In a theater ~10-12 min before the 8:40 p.m. showing of harrowing foreign film next to ambivalent date in awkward silence who resents you for having to read subtitles on a weeknight.
Read as little as possible literary criticism; they are petrified and meaningless; can’t send any books: I’m broke, sorry.
The sodomy was clinical in nature, and thus concede to using the word with liberty.
Maybe if I name drop Thelonius Monk at a party I might get someone’s number, some girl impressed by absurd classist things. This is how things seem to work.
The year is 1882, before the internet, and people had a lot of extra time to think. German philosopher and downright misanthrope Friedrich Nietzsche, in The Gay Science (§ 125) says “Gott ist tot,” meaning God is dead (not a tater tot).
LL Cool J — I liked how he kept licking his lips in “Going Back to Cali”; seemed like obsessive compulsive disorder, but since he’s a stud no one called him out on that.
If there’s a Great Band No One Has Ever Heard Of, then I’m sure I’ll hear about it within two months, or six months, on Pitchfork, or Spotify, or freaking VH1 a year later. I don’t care. I don’t mind being one year behind. Duh, that’s what “timeless” means.
I felt neutral toward him; “just another bro,” I thought, imagining bros growing on trees in an opulent bro orchard, sprayed with cologne like pesticides.
This morning, for about an hour, Twitter was “so down” even the Fail Whale was missing. When a website is still able to present their specially designed “down” page, you know it’s still sort of working.
Because doors open at 8:00, which means it really opens at 8:27, given the ingratiating oddly entitled casualness of these kinds of chronically latent events…