This weather is unholy.
I can’t even with this. Autumn, my ass. A good weekend to stay my ass inside. I should eat Caprese salad and binge-watch television.
Orrr, turn off all the lights and worship The Dark Side of the Moon from the carpeting, which I shall, in the moment, pretend is shag.
Ooh, or get wasted on margaritas and write a novel that completely defines what it’s like to live in America right now.
Everyone’s online, posting photos of their last suppers, offended by slaughterhouses instead of genocide. Old enough to know better, still confusing love and sex, but with more beards and tattoos. Everyone’s anxious, depressed, or both. Everyone’s lookin for a fix. Those who need it most can’t afford tequila or benzos or excessive chocolate cake because their health insurance costs more than their rent, but it only covers twelve therapy sessions a year, and they gotta save up those appointments for November and December, like their finest perfume, booking ahead to get through the holidays when they’re guilted into mashing potatoes with the family members who abused them. So they work and they fill out paperwork and they go to the gym and post selfies and caption that Hustle and drink all the coffee and never, ever sleep and when they do, they dream of the world as it is and wake longing for death, revolution, dystopia …
BUT THE ART IS GOOD.
I never said it would be an inspirational novel. Chicken soup for your soul, but the chickens are rabid, the noodles are gluten-free, and instead of carrots and celery, it’s just shards of colored glass.
Do you know sometimes I’m accused of being a Pollyanna? Of being too optimistic?
Fuck that noise.
I walk this earth like the light I am, but I see all its darkness.
Since you might not be blessed with my relentless hope, and you might not live for the arts, let me tell you some things that cheer me right up:
- It could be worse
- I am loved and so are you
- It’s Friday
- Winter is coming
- Tequila is on sale somewhere
Happy Friday Everyone!