This photo makes me feel so uncomfortable, its excellent.
The new Mount Eerie is blowing my fucking mind, I suggest listening to it. It'll be the perfect fall record. Phil Elverum is quiet but immense. His voice never breaks out of that space, even when the noise under it explodes. No music better describes how my brain works.
District 9 is probably one of the best movies I've seen recently. I kind of gave up on current movies having any impact on me whatsoever.
I don't know how to function on streets full of people wearing fedoras and high-waisted skirts and big glasses, pulling their vintage bikes along sidewalks. If I spend more than 20 minutes on the internet I get frustrated at the levels of irony going on. Ironic ironic irony/satire/what? and the number of 'post-posts' added onto the everything and the ever-receding levels of meta-bullshit. I feel that the last two years of my life have consisted in people whining about me "not living my life to the fullest" and "allowing anxiety to hold me back" as though their version of "living life to the fullest" is somehow preferable. I'm sick of beating myself up for not buying into some lifestyle brand obsession, a capitalized version of Youth that somehow requires I avoid difficult relationships and start taking artsy pictures of myself to post on facebook and network with other "like-minded creative individuals" and smoke weed and drink myself to oblivion on the weekends. None of that shit has ever made me happy, and I'm sick of people acting like it should, and if I could only "take life less seriously" I'd be a lot "happier" whatever the fuck that means. The more happy I am with myself, the more contempt I feel for society and the less I'm willing to buy into other people's bullshit versions of happiness. And its not some profound angsty contempt about whatever, the loss of meaning, blah blah blah. It's just a lingering fatigue. I'm finding peace in small things, like succint lines in Jacqueline Rose's theory and subtle movements in songs and my hands running over vegetables in Koreatown markets and Italian opera heard all the way down Queen from Dundas and men with scarred hands stopping me in Kensington to trade cigarettes and tell me I'm beautiful.