Wednesday, September 24, 2003

It's now official. I have finally run out of things to say. I need inspiration. I need a muse (preferably, an aging cultist with a criminal past). But what I really need is people to laugh at. That's why I'm looking forward to this party on Friday. My plan is to arrive late, as to capture everyone in their drunken revelry. Because who doesn't like drunks professing their love for everyone. Or people high discussing why American money is green (George Washington was obviously a drug dealer and Martha, his bitch). When life imitates art, ah, that's when the fun begins. I think being absolutely sober is ironic at a drug-laced party. I mean, isn't watching moronic behaviour more surreal than actually partaking in the removal of your panties for cheese and strudels? It's like Salvadore Dali, with less depth. Andy Warhol, without the irony. And Pamela Anderson, before she posed for Playboy (man, there was a time before that?). Which leaves you with ... nothing. Teenagers are just naturally fond of shakin' it, not breakin' it, 'cause it took mama 9 months to make it.

I'm also travelling across Europe for 20 days, next month. So maybe, I'll return with a more diverse range of culturally offensive things to say.

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