all words are truth, even when typed at odd ours. even when the power went out on the holiday, leaving me a day behind, so tonight kicks and sazerac, spy shows and survivor: the sad kid won, his mother gone now, the cast cries as he says "i can see how this, from an outside"
i am not willing to contemplate my own sad victory, my family sobbing in the audience as i recount those final moments to jeff probst's smiling dimples, throwing to an outdated website on the bottom of the screen, timing his dialogue to hashtags. It approaches, of course, as as all sad ends do. but without the camera there to capture it, who knows if the impact will resonate with the masses? Who knows if, decades from now, some other nitwit will relive my pain from his couch, sipping a cocktail, pretending tonight was last night?
in other news, the 2023 blog streak stands at one, there is a lit city on top of my record player, and this room does not really actually need three carpets though.
