[This one's a long one. But well worth your time.]
The lightlulb just went out in the bathroom. The ceiling is, like, 12 feet high or just whatever is above Me Standing on a Chair. And now, a decision must be made.
I knew this day would come. The ceiling in the whole fucking apartment (which I love, don't get me wrong) is pretty high and I've known for a long while now that I would need to buy a small ladder or a large child to stand on to change the bulb.
But now I actually have to Do it.
Usually in these posts, there is the Part 1, the Part II, the denoument, and the exciting climax, which is usually ripped off from somewhere else ("Today's lesson:" is the epilogue).
Today, however, I have only a burnt out bulb and a Lights Out, Curtain Closes, Act I.
What will Act II wrought?
Today's lesson: Fuck you, F. Scott Fitzgerald.
Part II: I need to write a quick Thank You to my friend, H.S.
The goodly H.S., if you didn't know, is the kind lady who, for some reason, thinks that my occasional meanderings should be linked to Gawker.
Why she thinks this, I have no idea. My only theory, and I'm sure I've said this before, so please forgive me for repeating myself, but I believe that she is under the impression that I'm dying (It could be that I'm funny, but it could be that I'm already a millionaire, too). And while I'd like to believe that I have a long life to live, I don't have enough traffic minus her gracious links to rule out the fact I'm dying.
And while you may say, "But HJ, how could you be dying?" i can say, "well, i drink, smoke and eat shitty foods to excess: So, how can I NOT think that I am dying."
Listening to Joy Division right now doesn't help either.
But, back from planet tangent (great blog name, btw, if anyone needs one: Back from Planet Tangent), if I AM dying, then I should probably leave a will or something so my shit doesn't go to the government.
To Alex ... I leave my CDs. As well as any of my personal anger you feel is just to use against people who hate Killing Joke.
To Cortez ... I leave all my books. And if anything of this blog shit ever makes money, like in a "he was famous after he was dead" thing: you can have the money and the rights and should consider playing yourself in the movie (though it would be funnier if you played Brendan).
To Brendan ... I leave whatever cooking shit is in my kitchen, which isn't much, and which is why you can have whatever's left in my bank account -- which is also why you can have whatever cooking shit is in my kitchen (it's what they call a vicious circle, or vicious cycle, if you will).
To Thomas ... The last digit of pi is 12. Think about it.
To Mitch ... I want you to write my offical biography. You're a great writer. Plus, you know about all of the skeletons, which, frankly, number-wise, are like Halloween on Planet Halloween. And I know that you will put them in the right light, the kind that absolves you and my estate of any legal activity.
To Jill ... I leave the bottle of detergent that, for the last few days, has been siting on my coffee table. There's no reason for it, but frankly, there was no good reason you should have stayed my friend and so I think the metaphor is apt (I'm slightly less clean per parts per million, though).
To Pirate ... I leave you .. well, let's start from the (near) beginning: You just slept on my couch, after getting wasted, and not calling your fiancee to tell her that you got fucking wasted until about noon the next day. So, it only seems right that you get the futon.
To Bess (Pirate's fiancee) ... You get to write the unofficial biography.
To Shelley ... Um, wow, this one is hard. We'll come back to it ...
To Pearson ... Honestly, i don't know what to give you. To be honest, you've been the happeist motherfucker-lookingest person I've ever met. Even when you get pissed you have a smile. So ... ah ... if my DVDs don't make you happy, then they must be the worst DVD collection in the world.
To Becky ... I give you the permission to tell Joey that you are not his fag hag. And that he should shut the hell up when you've had enough.
To Joey ... I leave you a hint: When I die, there will be cigarettes near the body. Those are yours. When I die, also, there will be about eight gallons of alcohol, in various forms and various bottles. Those are also yours. There will also be "other" things that a dying man with, let's face it, nothing to care about anymore wouldn't mind having around him. Those are yours. However, if the authorities in Heaven ask, I'll swear it was planted and you and I were patsies.
To Jarad ... I leave my guitar, poker chips, and a cape (not to mention stately Flowers manor).
To Shelley ... OK, let's try this again: Shelley, I haven't made it yet, and I definitely plan to, but if i do die, there will be a mix CD here, made while I'm dying and waxing sentimental and the people around me are tired of hearing of This Weepy Story and That Weepy Story and it will be yours and made for you. Be warned, though: I've run out of coasters.
To my brother .. I would leave honesty and integrity but what would you do with what you have in spades? Instead, I leave to the only person here, nothing material: only admiration. That, and the wonderment that you owned multiple Kansas and Styx albums on 8-track.
To H.S. ... I leave a Thank You like when people leave a bar with a hug and they're really fucking drunk. Oh, and enough money for you to buy a light bulb.
Today's lesson: I just reread something and laughed. So, maybe you people shouldn't start spending my shit just yet.