It smells like a truck of mothballs jackknifed as I cross the
Who invented the moth ball?
I listen to a few Sonic Youth tunes as I take the off-ramp. Their new album is supposedly different. I sort of like it. A few songs near the end are worth saving. Kim Gordon's songs aren't worthy. The last track, "Or", is really haunting. Weird forced-sex lyrics.
What warranted this age-old war on the moths and their brethren?
Another day of work. Will I have the guts to leave such an easy job? The people here are nice, and I can do anything I want. Probably the best job I've ever had. I think the "no business training whatsoever" thing is going well for me. Bring some science to these talking heads. Ooh, another meeting where I can interrupt! These people are weary of meetings.
Mothballs used to be highly inflammable. Did you know inflammable means the same thing as flammable? I did. But, now they aren't. I mean mothballs. Now, they aren't so highly flammable.
I'm thinking about where I am going to be next year. Should I take the whole summer off? My dad and the business world would say "what about the gap in employment?". Sometimes I hate the world of Capitalism. It breeds greed and mistrust. I drive home and see capitalism in action: big cars and big egos. The greedy drivers try to sneak in lanes. They don't want to wait like the good people. They want to get home and heat up pizza rolls and watch "Friends" as soon as humanly possible. They don't realize that the person in front of them is late to pick up their stepdaughter or late to a job they can't afford to lose.
I was at a friend-of-an-acquaintance's home last November. It involved lots of whiskey—the most I've ever ingested. After I woke up, I drove home and suffered a hangover for two days. The pain continued when I tried to eat any kind of grains. Beer, vodka, bread, pasta--it all made me want to throw up. Even at a wedding in December, I could not drink the spiked punch without feeling the dagger in my abdomen.
