Monday, February 27, 2006
I am really melancholy. I'm not sure why. My mother claims it is "the birthday blues," but I think it is more like "my life sucks-stock." It's like Woodstock, only with zoloft instead of reefer, and crying instead of crowd-surfing. And the music consists of a constant whiny droning that is less like Jimi Hendrix and more like the buzzing of impending insanity. Hmmmm, this analogy is getting awkward. But let's continue, shall we? I kind of feel like my brain is one giant, muddy intersection of gross, naked 1960's bodies. Like I am being suffocated by the flabby tattoed shank of an intoxicated lady named Rainy Racoon MoonBlossom. Whatever, I am going to move to Berlin and become a popular bar wench with colorful stories of the old country. And no one is going to judge me. Because, as we all know, the Germans are a very tolerant people. Everyday will be like "Cabaret." Perhaps if I summon the spirit of good ole' Liza Minnelli, it will catapult me into a better mood. What am I saying? She is a spooky, Jacko fellating-mess.