So much is happening in my brain/life right now: it’s hard to write. I’m going to get meta here and talk/write about how hard it is to write. Try to stick with me.
I miss my friends who live far away (I’m looking at you, Trails). I miss my parents, who don’t live that far away (I’m looking at you, Mom and Dad). I’m happy about and overwhelmed by all of the goodness that is flooding my life right now, creatively, personally, inter-personally. I wish that Alex was still in my living room when I come home in the evenings, and I wish I had some chicken soup/stew right now. I want people to come visit me, I want to get cable, I want to produce more shows, and I want a puppy. I can have all of those things but one.
Baby Alice exists. Thank God.
The Mountain Goats exist. Thank God.
My life is virtually shithead-free and overall low-stress, and I don’t know what to do with myself. I’m going soft in my old age: I spend my days squishing cute baby-cheeks and my nights watching/writing funny things, and hanging out with awesome people…and more babies. My apartment is broken, but it’s mine, and it’s big enough to always have someone in my guest room.
I fear that if I don’t get at least a little of my cynicism back, I won’t have anything to brood/write about. I fear that I might actually like Lady Gaga too much. I fear that I am guided by fear, and that will be the death of me. I want to play scrabble. I have a best friend who is so good at me, it makes me want to cry. I know a lot of awesome people named Carrie. I have nothing to complain about.
Shit. I have nothing to complain about.
Open Door Art Collective 