We could watch home shopping networks for hours and revel in their metatextual mediocrity. A million things to enhance our lives resulting in a total lack of interest on our part. When we run out of things to keep ourselves adequately sedated then we are naturally forced to venture beyond the pizza box carpeting of our modest cubical dwelling and generally try to fuck shit up. However, when we get our hands on some of the time modulation powder then we leave our apartment with the energy to really do some damage to our surroundings.
Tonight we went to a party. Friend of a friend of an enemy kind of situation. You know, no real alliances and all the unclear motivation of a motley bunch of social fuckjobs. Pete was there kicking back on the couch with his unkempt and strangely motionless purple hair just kind of sinking in to the cushions staring at the wall. We called him "Captain" for no real reason. He sails the seas of indecision if you could call them that. He doesn't talk much. Joan was there. She has such a classic look. It's like she was born out of cinematic goo projected for eighty years or more. The savior of a nation and oh so sexual. I stood completely transfixed watching her taking long drags off a clove cigarette. Whenever I see her I want to ejaculate an ocean but she seems so damned inaccessable.