times, measures

another lonesome day in the life of a miserable old fool.
and now, even though i desperately suckle the teat of sleep like a fawn yearning for that sweet, delicate nectar of the dreamworld to quench my insufferable consciousness, i find myself utterly shorn.

i, actually, unbelievably, collected leaves. and painted them. and threw them away. along with the dozens of other drawings, paintings, artistic masturbations and meaningless rubbish i fiddled and fretted about with today.

ooh this curse! cursed with the attitude of a child and the patience of a cabby. i'm crude, i'm surly, i'm sober, and my heart hurts.

day one of quitting smoking. ooff.

tomb it may concern

dear Daft Punk,

as of your show at the Greek Theater last weekend, i haven't been able to hear out of my left ear.
it's like dying.
my customers have to repeat their drink orders at least three times, my thoughts echo in my own head, and judging from the looks i receive in Bookshop, i've also been gaging the volume of my "inside" voice incorrectly.

thanks. jerks.

to make it up to me, you can come play my house. or please send me a custom light-up robot suit. no tees.

epicly serv'd,

britta