Fairly Alarmed ...is a Real Blog

I'm back in front of a PC for the first time in a couple weeks, and I apologize for your having to deal with the format-challenged posts I make from my phone. I dunno what's up with that, but am totally unequipped to deal with it. They should look much better now. I know I just recently trumpeted the finding of an all-night internet cafe near my apartment, but recently...well, it can be summed up in this conversation.

Priya: Basically I get home at like 7:30 and read for a while, and then I crawl under the covers because it's cold in our apartment, and then I wake up the next day.

Matt: That is a really sad story.

What have I been up to since my last real post?

Well, Kyle's 26th birthday was much more subdued than we had planned for, but in a welcome, "well, it was surprisingly nice to not black out and throw up in the gutter!" kind of way. I keep trying to postulate that I'm not on the verge of drinking myself to extinction and I'm really not, but damn. Birthdays somehow unlock the competitive drinker in me, where the other participant is my memories.

Work has been about the same as usual: same old LA people rotating in and out of my life every day. I just read this post and was struck by how the author put into words what I'm just starting to figure out about living in this city. Basically, the point of the article is that nobody cares about you. You're nothing. While some would think that's an extraordinarily depressing thing to have to live with every day, I love it. It's probably the part of me that cuddled right up to Fight Club when I first saw it: you're not your khakis, or your art, or your celebrity sightings. You're just Nothing; you're free. In some ways, it's a lot like going to the doctor: No matter how unbelievably fucked up your ingrown toenail is, the doctor's probably seen something WAY more disgusting, and pretty recently, too.

Here: think of all the morbidly obese women in the world that don't realize that they're pregnant until they start giving birth in a Denny's restroom, then think about the men who made them pregnant. Multiply your shudders by 4 million (the population of LA) and then think about yourself. You're really not that bad, in comparison.

I did this exercise when I got dressed this morning: I'm wearing a grey, two-sizes-too-large Morrissey shirt, dirty grey skinny jeans, brown riding boots, and a yellow purse. Does it matter? NO! So what if wearing all grey is a sign of mental imbalance? So what if brown boots and a yellow purse don't go together? Fuck you and your bourgeois fashion decrees! Also, nobody is making judgments on what I'm wearing because NOBODY CARES! Full circle. How do you like them apples?