The title of this post one of the outbursts from Christian Bale's awesome, expletive-laden rant, captured in its sparkly essence by Revolucian's remix.
It's probably a sign of a certain spiritual, emotional and mental imbalance that I persist in finding the above so delightfully entertaining. Lately, in particular, I have a renewed appreciation for the way Bale pronounces the letter F. Like a fricative lisp. Sort of.
Te interwebs (mostly youtube) continue to provide an endless cavalcade of amusement. Piano playing cats, sneezing panda bears, John Berryman's dream songs, Art Ensemble and Cecil Taylor and Don Cherry...it's all jumbled in my media-fevered and indiscriminate mind.
Today marks week 6 without a cigarette. 42 days. Probably about 850 cigs not smoked. About $200 saved. I continue to be surprised by how strong the cravings are from time to time, and as of last weekend anyway, all weekend long. There's actually no noticeable easing up yet. Not entirely sure why not. It makes no difference, really, but it's astonishing. I figured a few weeks tops would be the most harrowing part. Sometimes the only thing I've got is "well, the discomfort, as bad as it might be, won't kill ya."
I'm ready to kiss February goodbye. Is it astrological, biorhythmic, acculturated, otherwise metaphysical, this tendency for February to crush my spirit like a bug? The nadir of the year, fairly reliably.
