Richard Brautigan, �The Hawkline Monster: A Gothic Western�
There�s a few things lately that I�ve puzzled out.
I�ve decided that the current fashion of wearing a baseball hat that�s plunked down haphazardly atop your head has to be the dumbest fad since back when grown men were walking around sucking on pacifiers. I know you people think you�re portraying yourself as a rogue who can�t be bothered to align the bill of your cap in a straight angle, but I know you�re practicing in front of a mirror to see what height and angle is properly jaunty and rakish. It�s a fucking meshback cap, people, not a fedora. Wearing it halfway off your head makes you look like you�re retarded.
I�ve surmised that the people who seem to like my purple hair the most tend to be old ladies, and old ladies are much cooler than I previously thought.
I�ve resolved that The Ex is not simply going through some sort of bad patch that she�ll eventually get over and ask me back.
I�ve also decided, since I choked up recently at a midnight viewing of The Nightmare Before Christmas during the fucking song that Sally sings, that I really wish the previous statement wasn�t true.
I�ve realized that the soliloquy Amanda Plummer gives in The Fisher King after they leave the Chinese restaurant is one of the saddest things I�ve ever heard.
I imagine that as dejected as I am right now, I shouldn�t have loaded the CD player at work with three Tom Waits albums.
I�ve concluded that even though the above is probably true, I�m still not taking them out.
I�ve figured out that whiskey can solve any problem, no matter how large, complicated, or supernatural in nature.
I�ve determined that it�s nice to know Brautigan agrees with me.
I suppose it fucking figures that I don�t have any whiskey, and that vodka tonics don�t fix anything.
