Saturday, April 25, 2009

Morrissey, the peanut butter sandwich, or venting

I hate hating people. It doesn’t feel good. It’s not fun. I
just want to like everyone, hold hands and sing friendship songs. But some
people make it really fucking difficult for me not to want to punch them in the
face. H.B. –a woman who gives herself credit for other people’s sales all the
fucking time (she’s done this to me on huge sales more than once)- had the gall
to accuse me of shorting J on sales and taking them for myself. If she had read
the numbers correctly she would have seen just how far from the truth that was.

This woman just makes me want to scream. Not, even like,
scream at her and tell her off but just a general filling my lungs, opening my
mouth and releasing sound, ANY sound. Just so all these hateful vibrations can
leave my body because they really can’t be good for me. If she falsely accuses
me of one more thing I swear my appendix is going to burst.

I try to like her. I try to empathize with her. I try to
understand her. I try to avoid eye contact and allow her to be the Alpha just
to get through the day. I try. And sometimes I succeed. Sometimes she’s even,
dare I say it, nice. But it never fucking lasts. For every one civil gesture
there are ten experiences like this.

Deep breath in… and out… This is not my life. This is not my
life. This is not my life. This is not my life.

Can I move to California now, please?

I listened to Years of Refusal on my break to help calm
down. I don’t know if it was Morrissey, the peanut butter sandwich, or the
venting but I felt better. I'm not sure how I feel about this album though. The
critics are raving. But, I don’t know, I feel like the last three albums have
been too similar. It’s not like I don’t like it, I just like it when there’s a
real difference between albums. I feel like a heretic saying anything vaguely
critical about Morrissey- at least, about his music. The man himself is another
story. I love him, but he’s a tool sometimes. “The smell of roasting flesh is
just too much for me to bear.” Oh, you poor delicate flower. Ok, I get it, the
idea of eating a hamburger makes me want to vomit, but you’re on stage, man,
performing for a crowd that I’m sure was chock full o’ vegetarians. Suck it up.
No one’s asking you to eat it (Yes, that is how I talk to people I love).

Know what else I love? Fruit. Fruit makes me happy. Everyone
should eat more fruit. It’s yummy and makes you feel happy and gosh darnit it’s
good for you. We’ll all eat fruit
and hold hands and frolic through the flowers singing friendship songs. Either
that or I’m going to have to start doing incredibly hard drugs.

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