Still waters

So last night at some fake Mex restaurant I discovered among other things that I believe without question in the Immaculate Conception and the Holy Trinity. Could be because I'd got my tax return and some other good news that morning. What was it? Something nice . . . ah, who knows. Such is the ephemeral quality of joy and BLAH BLAH BLAH.

FUCK EVERYONE TODAY.

4 star pisser, people. Last weekend Luke Duke and I were discussing the gap between most people's public personas - the face or role they create because they feel it's the most acceptable way to approach the world, in terms of their jobs, their visible interactions, their clothes, et cetera - and their actual selves. How this gap could create or facilitate a neurotic state. He sorta giggled - you know, in a manly way, giggling isn't the word, let's say he chortled - and said he doubted I was making much of an effort to give myself a neurosis by creating a widely acceptable public persona. He's probably right. I will say this though: sometimes I get really, really tired of considering other people at all. I know that sounds awful, but I get tired of them considering me too.

I have a feeling there were two types of prehistoric men - the sort who ran around in flanges like baboons, chattering and sticking their fingers up each other's asses to say hello, and the sort who sat in caves by themselves banging rocks together and humming with no-one but a pet tiger, a sexual partner, and occasional offspring to interrupt their solitude and repertoire. And the second one may have been more dominant in the incredibly unlikely combination of genetic factors that eventually produced me. Because honestly, I'm not even riding the dragon and I could still head-butt a nun this morning. I'd feel bad afterwards, though.