I Pay No Attention To Red Lights

Before I'm even done with my meal, I've decided we're going to pick a fight with one of Austin's favourite sons. Before I even finish my first glass of wine, I already have the melody in my head, and it's anthemic proclamation. They have no idea the tactical assault I'm sketching in the back of my mind, all quiet-like, while we smile and talk of jobs and inane shit; while they fork through their pork tenderloins and gazpacho. I am planning to launch this in the coming months. At worst, it will give me something to do; at best, it will cause some sort of rip in the fabric, no matter how small or insignificant...one that makes people (specific people) take notice. All the great one's need a foil. Marianne Faithful, Sedgwick, Simon, Nico, Joplin, etc. Someone benefited from the back and forth dynamic...the competition. Although, I will admit, the thought of this annoys me...I really don't want to give her the satisfaction. Any of them for that matter...non-deserving sponges of attention. There's no reason to claim reason, but there is a reason for everything, and as it stands, there is a reason for this.

Reason #1: My infinite and incomprehensible sentimentality. It springs from a well that knows no regulation or fears no exhaustion.

I would do this in front of everyone. I would be completely oblivious to their averted scoffs and silent judgements. I would defy all the sound reason that well-adjusted people carry in normal social circumstantial behavior. I would do it if they'd all jettison judgment and just know that I was half-kidding and half-serious, so when it worked or failed, I could conveniently fall to one side of the fence or the other and we could all go on about our normal course. I would do it if I knew I wouldn't be some social pariah because of an excessive show of overt-sentimentality. But I suppose that's a boring concept in some circles. I suppose it's much more riveting to talk about mind-numbing TV shows, temporary jobs, uninteresting movies, shopping, stores, drinks, apartments, houses, condos, parties, parties, parties, drinks, people who aren't here, dear God.

I would throw down my napkin, shuffle around the table, politely excusing myself for inconveniently walking around these boringly sensible people and their delicious meals, and I would put my hands on her face and say, "I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I FUCKING LOVE YOU." Then I would kiss her on the forehead, under her newly red-streaked hair. I would turn and look everyone in the eyes like a wild man from some mountain hut. I would light a cigarette (INSIDE...she hates smoking) and then I would turn and walk out of the door, off into the night, under a streetlamp like some character in a James Dean flick. They would wonder why I didn't pay my check, if I was going to need a ride home, or if I was going to catch a cab. They would wonder if I was simply mad, or just collectively decide that I had gone completely batshit insane. You know...all the things people would concern themselves with if someone actually did what I would do. I would do it without regret. I would do it in a way that only I alone could, and she would see me. Maybe even wonder what it means.

Reason #2: The tendency, I've found, is to push the issue even when it's a dead-end street, on a fruitless plain, underneath a rainless cloud, on a starless night. I should probably find a way to stop this.

Because there's something truly romantic about a tragic, insecure girl. She needs to be "saved," right?! They need to be saved from the dark side of the world and all it's pointed barbs and thievery. Stealing and coaxing them into the dimly-lit back rooms and alleyways of the world. Assholes. They use tempting lures like fame and fortune to get the attention of those who need attention. Crave attention. Need it like oxygen in the lungs. It's amazing. And I need them in the same manner. Or at least I've partly convinced myself of that. Because I am the antithesis. I am the flashlight in the alley, waving my hand, "come this way...we'll get you into the light." I am the antiseptic that pours over the toxic scrape of the viper's fangs. I am the gigantic fucking hug in the middle of the thunderstorm like that uber-gay jewelry commercial. I am the roof over the head. I am the defibrillator in the middle of cardiac arrest. I am the rain in the middle of the desert. Or at least I've partly convinced myself of that.

Oh, of course I can psycho-analyze myself all the way through to the other side of myself. I know what would be said about it. I'm just trying to embrace it. The most important part though, is to keep what you really know about yourself inside. There's always someone willing to take, take, take. There's always someone there to call you crazy. So you're picky about what you show. Because in the end, it's yours. I'll have an outburst of sentimentality, and then withdraw in horror when I realize what I've done. I think people confuse it for being "emotional" or even "melancholy," but I don't think that's entirely accurate either. Everybody has those elements on some level or another. I think maybe it's more of an observational thing...and some are more in tune to it than others. I think it's something akin to how animals can pick up certain scents that we can't. Some of us are just programmed with more sets of sensitivity to certain stimuli than others.

When he's around, he always wins. That's why I'm picking a fight. When he's around, I'm invisible. It's no mystery.

Wankers

Posting political quotes on your Facebook account that you copy and paste off of Google, while at work, does not make you socially-conscious. I don't care how many of your retard friends reinforce your "wisdom" with their comments. Even if they do get into the double-digits. It's about as cool as being the best tracer in third grade.

Everyone That Mattered Went To Bed

And so it is. South By Southwest is LITERALLY efforting (in countless ways) to end me. There's only 15 ways to end a day. I chose one and did it. Yet I still stand, bloody, bruised, dizzy, and supremely happy!!

Walt Whitman, You Are a Friend of Mine

Bad Grammar Kills

It kills deader than dead. Errant and reckless, unchecked and negligent, indolent and hasty...it wrecks sentences. Complete sentences. These are not of my LOT! Fundamental exchanges ruined by shoddy workmanship, like a rusty knife might distribute. It's hard to prove a point with sloppy indignation.

I goddamn drank a whiskey, in genuine and sincere homage, inside the exact bar where Dylan Thomas drank his liver green and died shortly thereafter, because of my superlative reverance for the English language in it's correct and competent form!!!!!



I...........AM A FAN OF PROPER GRAMMAR.




**And apparently tequila, tonight.