HOW I CAN ARGUE WITH THE MAN WHO'S GOT THE MONEY IN HIS HAND
This is one of those moments when I feel impelled by something in my veins to do something, to really write a letter, to really write something for my zine, or here, or to really talk to somebody. To grab somebody's shoulders and look them in the eyes and say something, finally, after thousands of years of bullshit. There is no music fast enough or loud enough or manic enough for me to get some of this released. Elvis Costello comes close, but everything else just makes my legs twitch ineffectively. I should be getting ready for the show right now instead of hopping around my room and putting on this shirt, that shirt, this scarf, that belt, and screaming "Bone Machine."
God, I love coffee so much.
But I would be leading you astray if I made it sound like this is just the product of two cups of black coffee. Because that isn't it. I feel like this much of a time bomb when I talk to Megan after class about authenticity and performativity, and we both GET IT. In a huge, big, way. There is, finally, no need to shout and it rules. I don't feel the need, at least at the moment, to explain to myself why I bother having a zine, or bother reading others. Or any of the other things I do that every 19 year old kid does, like writing letters and getting all jacked up about books that I'm reading. I'm loving it at the moment.
This is one of those moments when I feel impelled by something in my veins to do something, to really write a letter, to really write something for my zine, or here, or to really talk to somebody. To grab somebody's shoulders and look them in the eyes and say something, finally, after thousands of years of bullshit. There is no music fast enough or loud enough or manic enough for me to get some of this released. Elvis Costello comes close, but everything else just makes my legs twitch ineffectively. I should be getting ready for the show right now instead of hopping around my room and putting on this shirt, that shirt, this scarf, that belt, and screaming "Bone Machine."
God, I love coffee so much.
But I would be leading you astray if I made it sound like this is just the product of two cups of black coffee. Because that isn't it. I feel like this much of a time bomb when I talk to Megan after class about authenticity and performativity, and we both GET IT. In a huge, big, way. There is, finally, no need to shout and it rules. I don't feel the need, at least at the moment, to explain to myself why I bother having a zine, or bother reading others. Or any of the other things I do that every 19 year old kid does, like writing letters and getting all jacked up about books that I'm reading. I'm loving it at the moment.
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