THE LIVING ROOM BUG

Here at Charles Atlas By The Fire Pit, entries of fiction should outnumber the day-to-day journal-y shit but since it's more "work," it's easier to crap out on. When it felt like I was falling behind in my creative duties, May successfully became the month of "lies" (save for that amazing gospel video). It's a super-busy time 'round these parts and I haven't devoted the time to writing that I'd like. Things are amazing -- organizing Hott Lava with Erin is extremely fulfilling and fun -- but I would change that one thing.

And as easy as whipping off this-is-what-I'm-up-to entries might be, in some ways I'm still slightly haunted by the snarky comments a former roommate anonymously posted to an old journal. He pretty clearly thought I was an asshole but couldn't have been more of a pussy about it. How does this shit get under my skin?

At any rate, James Murphy of DFA/LCD Soundsystem, an occasional asshole in his own right, ripped :

"When you're a kid, you have this impression that things like respected literary novels are going to be like Merchant-Ivory movies, full of precious subtle things. But when you actually read books, you realize that shit's really fucked-up and dark and much more complex than your childish notion of what art is going to be like."

Yeah, man, let's get back to darkness. I'm about to throw on a Burzum record. Motel money murder madness -- let's change the mood from glad to sadness.