How the World Relates to Moulin Rouge
Too bad Einstein’s dead, or he might have solved why we like standing on our heads. All the days we lie to ourselves are all the days that seem the same.
I’m glad I didn’t see Moulin Rouge at the cinema. Too many boring bits, too much overacting, and at the end it snows in gay Paris.
Finished off a bottle of wild turkey tonight. It only took me a few months to drink it—I must have regurgitated it back into the bottle all the time. Bitter turkey.
I can sit stiller than anybody else, for longer, except maybe for Ben Stiller. I know it’s not good for me, as my stiff muscles proclaim, but when the brain sets itself on a game of strategy or the challenge of working out why Nicole Kidman got a singing role, the body becomes a secondary concern.
The gym smells like pool. I smell like pull.
...Rouge and I thought that I could do it better, but then I forgot how. Maybe it had something to do with singing.
Colin Powell brought out colon power, pushed out an American dream turd, but not an environmental plan.
I don’t want to sleep. It’s a waste of time, but I don’t want to see the morning because the morning means work time. How much longer before I snap? Eventually something has to give, one way or the other, and I think it might be my spinal column.
Please don’t make me watch Moulin Rouge again.