Thursday, December 22, 2005

I promised myself certain things about blogging. Like I wouldn't do it, for instance. Like, for instance, there would be rules. Like, there might be too many rules for me to manage, strangely, a something something. But an instance draws me back, and speaks: you dirty son of a bitch. You no good lousy bitch. You are both the bitch and the son of that very bitch. I glanced over, just now, at my mother, who is reading a book, but who looked up, pondering what she'd just read. I think it might be something better than what's happening with me. I think it might be something more vital. Something that gets at it. Something that makes us feel. Feel like we're living. Feel like living counts. Yeah. My mom. Thank heaven. Thank. Tha. Thhhhh. F.


Blogger Tao Lin said...

i like your mom

8:58 AM  
Blogger The Man Who Couldn't Blog said...

This post would sound really good if it were the song "Feel Like Making Love," by Boston.

11:39 AM  
Blogger Maya said...

That is a Bad Company song, though (@tmwcb).

12:50 AM  
Blogger The Man Who Couldn't Blog said...

Oh, gosh! Thank you, Maya.

Yes. Bad Company is what I meant.

Unless I was referring to an obscure, bootlegged cover version of Boston doing a Bad Company song.

That might be what I'm talking about.


2:20 PM  

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