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March 8, 2010

Sorry, I know I kind of dropped the ball on the Olympics, but if you know my track record I don’t finish a lot of things. I knew the Canadians would come through and validate their nation’s obsession. Otherwise, my interest kind of petered out. I didn’t even see the closing ceremonies, but I’m sure there was plenty of non-Olympic related choreography and weird ethnic insertions. I love that about the opening and closing ceremonies of the Olympics. There’s always a deluge of whatever the host countries’ cultural icons are. Like in China there was the 100o drums and lots of dragons and pandas and fireworks. Likewise, in Canada there was a lumberjack cutting down a tree and tossing it to a bear that made it into a hockey stick, and then an eagle pinched an Indian, and his tears became the ice, and then a salmon made a puck out of an Obsidian cliff. I’m not sure if that actually happened, but I definitely saw Native Canadians, which they call First Nations people, and by putting them in the ceremony they imply some reverence, but they don’t. They treat them like us, and ignore the fact that the majority of indigenous people live in poverty, and are inflicted by alcoholism, domestic violence, and diet related disease. Then we act like we teach our kids something by telling a story about a raven and the moon, like that actually helps. It would be the same kind of cultural education we’d garner by teaching children that Scandinavians were still afraid of trolls. Then like an asshole, I am in a bar, yelling in some poor Norwegian girl’s ear about how I saw a PBS special about it.

I am the kryponite of getting laid. I know I’m on the rebound, so I’m kind of rusty, but honestly with how often people tell me I’m good looking, to how often people let me touch their naked parts, I have to concede my horrible skills at tricking women into intimacy. I don’t know what it is, but the anxiety I feel when even trying to say hello to a girl is something that would be appropriate for a chubby 13 year old with glasses and a limp. I think it was booze that did me in, cause I started drinking at a pivotal age, and instead of harnessing a self-esteem, and sustainable life practices, I got really good at drinking forties and finding the drunkest girl to slap tongues with until my memory synapse stopped firing. Now without alcohol I’m like a superhero without his powers, and women are like bad guys beating me up. Maybe my approach is wrong.  This bout of solitude is no different and in the past few weeks I’ve successfully botched a number of moments where studs or normal men would’ve gone to make out city. Now I know that we’re adults, and healthy individuals wouldn’t be seeking ephemeral thrills, but I just got out of a two and a half year relationship, so maybe I want to sully my name for a bit, while I let my wild horses run the range. That was a beautiful metaphor for casual sex. I just can’t believe there isn’t a woman out there that wants to make the same kind of bad decisions I do. Its New York, there’s a black tranny with a beard that votes republican, maybe two of em.

I apologize, this is a surly Monday morning. I’m working out the logistics of my couch-surfing life, which is looking like a three month endeavour, and since I’m a creature of habit, and an organized individual, I’m trying to refine all the possessions so that my life can be simple and easy. I do like the prospect of that, cutting down all the shit I’ve accrued over a lot of years. Relationships make us hoarders, you have all this shit, with only sentimental value. There’s a box of things like receipts and napkins, and logic would suggest you throw them away, but your brain says you can’t throw that napkin away, its from the time you wiped spaghetti sauce of her chin at Lombardi’s. I never took her to Lombardi’s. I’m going to put everything I can into a tiny bag, and then I’m going to burn the rest, a ceremonial burn and as the ashes float into the heavens so will the burdens of excess and false relevance.

Is this just coffee I’m drinking?

I didn’t even mention the Oscar’s. I think I am sick of writing about them already since I tried to live tweet them lastnight, but hurrah Katherine Bigelow. You made a great movie.

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