Attention conservation notice: This blog has decided not to take life so seriously until at least tomorrow morning.
I went to church today, my good old hippie church run by a self-defrocked minister who left the Methodist religion before he was booted out, for the “crime” of presiding over the marriage celebration of two local women.
Unexpectedly the sermon was pretty much written for me, and was called “Mediocre Metropolis,” about the times in life when days just feel like that long-ass stretch of I-40 as you drive down the penile length of Florida on your way to Miami from points north. No highs, no lows, no ups, no downs. Just one long interminable destination-less stretch.
Today I came across an anarchist website selling a book called Days of War, Nights of Love, and I really got a big kick out of that title. A title like that could go on a porno, a cheesy historical romance, a very bad poem, and of course a kick-ass anarchist rant… I immediately decided to re-title my own life Days of Kleenex, Nights of Netflix.
What have y’all got?