December 17th, 2009 at 7:26 pm
David Lynch is a Cute Old Man
There are a variety of adjectives one can use to describe David Lynch. My sister, for example, believes that he is “creepy.” My dad refers to him as “eccentric.” However, neither of these people are what you can call David Lynch experts. I, on the other hand, sitting atop the pinnacle of expertise of all things Lynchian, believe him to be a Cute Old Man.
Our Cute Old Man, David Lynch, has cultivated his career as an unconventional filmmaker through works such as Twin Peaks, an early 90s serial television drama about a murder in a small town, Eraserhead, a surrealist horror film most noted for its deformed amphibious baby, and Blue Velvet, an updated film noir about an average citizen delving into the seedier side of life. All of these works have one thing in common: they’re fucking weird. But the man is as cute as a southern kitten, I tell you!
December 17th, 2009 at 7:15 pm
The Unfortunate Hermit
There once was an unfortunate hermit
an unfortuate hermit was she
she’d cry on friday nights
with ample cups of tea
her tears would drop, plop plop plop
(and inspire lines of poetry)
There once was an unfortunate hermit
she had a large pet peeve
“People are stupid!” she said
and wiped her nose with a sleeve
a Talking Heads album would play
and it was innappropriate for her to grieve
There once was an unfortunate hermit
an unfortunate hermit was she
she dragged a knife across her wrist
until it started to bleed
another pathetic stereotype proven, she thought
and registered her blog, “The Stinking Weed”
December 17th, 2009 at 7:00 pm
Plan A
Aborted fetus, I love you
Evidence of what could have been
You left my body in that room
I left that room with a grin
Aborted fetus, I love you
My innards bid you farewell
You were never a part of me
You would have made my life a living hell
Aborted fetus, I love you
My stomach suddenly aches
You are a tasty specimen
I’d like you in some cakes
Aborted fetus, I love you
Sleeping gastric peace
December 17th, 2009 at 3:34 pm
CC:
I wish I could attach my name to your interests. At least, the interests you had after meeting me, especially since I knowingly provide fodder for the conversations you have with other people. (The ones that contain absolutely no mention of me, of course.) Is that fair? Can one really own one’s own preferences for movies, literature, music…? I’d like to. I’m aware of how hypocritical I’m being. Such is the essence of being human, you’d likely tell me.
Name-dropping is an avenue in which to become acquainted with people. We bond over liking the same things; fawning over the same artists. By that logic, you should still be excited to talk to me. But you’re greedy. There’s novelty in having self-congratulating conversations with people who are not me, despite how LIKE me they are. Then again, perhaps I’ve just become a part of you and paradoxically unimportant. It’s easier to push someone away once you’ve absorbed all of their intrigue.
I bet, you think this song is about you.