Counting The Minutes

It just feels like the Universe in the Summertime is just blasting you with hot air. And it's doing it to soften you up.

The Universe wants you warmed up. It wants your molecules to move faster. To increase your pliability. I'm so sure. I think it might be the same thing that personal trainers, physical therapists, p.e. teachers and all sort of body-experts always say to you: that the real benefit of stretching is that it helps prevent injury.

I'm here today, friends, to tell you that that is total fucking bullshit. The real benefit of stretching is: it feels good. If you don't believe me, try it. If you try it and you don't like how it feels, then the problem isn't the stretching. The problem is that you don't know how to feel good.

That's okay, though. Sometimes I forget, too. Hey! It happens to all of us. Let it go. But don't stop stretching. So it seems like Summertime is about stretching for the sake of feeling good. And I am feeling pretty into it.

This weekend was crazy / wonderful / exhausting. I'd get all the way into it except
a) you had to be there
b) it'd make me sound like an asshole, whenever I say anything along the lines of "you had to be there" and
c) the important thing is that last night I went to go see Little Victory play at the Phoenix and I am so glad I did that instead of going to the parade or whatever. Little Victory is absolutely the most important new queer punk band in America, possibly the world (please-- disagree with me to links of other rad new queer punk bands please please). If you live in NYC, you're pretty close to them, so you should go see them. They make me feel like I am witnessing history. I probably am. SO: that was a real highlight.

Also a highlight was a very raucous Saturday night, when I overindulged in White Wine (as one does, from time to time, I'm sure you can imagine). Eventually, I thought to myself: "I'm drunk. That is the word for what I am. Better get myself into a cab and head on home." Which is exactly what I did, as a responsible partygoer. I hopped into a cab and then into bed and looked at the clock, thinking "Wow! I partied so hard! What time is it?" It was 12:37a.m. A NEW RECORD, boys and girls.

Last night I dozed off to this fantastic gem, Ann Magnuson's Made for TV.
Gosh. Ann Magnuson, right? The woman is so fucking fantastic.

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