A cup of peppermint tea, and the apathetic revision of the Purgatorial Paper, glad that I cut class today to be outside in the October sun, that there was art making and art-walking. Looked at paintings so well-executed and generic. The conspicuous consumption innocuous status symbol, like cracker jazz but executed in oils and framed expensively instead of bloodless guitar and Kenny G saxophone. Still lifes of wineglasses and saxophones in luxurious settings, landscapes or seaside villages stripped of mystery and patina.
I find myself smirking at the artist descriptions, like oh you're so unique because you paint half naked women with a palette knife. Deep, man. I did that in my art major days. Everyone else is wearing suits except for me and my sister and her friend. They ignore us. He's snarking about "rich people" and itching to tag every street sign and lamppost before he moves away, she doesn't say much, because upstairs is the apartment of her friend who got murdered this summer. I try to pet the little foofoo dog and it shies away from me, afraid of my janitor keyring and leather jacket. We part ways.
And so I'm here in the corner, too brain-drained to write creatively, nothing to really say, because I've come home every night this week and gone to sleep. A birthday party for the bro-in-law tomorrow, Rival Schools on Sunday night. I haven't gone to a show every weekend since I was a grad student. I still don't know how to plan, but life seems to go on just fine.