookie light.

Well, good luck brotha. See you in another life, yeah?

I’ll like this again one day.

Sitting at the bean, as usual, I’ve heard “Blackbird” for the 567483th time and it’s still my favorite Beatles song.

I think I’m going to turn this blog into the much anticipated “Bad DG” blog.

the Hobo Gospel Choir

We stay up so late, but we sleep in a real pile.

good ol’ frydaze

sometimes I smoke cigarettes in my room, the window’s up, but the whole place smells, and I’m just gambling with the smoke detector like I gamble with everything.
like I  live in the crunch.
like I settle for decent.
but knowing is the beginning, and when I see that I’m all about short-cuts and free shit, that’s fine, but it’s not best. I want to say I’m losing my delusions, now, laughing away at the things that used to make me cry.

saturdaze

Hey, BANJO. Where you goin’ with that gun in yo’ hand?

you’ll shoot your eye out, kid

(Typical 24 hours of A Christmas Story. My dad loves this.)

I guess my recent Clintonisms posts are just a cheap trick trade in for a little motivation, you know? I really do want to be regular, here, because successful blogs are updated; and at this point, this blog is pretty unsuccessful. I don’t even say anything, but who really wants to read some not-even-twenty-something’s pathetic rambling about her hometown and current angst, anyway? Those things belong in a real diary or on post secret post cards. I just try to make my life look funnier than it actually is. Pretty sad.

I’m too concise for proper blogging, anyway–too vague. too boring. Jesus, how selfish can I be on Christmas Eve? Raving about my own shortcomings, I should be ashamed, and the fact that I’m already dreading the mass “**MeRrY ChRiStMaS**” texts people like to send… Who am I to judge those up-and-down characters and extra asterisks? I don’t even deserve those. Surely they’ll realize it this year. All I do is look for distractions. I might just delete everything I’ve typed until now and leave that last sentence. Sometimes it takes a solid hour of obsessive typing to realize what’s been eating you alive for months.

Happy Christmas, Harry! I hope I can shake the weirdness in my brain.

clintonisms

FUMBLE (v.) to knock an object (or multiple objects) off a desk or out of the arms of another person, followed by shouting “FUMBLE,” and walking away. Commonly associated with turning a backpack inside out, replacing the contents and zipping it up quickly so the owner has to shamefully carry his newly cocooned bag to his next class.

Clinton breeds jerks.?

clintonisms

Dexxxxter: (n), an event in which a bowler achieves four strikes in a row, a step above the traditional Turkey. Coined after Dexter brand bowling shoes.

“My first Dexxxxter! Mom will be so proud!”

blog y’all

Got a large plastic cup in hand, somehow comforting when filled with good ice, not from my refrigerator, and cold Christmas coke. I wish I had more to say. The curse of the concise.