I needed to renew my cell contract, which always feels vaguely like a robbery I take joy in being complicit in even though I could swear I can feel the actual physical trauma of rape taking place. I got a free phone upgrade to an iPhone 3GS, which isn’t the newest one or the second-newest one as of yesterday, but that’s okay, it’s a superb device–it will mostly temporarily satisfy all my materialistic cravings, which is really one of my main flaws as a ‘good character’ but it holds up under my criteria for vices, which is not to have any that have a better than 40% chance to cause cancer early and bad enough to kill me outside of a 10-year or so buffer around whatever the current average lifespan is. So, basically, no smoking or excessive drinking, most else seems to be fair game. I think anything less bad than smoking feels ‘ethically mostly fine’ as far as this goes. iPhones probably give us brain cancer, but we don’t know about it yet so it’s okay. I don’t know why I just wrote that, I don’t really believe it, it just seems like what people generally say and other people nod with that hollow quarter-smirk of ‘Yeah everything is out to fuck and/or kill us, what’dya do?’
So I’m refreshing my tracking page a lot because it’s festive-seeming, I know that it’s likely within 48 hours I’ll be less excited with my iPhone than I am right now waiting for it, but that’s okay, it seems ‘healthy’, only ‘unhealthy’ in the way people think things are unhealthy but approve of them anyway, like saying ‘It’s unhealthy I’m on Facebook so much!’ or ‘I only watch Hoarders to feel better about my own life, that probably makes me a bad person!’ and these things are true but ‘human’ so it’s ‘just how we’re wired’, or something.
I’m reading an ARC of Megan Boyle’s new book, out from Muumuu House, and it’s really good, it makes me feel like writing and it makes me feel less lonely, or at least less lonely in feeling lonely mostly all the time, which I’m realizing might be my only genuine criteria for writing; I feel like maybe I don’t really care about what goes into that effect as long as I can ‘believe in it’.
Feels weird to be posting this, I haven’t written a ‘bloglike blog’ in a really long time. The kind that seems like what people hate about my generation, which is to say we feel important enough that we blog and tweet about our weird but average banalities as if people care. I don’t think people really care, I don’t think most people who do those things think people care or are waiting ravenously, it just makes them happy.
My goldfish ‘Bloomberg’ died. He was named after the Glass family cat in the Salinger fiction-world. Today feels like a day where Zooey’s voice is narrating my life for me and I wish people around me could hear it.
Feeling vaguely ‘comedic’ because my stats thing is telling me people are coming to my blog because of my belligerent posts on Montevidayo, they’re going to come here and I hope laugh at my stupid self-indulgent post or my poorly-articulated book reviews, they will feel better about discounting my posts over there, which I enjoy because of watching people get really uppity about being discounted as they mill around with people that think like they do with explicit similarity as they themselves discount others for laughably self-righteous and lazy reasons. We’re all basically pieces of shit, I wish more people acted like they know that, and did that same quarter-smirk thing. Feels like it would be ‘progress’.
white walls / black ink 