I Lied

Once again, I lied. I said, that’s the last cigarette, that’s the last drink, that’s . . . whatever. I lied. Five minutes later I lit the next cigarette and poured myself another one. Because I felt like it. Not because I needed it, not because my will was too weak, no . . . simply because I felt like it. Just because fuck it.
I am fascinated by the human ability to lie, especially to themselves.
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Listening to Eine Sirba from 17 Hippies. Enjoying it. Two in the morning, drumming on the table, drinking my third ouzo (the one I said to myself I wouldn’t drink) after a bottle of wine, halfheartedly hoping I am not disturbing my neighbors. It’s not the music, I have headphones on, but the drumming. Or maybe the whistling. I have a horrible tendency to whistle to the music I am hearing, and when I have headphones on I can’t hear myself whistling, so it is in all likelihood completely out of tune (got a good ear, always in tune if I am listening), which would, presumably, make the disturbance worse. Sometimes I wonder if all the women who left me did it because of the whistling, out of tune or not.
Probably they can’t hear me, I think to myself. The neighbors, that is. Another little lie, maybe. I never hear them, except when the new neighbor next door taps her toothbrush in the morning. She’s a cute young blonde who always looks sad. Her bathroom, that is to say her bathroom sink, apparently, is attached to the wall where my head rests on my pillow in bed on the other side. Every morning she taps her toothbrush against the sink in a certain way: tap-tap, tapetetap-tap (took me a while to figure out what sound that was). Jesus. Like a damned alarm clock. I know then that it is 6:45 am. Way too early for me. I don’t hear a thing otherwise, she probably showers and all, but it’s just the tapping I hear. It’s really bizarre actually, and I have to grin every morning when I hear it. Then I fall asleep again, in the comfortable knowledge that she has at least derived some sort of satisfaction from tapping her toothbrush against the sink the way she always does.
But I digress. Lies. Well, I say to myself, don’t take them too seriously, those lies. And don’t worry about the whistling. If I can put up with toothbrush-tapping at 6:45 am, they can put up with whistling at all hours. Ahem.
Can’t seem to stop digressing today. Now listening to Chest Fever from The Band. I don’t know why, but I just love the organ melody in that song. That’s no lie. More ouzo… another cigarette. And now Demon Kitty Rag from Katzenjammer. Yep.
So, I’m on a roll now. Gotta work tomorrow, and that’s the reason I lied to myself that I would not drink anything after that bottle of wine. I just know that no bus will come and knock me on my ass on the way to work, so I’ll have to deal with the hangover all by myself. Oh w4ll . . . Dammitz . . . hard to type with a cigarette between your fingers. Never could stand having the thing hanging in my mouth for more than two seconds. Lithium from Nirvana. Yeah. Yea-yeaaa-yeah. Not gonna crack, and so on. Turn it up.
Oh. Mekons. Dancing in Your Head. One of my favorites. A song that literally forces me to drum on the top of my desk. And whistle to the guitar riff . . . sorry, neighbors. Not. Another lie.
Ah, hell. I’m going to bed. Hah, I lied! But I will, soon, just one more . . .
Mr. Hellstrøm whistles to Down By the River from Milky Chance.

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Yikes!

I’m never going in to a natural shallow pool of water again. You’re thinking: what’s he got this time? What neurotic, crazy idea has presented itself to his addled mind, resulting in this silly resolution? It’s Humboldt, the crazy bastard, it’s the eels, man, electric fucking eels! They’re gonna get me! I’m not even goin’ near the edge, now that I know they can jump the fuck out if they want to. Shocking.
Thanks to Why Evolution is True for giving me real nightmares.
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Vernissage

Just stuff the food and swill the champagne. Act like you think it’s art. Give intellectual commonplaces to your best. Be quasi, you casual little cultural fuck, you. Well… well, it’d be different if it was really good art, wouldn’t it now? Then, you could say: holy fucking shit, this is really cool stuff! or: I don’t understand it yet, but damn, I like it!
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But how often does that happen? I’ve been to enough „openings“ to know… that I am not impressed. I know, that sounds totally arrogant, and it is. But, and here’s the wiggle, most of it isn’t even, well, how shall I say… acceptable? I mean, like, better than average. I’d be willing to praise anything above mediocre. But 90% is just plain CRAP, with some fucking kinky concept to accompany it in to the depths of creative hell. So just stuff the food and swill the champagne. Act like you… oh, yeah, I said that already.