Sinister: my little lamb keeps it's pants on

[Dylan Gordon]

Hey All,

I figured maybe since I'm up out of the nursery I should write something.
Actually, it was that last message about how puddle-wonderful this list and
everyone on it is that made me think I should write something. Can't miss
out on that! Does anyone else love e.e. cummings? I think he's the real
lyrical genius behind Belle and Sebastian, dead or not.

I just woke up from my three-hour post 'they were supposed to show my house
so I sat around in the park for 45 minutes' nap. I'm reading Richard Ford's
Independence Day, the 1/3 after the first 1/4, which consists mostly of
whining about the 'Existence Period' (see 40 - 50 year-oldish angst about
the meaningless of post-divorce, post-self-anihilation life). The major
thrust in this seems to be the search for something to pass the time with,
but I think I've got it at the ripe age of 21. Sleep. Plenty of it. And a
daily obsession with how I'm going to start a new career soon, but just how
I'm going to, not actually doing to.

The only reason I can even do is that I worked in computers for a long time
and made a little bit of money and can spend at least a few months doing
absolutely nothing but spending it, after which I'm sure I'll feel like a
huge waste and wish I had all of that time and money back, but for the
moment in the middle of it it's going OK. I think it's all the listening to
Belle and Sebastian and going to concerts and thinking I'm an indie kid when
I couldn't possibly be because I can't spend more than 45 minutes in an
independent record store without going nutso watching vinyl fanaticism that
inevitably ends in someone picking up some total tripe they think is cool
but really shows their inate lack of taste. Oh oh. Maybe I am an indie kid
(You'll have to give me some time, I can't work in list-fodder smoothly and
with the obvious, dripping sarcasm required for the 'net yet). Anyway, the
point is other people's melancholies give me something to be pissy about
part of the time and it's keeping me alive with only 12 hours sleep per day.


Umm. Now something so I don't give everyone the immediate impression I'm
some weird guy-bitch, because I'm really, really not, I'm actually really
nice and lovely and cuddable, but not twee at all like Isobel. Just
cuddable. But Isobel is my wallpaper anyway. Let's see. . .I wish I had pink
bedsheets. I went shopping for sheets and covers and shams and all that
stuff a few weeks ago, because I really do need some new ones, and saw these
lovely stripey pink bedsheets that I just totally must have for when pink
makes its big comeback and takes the fashion world by storm so that I'm so
hip it even makes me want to cry because I wish I was more like me. But then
I got to thinking that I'm going to need to paint to do that, to make the
illusion complete y'know, and then I'm moving soon, and maybe I want a loft,
and it would have to be _all_ pink and I'd need new accessories! And it
snowballed from there until I even put back the towels I picked out because
of bathroom-decor angst and I'm stuck towel-low and sheet-less, crying in my
backdoor and waiting for the garbage man to take me to the dump. Not really.
But I'm sure you know the feeling, ahaha.

And now my nap-delusion is wearing thin and I'm really not feeling terribly
sparky and creative, plus I have all these unattended social engagements
I've been shirking _just_ to write this email (well, 10 minutes worth of one
of them anyway, plus the 60 I saved up napping). So I'm going to sign off
and wait for my t-shirt to come in the mail and hope that everyone has
something marvellously witty and amusing to say so when I end up back here
at home in 4 or 6 or 8 hours as the sun comes up I can chuckle and go to bed
a happy man.

Yrs,

dg

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