My Head Hits The Pillow, I Start To Snore, I Don’t Want To Talk To You Anymore
I’m hardly the most superstitious man in the world, but I have developed a sneaking suspicion that this past week may have been cursed by some unknown, cosmic power dressed in whatever the real-life version of Steve Ditko pants and handgestures may be. Not only have I suffered my own, for-now-still-to-be-left-undiscussed, surprise drama, but friends have been in car accidents, had job offers disappear at the last moment, learned that their relatives have gotten sick, been through relationship hell, had been fucked over at work, and so on and so on. It’s been a week full of people I like and admire getting slapped in the face by life and, I’ve got to be honest, it’s getting pretty old by now. If karma exists, then someone should tell it that it really takes more than a new Quasi album and a great Stephen Fry/Craig Ferguson interview to make up for all the shit that it seems that everyone is going through right now.
May the future make up for all of this bullshit, and may all those I care about find themselves in happier situations. Starting right now, please.
(Still, that Quasi riff is pretty great…)
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