It's like a years-long wait for the barest hint of inspiration. It's like waiting for a 16-block high ice sculpture to melt so you can find out the release of a new Drake album. It's like waiting for spring when spring is here and as Ben pointed out yesterday all of the lilac bushes save for the one struggle bus in the center of everything that barely survived has flowers coming and I can't wait for them to all explode at once.
(For the record, I don't think I can name a Drake song anymore. Cellphone? Something. He's still the worst Degrassi kid to me and that will never change. Also a stunt wasting that much water on the precipice of what will surely be a terrible forest fire season is all but criminal.
He's like Avenged Sevenfold. Don't care. Not aware but somehow I run into them freaking EVERYWHERE. Seem them live multiple times without even trying. Explain it, please, because I can't. I do love Afterlife and I've seen it live so perhaps the universe has chosen for me.)
We are looking at a lovely weekend with very very precious little to do and I'm so excited I could shit my pants. The dirt is still in a giant pile in the driveway but I can chip away at it. So can the boys. It's cheaper and healthier than going to the gym and safer than running. Especially these days. I run like there's cement in my brain now. Or at least in the cavity where my brain used to be before it packed up and slithered away to follow the music it heard. Probably coming from some shady, rusted truck driving by that featured a serial killer for a driver. Or maybe that's the plot of another Jeepers Creepers. I'll watch it. Watch me watch it.
Anyway I have a terrible artist block right now and it's been going on pretty much for all of the 2020s and I'm getting fed the fuck up. I'm trying things and they're working but do I want to do it? No. Not at all.