09.22.00 - 17:18:53

I think the errands, small tasks, and other assorted effluvia of life that drifted into my orbit between my initial urgent desire to write this and the actual, physical action have drained all inspiration from my poor mind, heart, and body.

I wonder if, were I writing this in Australia, my inspiration would go down the drain counterclockwise, or clockwise?

And, the real question, would they spread Vegemite on it?

I am deeply suspicious of any culture that eats strange, processed spreads on flat, flour-based baked goods like crackers or breads or tortillas. This would include Vegemite, EasyCheeze, and that Nutella stuff you see from Europe. Real European food is has an interest, an integrity, and an honesty that their processed food lacks.

Processed foods from Europe remind me, in general, of their processed, packaged pop music - which is to say, it is a pale imitation of ANYTHING from the real land of consumerist crap - the United States of America. The Europeans try to pander to crude, popular tastes - and whenever they pander they go waaaaaaaaaay overboard without realizing it. When it comes to mass, pop media culture, they're babes in the woods gawping wide-eyed at the spectacle of a blonde four-year-old b�b� rapping.

Weeeee only briefly go ga-ga over twin 13-year-olds who rap AND dance, and even then we're laughing at ourselves.

Of course, I'm always laughing at myself.

It's more than a tradition, it's a national religion, it's the singular requirement to join the North American Elite Intelligentsia� - do not take anything, at all, seriously. Including yourself.

This, of course, is a defense against sentimentalism, but a notoriously permeable defense at that. For example, I fall prey to sentamentalism all the time, both without - crying over stupid movie crap when I KNOW they're trying to be tearjerky and annoying and stereotypical - and within, in my self-imagination, my sick little subdermal dreams.

I have many of these, not so much fantasy, not so much wants, not so much goals, as strange nocturnal emissions. The things you don't want other people to know about, because they'll immediately realize how precisely off you are - as opposed to the rest of the world who is curiously sane.

Then again, possibly I have an overactive imagination.

Particularly today.

Howhowhow delicious is this blatantly exhibitionist anonymity? It's like being on Jerry Springer without the rednecks and fake fist fights and eighties hair. At once internally cathartic AND feeding that coiled little bitter seed inside me that says I am - or should be - the center of the universe. Of course, I don't listen to that stunted little thing. Plants shouldn't talk, and I'm a sensible, wise chica, and far too self-effacing for my own good.

But I don't -wanna- be.

I wanna be someone's sun.

(How's that for self-confession? And I swear to god, if anyone DOES email me looking to be my sun, I'll, I'll, I'll do - erm - something. That was a very profound confession there, and I don't want you lot mucking it up with sentamentalism and/or invitations to online 'romance', whatever the hell that is.)

I have the urge to translate that now, but I think it'll be better if I let it marinate for awhile. Gawd I'm brilliant:

...I wanna be someone's sun.