We’ve Got a City to Love
All this avian flu/hurricane/our country is being run by Chris Burke business has got us in a grim mood and no fooling. Plus our birthday is coming up, which means we’re just another bunny hop closer to the grave. Lately, we can feel the tomb’s loamy embrace, taste the kiss of the worm, that kind of thing, and you know what? We like it that way.
Wolf balls, wolf dick, a
pumpkin full of owl shit
goblins touched our butt.
Look, we understand that we aren’t going to fare very well in the Apocalypse. But we’re fine with that. We’re not built for the long haul; most people aren’t. And besides, we think we’ll be better off going out with the first blast wave rather than having to try and fake our way through some Mad Max shit that we’re totally unprepared for. That said, when the fat hits the fire, we’re going to get our hands on Angelina Jolie’s adopted babies and we’re going to eat them both, right in front of her and Brad. Then we’re going to poop them out in Jennifer Aniston’s front yard.
But before that happens, there is this
excerpt from Joan Didion’s The Year of Magical Thinking
, her attempt at untangling the dense and chaotic interweavings of grief in the wake of the death of her husband, John Gregory Dunne. Stop whatever useless thing you’re doing right now and read it. It left a hard little coal scrap of nothingness in the briny hollow where our heart used to be.
Oh, and on a wholly unrelated note, the new Strokes single, “Juice Box,” has leaked. It’ll grow on you