Que Sera Blah.

Whatever, dude. I'm so tired of bitching about a job. I'm off to pursue better interests in the meantime.

Like selling psych-rock LPs for my future father-in-law. Like getting back into my foodie-ism, fueled by the prospect of farmers' markets and dreamy visions of drinking snake's blood with Anthony Bourdain.



Swoon.

Like getting into gardening. Like at least thinking as a writer again. Like getting in touch with friends and at least talking about big adventures. Like just generally getting back to the shit I really care about and letting go of pesky insecurities.

Or at least faking it.

Thanks, Shmuley Botech. You really are America's rabbi.

And I'm going to try to stay away from television...for the most part. Sudoku helps. It makes me feel like 'Little Man Tate' inside.

And, hell, if I get a gig cleaning hotel rooms or tending to the local crisis helpline, then I'll just take it as a bonus.

And I'm not leaving the County. Fuckers. My Southern can is here to stay, unfettered by chronic unemployment and a growing sense of ennui.

What would Serge Gainsbourg do?