The Joy Division Christmas Special was a great success; now I’ve got a bunch of their lyrics burned into my brain, in particular these:
Today I accused someone of being a genius. He modestly denied it. He is wrong. But I get why he doesn’t like the idea.
If somebody said that to me after looking at a couple of my paintings, sure, my ego would be gratified. But secretly I’d be wondering what was wrong with them. I’d think they were over-idealizing me. And I’d feel the impulse to even the balance by telling them just how made of clay my feet are.
The responsibilities for being a genius are crushing. You’d have to walk around geniusing all the time, and you could never slip up, or people would think you never really were one at all. Who needs that kind of pressure?
Last night I had insomnia again, so I stayed up until 4 AM watching the most amazing film. The. Most. Amazing. Film. It was so good it hurt, and I still feel bruised. I would tell you all about it, but I’m so churned up inside I can’t write about it yet. All my words are stuck together in the doorway of my brain.
But I know you are all curious to see what it looks like outside my window, so here’s the view from my balcony today.
Found this scribbled on a notepaper on my desk:
“Of course people are delusional. I’m surprised they’re not even more delusional than they are. Delusion is the only thing that makes reality tolerable.”
Merry Christmas, you punk-ass bitches.
I need your help.
Last night while I was getting drunk with my landlady, she gave me a dish of something I can’t entirely identify. I’m kinda scared of it.
I’m pretty sure it came from a pig originally, but I’m not sure what part, and I’m not sure how long it hasn’t been refrigerated, or how to cook it, or what.
You decide its fate!