It appears that i will not
in fact, be able to go up to chicago next week. "why were you going to go to chicago, bill?" asks that voice in my head that replaces the voices of other people when i'm essentially all by myself. "well i'll tell you, disembodied voices in my head," i respond.
[okay, i'm going to stop that. it's difficult to write understandable sentences using sentence structures like that. moving on...]
anyway, i was going to go up to the venerable fireside bowl to see the gloria record, her space holiday, and ides of space. but noooooo...since i don't quite have the money, i won't be able to do it. i think.
that sucks.
when i first came to
when i first came to st. louis, for some reason i got it through my head that the smell of patchouli was, in fact, the smell of smoke. i mean, think about it--hippies smell like patchouli. i was always told that hippies smoked pot. using elementary logic (along with the fact that i hadn't actually smelled pot smoke), i concluded that patchouli scent was the scent of pot.
i can't remember when someone set me straight on the issue, but i'm sure it was a very confusing conversation for both parties.
perhaps my hatred of hippies comes from some pent-up anger as a result of this olfactory deception.
something must break.
i do believe that i'm officially in a big ol' rut. have you ever had one of those moments where all you want in the world is to go to some random coffee shop/bar/diner with a good friend you haven't seen in forever, and talk about everything and that certain everything's influence on everything else?
i think that's what i need.
i must resist the allure of martha stewart and just go to bed. g'night.