Tuesday, October 25, 2005

The hidden joys of queuing

Art by Joseph Vargo
I was waiting in the Post Office the other day to pay some bills and get a parcel. It was the one with the Vargo art book. (Nipples harden and breath catches; goths will be goths...) In my backpack was Poison Elves #6, and from time to time I'd glimpse inside and smile knowingly. My coherent thinking consisted of the fact I was too grumpy and sleepy (I hate waking early in the morning) and that as soon as I was back home I would roll my body all over the pages of the art book. The only other trail of thought I could follow with some success consisted of a string of swearwords related to me working endless hours daily, and something immensely insulting concerning capitalism, money, responsibilities and adults. They feed people with success stories which mostly consist of somebody being able to buy whatever one wants. But what does one really need? Substitutes of happiness in the form of things amassed around one? A new mobile every three months? A happy family with two kids and a dog? (Personally, I would swap this anytime for a little talk with Mr Marilyn Manson; I have spotted a few surviving brain cells which I want to eradicate from existence. Meh.) Empty promises of fame with one's naked body as a passport? Where does this stop?

Capitalism, success stories and priorities my arse. Which is neither big nor hairy, but adequate for the needed statement.

Monday, October 17, 2005

Drooling (in secret)

Saw one of my ex today, the one I could end up in jail for dating by age difference alone. Kiddo looks good. Big lie. Kiddo looks downright gorgeous, making me wonder what drugs the creators were on when they added the finishing touches. Whatever it was, it was some fucking good shit, you know? They should buy from the same dealer a whole lot more often. Anyway, kiddo says he owes me a hug, and I have to admit I am tempted to ask for more. It's really hard to still be mad at him, though he sometimes does have the tendency to let his mouth flap unchecked. What do you expect, woman? He is only 19, godsdammit. Well, I have stopped trying to be mad a long time ago. I just can't. He makes me proud just by being himself: tall, gorgeous, smiling like a kitten, so very intelligent. His thirst for life betrays his true age. Oh, fuck it. He grows up and I grow old, but can't help but smile whenever our paths cross. Keep up the good work, kid. Kick them in the nuts. Way to go luv.