Michel Gondry + David Chappelle equals good

I bought Block Party last night at Big Lots for three bucks. I was in Big Lots because, well, Big Lots totally kicks ass. You can get food for dirt cheap there, and every once in awhile you can get a totally choice cd or dvd for like 2 bucks. In this case, I got Block Party. Oh, and Rollerball. An 80’s post-apocalyptic action adventure centered around a death match based in, shocker, a rollerderby. I told Natalie I brought it back from the future, and that it was a documentary made in 2012. She read the back to me and told me it was “energetic, fresh, and fascinating.” I know that’s exactly how I’ll describe the apocalypse. At least American Apparel won’t exist anymore. Or the GOP. Did you catch that? That was me being kitsche.

So then I came home and was determined to work on an 8 page research paper. The end result; I stayed up all night watching MTV’s NEXT and infomercials, reading about the demise of counterculture. Here’s what I say; I’m just going to become Ernest Hemmingway. Sorry Natalie. Sorry endangered African animals. Sorry Gertrude Stein. I just have to though. I have to forsake material possessions and bullshit media and the thick of self-obsession. I mean, I’ll still be like your average artsy, 30th century, neo-hipster, lolcatz loving twentysomething when I grow up. I mean, shit, I’ll have a cat. But instead of one, I’ll have 100. And create my own race of them. Of course I can’t drink (something that is definitely lacking in these all night sessions these days), but if I did I wouldn’t just drink. I wouldn’t even just drink to alcoholism. I would drink to constant desperation, filled with the immortal power of raw manhood. I would go into the final stages of alcohol poisoning, hallucinating my eyes out, but still finding the sanity to rake my yard, watch a football game, cook a steak, and then sweat the fever out. I wouldn’t give one shit about a damn. I’d move to a foreign country and love it, until it became cool, then I’d tell everyone they’re silly and go kill big game in the Savannah. My writing would boil down to the barest of essentials, leaving nothing but a story, devoid of intention and meaning. And when you try to find either of those things, I would laugh and tell you to give up.

Because, really, Ernest Hemmingway is, and always will be, the true measure of man.

My morals don’t allow me to attempt to fully live up to his stature, and I’m silently thankful for that. I can’t fathom actually attempting to love the world like he did. This is both a saving grace, and a disappointment. C’est la vie. La vie est morte.

I also ordered free blessing bread from an evangelical infomercial this morning. It’s called miracle manna. Holiness is the tits.

So now I’m going to go run, sans music (an entirely new concept to me), take a shower, and get to work in time for Rob to give me some real assignments. And hopefully, I’ll create some awesome copy and hopefully I’ll get a raise and I’ll fly abroad on BYU’s ticket. Now THAT. Would be the tits.