In saying "cuspidor"

Multi-tasking has, historically, been a rather strong suit of mine. I'm currently sitting in my Freehold bedroom blogging and chatting online on the Mac, watching Taxi Driver in the background, and attempting to download The Departed onto the Dell. Now, if I was any sort of sensible my prioritization list would include studying or working on the math project I have due on Monday. But of course, and equally historically, I do not.

This past week has had its ups and downs, that's for sure... and more than its allotted number of ambiguities and "what-the-fuck" moments. But last night kinda made it all go away. Cryptic? Sure. But it's not really so important what's got me like it does as it is... simply that it is. That's it's there in my life and in my recent history. To rewind and replay and mull over. I like things like that.

Am I the only one who thinks that apple pie with a slice of yellow cheese on it is about as American as child obesity? Patriotic. But for all the wrong reasons.

People wore crazy blazers in the seventies. I wonder if there's anywhere I can still buy one.

Seems the multi-tasking goes hand in hand with entering random stream-of-conscious mode. This entry is becoming strictly reactionary to what's going on in Taxi Driver. With about the grace of Robert DeNero's birthmark. Don't sweat it, Bob. It's very becoming. I promise.

I really am facinated with he concept of lying. With what motivates people to tell others things that either aren't true or fall within some degree of the truth. A lot of the time it's probably to impress. Or to create some false image of oneself in the eyes of those around him. It's gotta be indicative of a miserable self-esteem issue. To be so unsatisfied with yourself that you lie to assume something alternative. And then there are the instances in which people fuck up, or fuck around on each other, and that becomes a big lie. Not the mistake, or the affair. The relationship. It's complicated to operate a relationship in shades of grey. And really wishy-washy. But I guess that's why people fuck around on each other in the first place. Indecision. Selfishness? Irresponisbility or a disregard for committment or respect. Whatever. But I think that if someone sat in my taxi and told me that he was going to shoot his wife for cheating on him, I'm not sure I'd blame him.

I'm really in miserable shape. I shouldn't have had the trouble I did at frisbee today, keeping up with everyone and such. A decent arm only gets you so far, right? But being in good shape requires getting in good shape. Which requires devotion on top of motivation. It's one of those things that seems too distant. Too unattainable to be real. But still fervently desired enough to be bothersome. And thought about with enough frequency. But now I'm whining.

"Romance." It's kind of an icy word when you whisper it out loud. And "love." Those end-"v" sounds have a real edge to them. But "gossamer," "wisteria," "oleander" and "dulcemer." Those are beautiful words.

And "home."


Bomb the Blogosphere,
Mike