What does a wildly melodramatic blogger do after a double Caucasian? He gets all Frenchy on you. Sorry about that. Next you’d expect me to start cutting off my own head whilst attempting to stuff crumpets down my gullet. Apparently, I can eat cake, and enjoy it too. Hence this tell-all post, explaining the situation as it stands the night after a Big Lebowski drink along.
So yes, I am in debt. Yes, my current freelance gig is not lucrative or financially viable enough to keep me floating, much less reduce the red that’s been piling up in my credit card receipt and student loan voucher pile. Yes, I have decided to seek gainful employment under the protective wing of a company who I hope to God is not reading this blog (and if you are, please note that I have long considered myself a humourist, and the easiest way of garnering laughter is self-mockery, end quote). Yes, I will continue to use the British style spelling, brazenly defying all DC journalists and inviting anti-Anglo linguist pedants to kiss my arse.
As for the other stuff: the crying, the weeping, the gnashing of teeth, the reduced blogging, the cancellation of Project Jeremiah Will Piss And Moan If He Can’t Do Things His Way (JWPAMIHCDTHW), and other sundry gas-baggery that accompanied last night’s whinging; a lesson was learned here: It’s never that good to reflect upon one’s priorities when still enjoying the lingering effects of a solid double White Russian. I’m just sayin’. Words were typed that have less chilling effect than they did when they were written.
That isn’t to say there won’t be a staff reduction. Many of my personal projects will become less prominent than I’ve made them out to be. The nice thing is, they really weren’t all-consuming to begin with. This blog is a huge part of it, but (here there is a slight reddening of the face) it’s not something I’m prepared to abandon. Even were I a hobo in Santa Monica I would feel compelled to blog about the experience.
Found a half-eaten crust of a taco from the Baja Fresh on the 3rd Street Promenade. Stupid hipsters and tweenies running around in their Urban Outfitters make me want to vomit, but that’s valuable bodily fluid I’d be wasting. Better save that for when the public humiliation of being twenty-five and homeless gets too much and I need to release some much needed tears.
Saw Tim Robbins today, out on the running paths that line the PCH. I asked him for some change. He threw a bunch of Impeach Bush bumper stickers at me. Thanks for the toilet paper, buddy. Too bad I haven’t shat in a week because stale pizza crusts don’t usually biodegrade like normal solid food. He must have thought I was an actor auditioning for a role. He’s so dreamy…
Oh, speaking of which, I had a dream I was at my old freelance gig, scraping by but having fun and generally living the life of a young Turk at the top of his game. And I figured out what it was that brought me to this lowly state I’m in now: network television. If I hadn’t gone crazy trying to figure out what happens to the people on LOST, I might even now be writing scripts for Sony or developing a pilot for ABC. Well, you know what they say: you never how good you’ve got it ’til it’s gone.
Welp, I’m pretty hungry again. Think I saw some kids leave a half a container of Mickey D’s at the food court. Catch you bums tomorrow.
So you see, it’s quite impossible for me to quit.