i just discovered that my gym has a strict "no do-rag" policy. i am crushed. why god, why? oh the injustices of the world.

i am even further saddened by the fact that the typically fruitful google image search pulls no relevant results for a "guido do-rag." what with the success of the jersey shore, the subsequent birth of GTL & and all the beauty that is the halo of oompa loompa orange snookie-dom, i am truly devastated.

i salivate at the glory of a festive red/white/green do-rag, or perhaps one that swathes your cranium in a phrase such as "fuggetaboutit" (as sold at our local holy rosary italian festival each summer), or "7 days without spaghetti...makes one weak." methinks i have a patent on my hands. granted the ladies may have some qualms with hindering the height of their hair poofs, but it's nothing a little aqua-net won't maintain. mike "the situation" should be all over this. i would write him a letter suggesting it; however, i'm not quite sure he's literate. such is life.

vintage delights for the soul.

i fear for my future self. oh please spare me of lapsing into the life of regrettable 'little edie' status. prancing around and wallowing my voice dry with the psycho-babble of past misfortunes. to feel this hapless so early on does not portend of good things to come. first it may be unemployment. then comes job at the local dunkin' donuts. a curves and tanning membership. a subscription to 'ok' magazine. a bad perm and an addiction to hair gel and newport cigarettes. next thing you know you've bailed out of your romance with a gold-chained guido named tony and are flabby, farty, and forty years old living with your senile mother and twirling like a child in a swim cap and cape and eating ice cream in bed and watching your army of house cats shit all over your carpet. oh dear. breathe.

it will all be alright.

“La Gaita del Lobizon” by Cuarteto de Oro. Philips Records Argentina

when i die, let me stay here.

i don't even know what to say. i thought people were inspired to create when faced with difficult times: sadness, loneliness, frustration, betrayal...i believe that most are. i, unfortunately, am not one of those people. when i am feeling any one (and oft times more) of these emotions, i am practically a ghost. i just exist, only mustering enough energy to keep on waking each morning, to keep staring blankly at that stark white wall. maybe inspired to create is not what i mean. it's more so the use of creative outlets as a means of catharsis. i don't know how that works. i wish so much that i could paint my emotions, or sing them away. and no amount of pages written here or anywhere could rid me of the pain. when i am feeling the weight of life, my choice is rather to do absolutely nothing. perhaps it's just the masochist within that sees this as prime opportunity to wallow and make me sick with my own thoughts, as they fester, dull, and resurface yet again.