ennui

On only the third day of maintaining a blog, I'm beginning to understand why writers write so many self-serving pieces about writer's block. I'm pretty sure Gwen Stefani has a big hit to that effect at the moment. I think I'll submit an article to an academic journal titled, "This postmodern article refers to itself" and see if I can pull off a similar trick.

It really blows my mind how self-indulgence is held up as such a model. It is for this reason I cannot bear to watch Oprah Winfrey interview anybody. I also cannot bear to hear George Bush claim that he believes in accountability. Sure, he believes in it for teachers and migrant workers. But, the reins need to be pulled in on the SEC, wild fucking renegades they are.

Anyway, feeling low on inspiration and time I've chosen to post a slightly edited version of something I wrote a long time ago. I worry that I'm dipping into my coffers too soon, but I'd like to end each post with the sort of satisfaction I ended yesterday's with. Soon, I'll have more time and hopefully original, quality material will become the norm. Either that or I'll be writing a post about adjusting expectations. Here goes...


Run as fast as you can,
For Friday Night.
Your Night.
To do what they want you to do.
To hide and forget,
To avoid the embarrassment,
Of Sunday Night's Dream.
Of your finger pointed at a dark infinity.
A scream that does not come from you, But is you.
You have not fulfilled the promise of my childhood.
I want another shot of Botox.
I want the Family Values Meal.
I want to fuck enlightenment.
I want to eat God.