This picture hurts me on several levels.
There's this thing called a Mid-Life Crisis that gives middle-aged men an excuse to act like idiots. It can be brutal. Portly investment bankers with toupees that don't match their facial hair, driving cars they saw in films and dating girls not old enough to drink; that brutal. I don't think about my lifespan often. I have this unspoken estimate my junior-high mind concocted of fifty years, five or take five. It's just understood. That cerebral path is rarely traveled. That way leads to serious thinking about my future, and then responsibilities swarm like pissed-off bees. Can't go around thinking about responsibility. Bad for the skin. So, anyway, maybe fifty years. And yes, I know, that's subconsciously sealing my fate, whatever. I'm just wondering if the reason alarms have been going off in my head since my last birthday because of some subconscious psuedo-mid-life crisis, or what. I've been getting trashed and making an idiot of myself (not portly investment banker with toupee idiocy, but still idiocy nonetheless) on a pretty regular basis. Yeah, like I've ever needed an excuse... still, it amuses me my mind would waste itself on this, if only for fleeting moments. Mid-Life Crisis. Now. Right. I think I'm just in a really bad place right now. There are certain voices I haven't started paying attention to, but their constant picking has worn me down enough that now I do pay, and it's wearing me out.
Finally finished He Died with a Felafel in His Hand. It read like the running commentary in my brain during reflective moods. And I identify a lot more with the narrator than I think I should... I had this same problem with the film The Rules of Attraction.
"Let your smile be your umbrella!"
Sean Bateman was me in different financial circumstances. That's American Psycho's little brother. That's fucked up. At least I know this.
I'm in this bad place right now, genuinely apathetic and unmotivated, and it's a comfortable state I slip into for any of hundreds of reasons. I don't even realize I do it, it's just easy and I don't get hurt (much) and nothing matters. Thoughts and occurences pass through me as if I were a shade, and they don't leave a trace.
There are many reasons I dig Frank Sinatra. If I had to explain it succinctly, I'd say it was his style. Towards everything. Sinatra came from a time when we still had men in this world. Men worthy of the cock in their pants. Now all we have is introspective wimps who think they should form basement fight clubs to get out the aggression they have over the mothers who snipped their nuts and the fathers who could care less about them, all the while oblivious that that fucking film they revere was a satire about how ridiculous the whole goddamn lot of us are. Yeah yeah yeah, misogynistic, all that. I'm not talking about his morals. The ability to stand and deal, and it's not a production. Unless it is, and then it's a hellspawned hurricane. What Would Frank Do? Of course, the reality is much less than the myth, but that's what I dig. Damn. The pattern of prefering fantasy over reality's really obvious. Oh well. So anyway, yeah, the point is I think I've got another vision quest brewing.
My last one was necessary, and not pretty. And I have a feeling this one will just be internal. Always fun. Nothing I'd rather do than whine about identity and ability on LiveJournal.
And because homeless people are entertaining:
Because a mind is a terrible thing to waste.