Sometimes I fall into a vicious cycle where I’m mentally and emotionally frustrated and cannot manage to channel that energy into productive avenues. In the old days, this would lead to drinking or drugs, but I don’t do that anymore. Instead, I try to go about my day, generally fail to complete mundane tasks and end up feeling ‘stuck’ – this progresses into a cycle of mild depression, feelings of inertia, guilt over said inertia, and then on and on it goes until something snaps me out of it.
It feels like I’m seated in a car stuck in neutral yet compelled to rev the engine until it screams.
When did I last curl up in her lap? It’s been so long, I cannot recall. Despite numbered boxcars on the calendar and the disinterested faces of clocks, a concrete memory eludes me. Time, location, and date, they’re merely three dimensions after all.
That number, it could be a trinity – secure, owned, loved.
Instead, it feels abstract.
Feeling a tad nostalgic this evening and found The Cult meandering down memory lane. I’ve always loved this song in equal proportion to all the hedonistic acts that took place while listening to this tune – privately, in night clubs, and two live performances. Unsurpisingly, The best memories were made behind closed doors.
Well, most of them. Because then I found this video and remembered Bike Week, 1995. It was a ‘working vacation’ for yours truly, but that never stopped me from having a good time. Bike Week was always crazy, probably still is, but 95 was the most insane trips to Daytona I ever made.
We almost watched that last night. I guess we need to. But I have no idea what is about.
It’s pretty entertaining. Dirty and raunchy and mostly pointless, but entertaining.