See, if I wait until I have the energy to tell you all of the things, I'll never fucking update this site, so since I was just now reminded of this story, this is the story I'm going to tell to get this party started again. Of course, this is not really a party-starting story, but... pissing in the chip dip (metaphorically) could also get a party started, in a way. It could start a fight, right? Fights at parties are fun, sometimes. Fire in the disco. Anyway, here goes:
The morning that I turned on my computer only to have it tell me that Elliott Smith was dead, it was this incredibly gorgeous day in Los Angeles. And when I went outside to move my car from the ticketmonsters, I was in a little bit of a "seriously? dead? like forever?" daze. And I'm walking down the street and there's this snow of white feathers coming from a tree, and at first it seems perfectly natural: Elliott Smith dead, gorgeous day, feathers falling, where's my car... but then I was like wait. Is a bird molting? Like really really fast? That would be really really fast, public molting for a bird. And as I'm walking underneath and the feathers are falling into my hair, I look up, and I catch eyes with a falcon maybe five feet above my head, and it's dining on a smaller bird. And it stops to stare at me, with a little chunk of meat stuck to its beak and those soft white feathers all messy around its mouth like errant dollops of mayonnaise from a tasty songbird sandwich. And I thought, "Huh." And then I thought, "Rest in peace, Elliott."
But that's not all I want to say, but like I said, if I don't start somewhere, I'll never catch up with all the stories I want to tell you from what has happened since my birthday. Suffice it to say, dead geniuses or no, my life actually completely and totally rules right now. STILL! This must be a record of some sort. So I will have less depressing things to say very soon, now that I broke the seal and don't have to feel like I need to come back with a huge big bang. Now that I came back with a sad little whimper. Seriously though, isn't that weird?
