The Tale of Scrotie McBoogerballs
Roommate made dinner last night. They made a delicious strawberry and arugula salad, pork chops, roasted vegetables, cous cous, and strawberry rhubarb pie for dessert -- plus ice cream. I had seconds on everything except for the pie. I felt pretty gluttonous afterward and decided I'd try to never do anything like that again. And I'm not running today because it's cloudy out. I was hungry at the time, though. I'd been told there was going to be a big dinner so I'd eaten accordingly. I'd had a slice before going to the MET and then a cookie at Tim Horton's after the MET because I had a huge pastry craving. Man, me and my sugar cravings. They're going to get me into a lot of trouble.
I'm listening to a couple audiobooks now. Horns by Joe Hill. The Tenant of Wildfell Hall by Anne Bronte, and Too Big to Fail by who knows. I was really enjoying Horns yesterday when I was listening to the first disc. He's a good writer--although a disgusting one. I've read some of his earlier stuff and it felt like reading The Tale of Scrotie McBoogerballs (just watched that South Park episode the other night). So much modern literature feels like The Tale of Scrotie McBoogerballs. I'm sick of feeling nauseated all the time. No wonder I go blissfully back to the Victorians! No sex. Very little violence. No bodily functions. That's a reason I don't like new books based in the past: it's all the affected language (badly) and all the pissing and puking and raping you'd want. I go back to Jane Eyre and am refreshed anew. I'm sure all that terrible stuff happened, I just don't want to read about it.
Speaking of The Tale of Scrotie McBoogerballs, I don't understand how come everyone gives Sarah Jessica Parker such grief about her looks. I think she's perfectly pleasing to look at. You'd think she was a monster, though. Poor thing. Hell, I'm much uglier than Sarah Jessica Parker. People are so cruel. I don't understand their cruelty. Just terrible. Why are people so wounded, that they're so cruel? I don't get that either. Maybe Freud was on to something with our mothers. I'll have to do some research into that.
I don't know what I want to do with my life. Everyone wants to write; everyone wants to be a studio musician. Everyone wants to have a piece at the MOMA. I was reading Sherlock Holmes last night and he said some pertinent things. Something about genius. Genius is just paying attention to crap that no one else wants to pay attention to. Genius is just practice practice practice. I agree with that.