creeps in this petty pace

 I picked a hard and interesting place to live, and so did everyone else here. Maybe that means we're all hard and interesting. It's already hard and interesting to be human; hard and interesting to go it alone (we're all kind of alone), hard and interesting to be with others.

Maybe you've had this day: Facebook wants my cryptic alt-rock lyrics status updates, and I need things like gummy beard and vodka-soda, and I hate everyone, and I have to walk forty blocks alone and listen to LCD Soundsystem and weep, and when I get home I shall cut my hair, or pierce my ear, that is if I don't get a tattoo before I get home, and no one understands me but you James Mercer, but you, David Foster Wallace. I'm simultaneously enraged and comforted by the bajillion other people riding MY same train home sitting with MY same look on their faces, but none of them will strike up a conversation and change MY life. All while reason, while temperate superego are trying to count the many blessings and remind me of last Wednesday, when it was magic, last Wednesday, the TV movie version of life, when there was brief nameless love I haven't paid for yet and good company and good ideas and sweet, sticky, sexy summer heat. Did I realize it then? How perfect it was? How silly, how temporary and predictable it is today? How it will hurt again. When it rains, it pours. When it rains, everything is still stupid, just advanced stupid, Stupid 201.

In MOODS it is hard to see the ground or the sky. In MOODS it is hard to be selfless and make considered, reasonable decisions. Yet these MOODS! Thank God for them! When I get home on This Day I'll write it all down, I'll call my mom, and still is the persisting wish (probably the most insane part of it all, given...well, given everything) -- someone tomorrow will care even more. It's just around the river bend, or avenue, or month. And pain and magic will collect and from these will emerge fantastic art and I will be praised and adored and important and famous forever and ever, you're not bipolar! Only an eternal optimist! That last seat on the subway is for you, now claim your reward! Someday you will even make the time to make this art, surely. But wait, my cat distracts me, distracted by her shadow.

I haven't found a moral yet. No, I guess the moral is perspective. But it's not that simple. I don't even think it's an English word yet; I like to toss around 'ennui.' I'm already excited to read this when I'm forty, look back and laugh at or pity or believe in this baby who's all about the 'yet.' Sooo, when you've had or have This Day, maybe you'll watch Garden State. Or read something I've already read in a park. And even if I don't talk to you there, hear it now, okay? I'm in it, in it silly, in it right there with you. Now say the same.

It should end here, but there's more-more-alizing to be found: my suggestion is find somebody to text you 'You're great!' (I'll do it) or 'Take a deep breath, remember you're amazing!' or 'Summer called/23 called/it gets better,' (And worse) and I get it! I get the maddening corniness of one day at a time, it is one of those true things too banal to even bandy about. But I gettttt it. Scarlet O'Hara. Alcoholics Anonymous. Rent. Because do you guys realize what's in just twenty-four hours? Too much! Just too too much! Hahaha!