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.
