Dairy of a Madman

Fuck me if Tori Amos isn’t right.  Sunshine State my faux blonde head…. It rained literally from the moment I crossed the state line on Friday and has been sunny for about three hours since then. And those hours occured in other time zones.

The soundtrack for MONSTER is brilliant, and has been the only high point of my vacation.  And that’s sad.  Oh — wait.  I forgot about ANCHORMAN and KING ARTHUR.

I have 99% crossed the state of Florida off of my list of places to live.  Not only is it too fucking hot here (seasons?  what seasons?), and the tourist to human being ratio is incalculable by my educated self, but the ley lines south of Alabama are against me, to be kind. 

Every vacation that I’ve spent in FLorida has been marked by some really bad moments — last year was my mental state (my fault, purely and unabashedly, but not fun, regardless), this year seems to be a steroid/Effexor withdrawal (or a series of really bad decisions, but that’s a call for someone else to make)… Even the summer that Melissa and I went to Destin with the family was less than pleasant, especially after that wonderful fight. 

Ah, what would true love be without that first memorable fight?

More pleasant.

I don’t care what anyone says: Van Halen is a wonderful cure all.

Later this week: I interview Norah Jones, which should be nice.  I’ve only recently discovered her music, out of my catalog as it falls, but I find it a nice change of pace from everything else that would fall into my iPod, could I afford one.  She’s got a beautiful voice, first and foremost, and her music is very intimate and passionate.  She’s very fortunate, not only to be making a living pursuing her passion, but to be doing so with her music, not some record execs. 

Also later this week, thanks to Wade: I’ll call back the producers of a new reality TV show called DOUBLE OR NOTHING.  One email later, and it’s entirely possible that I could lose everything I own to one spin of the roulette wheel.

What the fuck, right?  Can’t be too much worse off than I am now.  And at least then I would well and truly have the reason to move wherever I choose and start over.

But there’s no starting over knowing what I do, is there?  And I can look at that as either brilliant or not.

I would want to go home, but I know it’s no better there — there’s nowhere to hide with a sickness inside.  Or somesuch.

Oh, good, the neighbors like rap.  Now, I go to kill random Floridians.

Well, no so random, really.