It’s cruel that life is so short. One hundred years is hardly enough time to make a dent on our interests. I know that there are some people who think that life is too long and depressing and awful, but I have always loved living.
I entered what I can only describe as an old abandoned asylum. There were no people there. There were no sounds aside from the humming of the lights. There was an overwhelming foreboding of something gone wrong. I simply assumed that I had entered from the back and would soon find the rest of the caucus. I was wrong and I realized this is why people always die in horror movies. It is so easy to make a dumb mistake.
Monday:Why don’t you commission an artist to paint a recreation of your favorite painting in the Louvre or from whatever museum you haunt? I’ve long been enchanted by David With […]
This triptych of information absolutely captivated me and I wanted so badly for it to be a print that I could buy and hang in my home. What was the artist trying to convey? Why did they spend so much time on this particular compilation of images and information. Were we to read that the Church is operated by the Reptilians? Are we supposed to infer that the Church lures us in like Pennywise? Are we supposed to understand that the Illuminati runs the world? Is there more than that or is that everything? I’m just obsessed and I need to know more.
If you’ve read more than one of these blog posts you’ll know my deep and true desire to be a hay farmer in rural Romania. (Don’t worry, there’s more on that coming up!) Oh there would be nothing more joyful than baling hay all day and thinking of nothing but hay. Hay, hay, hay! It’s not to be, but one of these summers I swear to you I’ll vanish into the night, turn up in Brașov, and then make my way to the countryside to train as a hay farmer. I’m quite serious.
The other people watched me go with a mixture of shock and awe. They were more than willing to wait the rain out, and as I reflect on this day, I don’t know why I was so unwilling. I was determined to get home for some reason. There was probably some food for me there that I was looking forward to gorging myself on. That’s really the most reasonable conclusion. So I stuck my poor little suede boots outside of the protection of the Palacio and nearly gasped as the weight of the water crushed me.
Monday: Why don’t you buy those fabulous Keurig pods from Starbucks that have twice the amount of caffeine in them? I have long been opposed to these pods, even though […]
I feel that I have steered myself through life using my own thoughts, instead of the divine guidance of a deity. Probably why I never became a monk, even though I’ve considered it with regularity. I think if there had been a few simple changes in my early life I would be living in a monastery right now, never experiencing the world, never learning about the great and glorious cultures that have risen and fallen and continue to grow, never setting foot on new continents, never eating grasshoppers or good French baguettes. And I get the hideous feeling in the back of my mind that were I a monk, I would be utterly and perfectly content.
I don’t care how beautiful you think puffy piles of crystalline snow are. I don’t care about your cozy sweaters and your hot tea and your crackling fires. I don’t care about skiing or or parkas or that Scandinavian concept of Hygge that all the hipsters and wine moms have adopted. I don’t want anything to do with it. To me, as I’m sure you know, winter is a hellish misery of frozen doors and chilled fingers and darkness and eternal misery.
I sat in the courtyard with my churros, a bottle of tequila, and a bag of cat treats. Patron and Little Chiffon were laying beside me and then the church bell tolled midnight. I took a shot of that deliciously cheap tequila and petted the kittens and then all of a sudden I was 28.