Today is one of those days where I can't tell if I'm living in Portland or just visiting. I also think that this city aims to drown me.
Mike is in town. We had drinks last night. The stuff I ate yesterday will go unnamed. My body feels like a giant frown. Or a frown with a question mark. Or an incredulity mark. That should be real punctuation. My lungs feel like they are slowly filling with a collection of Portland's shittiest raindrops.
I have been too reliant on DayQuil and NyQuil lately. Or their off-brand equivalents with names like "Night Time" and "Day Time." If they made it, I'd probably be drinking AfternoonQuil and EveningQuil. This cold is making gravity feel more effective.
When bad things happen, my body turns on me. Probably something to do with my avoidance techniques. Maybe I'm just rusty.
And man, "shit's just fucked up, you know?" That's my inadequate response to recent terrible shit. It's what I just told Kurt on the phone. It's not that I don't believe in what I say, it's just that I wish I could formulate something a little bit more eloquent, but that would probably just make me seem like an asshole. I guess I'm just going to blog like this--talk shit out--until I feel a little better. For an indefinite period, this blog will function much in the same way as a 16 year old's livejournal.
The piece of certified mail from the IRS waiting for me at the post office seems like a fucking joke, I might just light it on fire or fuck a hole through it or something. We'll see! I doubt Vimeo will let me post a video of me fucking a hole through certified mail. Because it's certified mail, duh.