--I shouldn't ever write about people that I know or people that might read my blog. But I do anyway. And I will continue to do so. Because what is freedom of speech if I can't say what I want about my friends or my friends' friends or my friends' husbands or anyone else? In the last writing workshop I attended, there was an entire class period spent discussing if it's OK or not OK to write about your family, your lovers, your friends, or your colleagues. This sort of blew my mind. I don't see why I should have to hesitate to creatively, or not so creatively put something out there. If I think my father used to be a jerk, then I can say it. If I believe that the United States of America is in the shitter and doing nothing whatsoever to drag itself back to the top of the hill, then I can tell everyone. The truth is what people want to hear anyway, even if they don't know you, or your father, or that guy in your life that destroyed you for a while. And as a writer of what is true and apparent and ample and raw, I will tell everything and spare no detail.
--Sarah Palin represents everything that I hate about the American people. The feigned interest. The shallow belief system. The following of everyone who is bold enough, but not necessarily intelligent enough, to lead. Bouffants. Fashion trends. Against contraception.
I could go on...--This just in...work culture continues to be a complete and total joke, companies reap benefits and screw staff members, we go on feeling we are throwing our life away doing something for someone else 5 days out of every week, maybe more. And it's because we are.
--I love eggs benedict. A good one can be the most balanced dish in all of culinary arts. I remember being afraid of it when I was younger. I think I associated it with that
Francis Bacon painting, which is both beautiful and horrifying. I can't poach an egg to save my life. Someone told me that the key is to put it in a coffee cup first. I still don't know exactly what this means, but hope to find out someday.
--All of life should be lived in Cape Cod, lying on a beach with the breeze. And then you get up for a while to nail some sweet waves, dude. You get back to your beach blanket and stretch out under the sun with a book that you never had time to read before, or a dirty magazine, or the local newspaper that has "news" about sandcastle contests and oyster-shucking champions. Cracking a cold beer open, you hold the can up to your face and wish for... well, nothing else really. Except for maybe a basket of fried clams and a chocolate milkshake.
--Postseason baseball is awesome (not a recent discovery, but something that needs to be said). Although I do sort of miss
my local commentators.
--People who don't like animals should kill themselves.
I shudder to think what a fifteen pound burger would do to my insides, and for what period of time it would continue. Gross. That medium sized dude, who looks like he spends ample time in the sun and is maybe attractive and normal enough to get laid and possibly even have a wife and family, ate a fifteen pound burger in less than five hours. Kickass. That fifteen pound burger would feed a family in Afghanistan, Ethiopia, or the streets of many American cities for months, maybe even a year. Offensive.
