January 15, 2004

Come blogging with Bitch Area

Tonight I am hosting a reading & writing time at my house. I invited some Hit it or Quittish people over for a light supper and reading or writing time, for 2 hours. Since it's hard to make time to write or read on yr own time. Writing and reading socially takes the isolation edge off, plus, I made cornbread.

So JR and Miles and I are all... working on our blogs. JR just cracked his third Old Style, so I think his blog post will be much better than mine. Miles just suggested that the band we will never start be called Bitch Area. Despite sounding like the punch line to a bumper sticker, Miles says that's his new word for "female parts".

I cannot think of anything else that needs to be launched from my brain into the internet right now. I read the blog of a woman who's job is writing a celebrity/party/backstage ga-ga minutae for a national music puffication. To even consider her blogwriting for even a passing half-second, and to think that mayeb rattling around in yr own brain is something you should out on the blog-horn, is to feel totally ashamed and fearful that one is only further contributing to the dearth of uneconomicly-worded soporific mindraping ---- -- i just went to thesaurus.com to look up a synonom (sp?) for tedium, but none of the words were harsh enough to put across what I'm feeling.
The word I am looking for means "the conveyance of details so impossibly non-important, rife with an obliviance of the banal vapidity yet heaving and plump with the awareness that others are reading - and is so harshly boring that it feels like someone has betrayed your soul".

It's not a hateration thing. It's... It's like -- her humanity is windexed-shine glaring and sweatpants casual and in love with everything she should be and is licking the bowl of Big Dumb American Details. It's the sort of things that I get nervous about, traits of my own that I fear, in my worst, most black soul hours -- I display like a well greased lazy-susan spice rack, spinning into oblivion. The people you hate most, as a general rule, are a fearsome caricture of us at our most utterly prone and disgusting.
Never the less, it makes me want to lock her in the crawlspace under my house, and write a blog detailing her screams for help.

Posted by Jessica at January 15, 2004 11:03 PM | TrackBack

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