Meanwhile the rest of my life seems to be slowly deteriorating. Oh sure, I had a decent weekend. Went out with a friend to see "The Matador," a film with three great performances and a plot that self-destructs at the end, and stayed up until about 1 AM outside the New York Church of Scientology watching people come and go and speculating at whatever spectacularly creepy things were going on inside. One good weekend doesn't amount to much in the scheme of things. I just feel like things are headed in a downward direction and I'm not sure how to pull it up. This evening I had a small glass of whiskey and ended up surfing Itunes for crappy music from the 80's. You know how some people get drunk and end up waking next to a partner they really wish they hadn't slept with? I ended up with a downloaded copy of "It's My Life" by Talk Talk. That's right, Talk Talk. The thing about a single by a forgotten pop band is that you can't just throw up in one of its potted plants and hightail it back to your place with the hopes that in time you will forget. It lingers there, in CD form or on your hard drive, a permanent reminder of your indiscretion. Sure you could delete it, but that just compounds the shame. Not only did you put money into the coffers of the music executives but you now have nothing to show for it.
It's 99 flavors of sad.
My friend's dad called me fat, my recent attempts at putting words together resemble nothing so much as the amateur scribblings of a semi-retarded 43 year old grocery store stockboy (or a staff writer for Yes Dear, hard to tell the difference) and my resume on Monster.com is attracting as much attention as Nicole Ritchie at a wet-Tshirt contest.
At least I still have heartburn and excess flatulence to let me know I'm alive.