Experiment

I'm in such a crazy mood today, which I'll attribute to sleep-deprivation. But anyway, I'm wearing these tweed pants with really cool pockets and they're making me feel so... literary? I don't think that's an acceptable use of that word. I feel I should be wearing a matching vest with a pocket-watch and bow-tie, sitting in a loft at a type-writer, with my legs crossed, drinking coffee and smoking a cigarette. There are way too many commas and hyphens in that sentence. Not the point, though. For whatever reason, I have this overwhelming desire to be Jack Kerouac. Have you heard of stream-of-consciousness narrative? That was his jam, man. He loved it. And in case you can't tell, I'm trying it on for size right now. It's not pure, of course. I don't have his discipline, I don't have any practice. There are slight pauses. I still have to focus too much on the sentence I'm constructing to formulate the next in my head in order to write seamlessly. Maybe I'll practice, who knows? I'm thinking I need some kind of theme for now, though, so I'll tell you about the venture I just took to QT. I decided to walk to the gas station because I desperately wanted a popsicle. Walked because I'm low on gas. Irony? Moving on. It was like the Twighlight Zone, no joke. This is a nice neighborhood with nice homes, but apparently its inhabitants are crazy. I saw an old man watering his hedges in his underwear. Briefs... he was showing more leg than my underwear show. I shuddered again just thinking about it. Then I saw a guy in his mid-40s standing on his lawn in comic book print pajama pants drinking a glass of wine. One block over, the whole street was standing outside because a water main broke and everything's flooding. Are we still under the water-conservation mandate? The word fiasco comes to mind, and even though it sounds odd it seems appropriate. So. After this fiasco, not only will we be banned from watering our lawns and laundering our clothes, but they'll probably ask us to stop showering. While we're at it, we may as well just start drinking strictly Mt. Dew and Pepsi. The hill people in Kentucky do it, why shouldn't we? The only side effects are tooth decay, insomnia, developmental disabilities, and the loss of the ability to use proper English. I suppose few people around here know how to speak properly anyway, so it really wouldn't hurt us that much... Isn't any city in the Midwest just the country in a mask? Like...hillbillies in suits. We like huntin', fishin', football, beer, and brats. We hate liberals, Mexicans, atheists, and homosexuals. These are sweeping stereotypes and certainly don't hold true for most Tulsans, of course. Anyway, back to the popsicle. It was Starburst. Rainbow. It was delicious, but sometimes eating phallic foods makes me feel really awkward. Twenty-six and eleven twelfths and I still have the maturity of a middle-school boy sometimes. Oh well. That just completely shut down my train of thought... I wonder if Kerouac ever got writer's block in the middle of a writing session. I doubt it. He was too cracked out for his brain to ever pause, I think. And that sentence just caused me to think of Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. Hunter S. Thompson...what a freak. Speaking of freaks, this might be horrible to say, but I was wondering earlier how old Lady Gaga is. Is she 27 yet? Because I just have this feeling that she's not going to live very long. Obviously, I don't know anything about her personal life. She may not do any drugs. I really don't see how that's possible, though... I can't think of anybody right now who's really creative and doesn't do drugs. Or smoke pot at least. Honestly. Maybe that's why christian music sucks so much. Maybe christian artists aren't inferior, they just think smoking pot is immoral and that puts them at a huge disadvantage. Creatively speaking. Maybe they should reconsider. I bet God would rather them spoke pot, make awesome music, and reach more people than be so damn uptight. Too much pot talk... I wonder if taking a second to switch playlists would break my stream of consciousness and ruin this entire experiment? I really want to listen to The Kills. I've been totally obsessed lately. I'll put a link at the bottom when I'm finished writing. Just a note, I'm updating my blog right now because my absence as of late caused an uproar. And by that I mean a few people sent me messages asking when I planned to post again. The thing is, I always feel like such a douche updating my blog. Because who cares, right? I don't find my life all that interesting so I'm not sure why anyone reads this. Oh! Wait! Since I'm writing anyway, feeling like a douche, I'll give you a dating update. So... update: I'm dating this girl who's really pretty and really cool and I like her a whole lot. And I'm excited and giddy and nervous around her, and I'm fighting really hard not to be crazy. You know what it's like when you first start dating someone and you're really excited about it. There's a concert you want to go to in 3 months and you catch yourself just assuming you'll go together, then you freak out because your brain just decided you'll still be together in 3 months. It decided without you. And you daydream about laying in bed on a rainy Sunday afternoon, talking quietly and enjoying the storm. And you can't stop your mind from drifting to things like always having a date for everything, and always having somebody to talk to, and having someone anxiously waiting for you to get off work. Everything's all warm and new and exciting and scary. Terrifying, actually. You want to calm down, because what if you like them way more than they like you? What if it ends tomorrow and you're totally heartbroken and you feel like such a dumbass because you shouldn't be so into this so soon? And then you have tickets for that concert. Hopefully you didn't tell them about it yet, because it's only awkward if they know you were planning to go with them. Why am I saying "them"? Her. I'm out, I can say her. I liiiiiiike her. I'm excited. I hope she doesn't sense that I'm such a mess about all this. We're all nervous at first, right? Surely this nervous as hell, terrified of messing everything up thing isn't unique to me. Anyway. I guess the best thing is to hide the crazy from her, but allow myself to be excited. Because if it doesn't work out, it will beat the shit out of my heart whether I enjoyed the hype or tried to stifle it. Also, though, doesn't dating make you incredibly aware of how all your clothes fit you? I mean... I've never been so concerned about how my pants make my ass look. By the way, it looks really good in these tweed pants. The brilliant pocket placement helps a lot. And now that we've circled back to the pants, I think it's time to cut the feed.

Omg, that is ridiculously long. It's stream-of-consciousness, though... I'm not allowed to edit. It will probably bore anyone who dares read it to tears, but it was kind of fun. I haven't even read it - I'm just going to link to The Kills and hit publish. Uh-oh.