March Something

     Hello readers, writers, dreamers—flighters. It's been a little while since we've checked in on this bloghouse. Fuck, are the Christmas decorations still up? Someone pass me the eggnog. USE BY: JAN 15. That not too bad, right? Cheers.

     It's March Something; it's probably between 35-57 Fahrenheit degrees out, but I'm going to properly observe the outside world through the reflections of this recently-dusted laptop screen. Fractal tree limbs and other visual stimuli.

     My friend Celestaphone released his 87th album this week, the beautifully tragic Portrait of a Harlot. Send him some shekels in my name please.

     I've been listening to a lot of Sharon Van Etten, who is supposedly from my town. Try Our Love and fall in love ... with the delicate arrangements, you lonely perma-virgin.

     Updates and slut-tapes, what else you fuckface? Whoops, wrong blog. We livin'. Just like my Peach on Dreamland. Just like my Kirby on, uh—anyway.

     Spring is in the cards, my boys & grills. If my calculations are correct, in about two weeks it should be 63° every single day until June. We'll write novels about the struggles of being white in this increasingly colorful world. At the end, our white protag will befriend a not-entirely-white persona non grata and learn key things like "empathy" and "slavery was bad." In our last scene our colored comrade will unfortunately die so our Caucasian hero feels max suffering.

     N. E. Way. Fin. I'll return soon as spring returns to unfreeze my creative inclinations. For now, I'm off to discover music, in order to prep my conservational arsenal for any dreaded "social outing[s]."