2004-12-08 - 1:27 p.m.
I feel like I'm 16 years old for several reasons......of course, most notably, because I think farting is probably the funniest thing that has ever happened ever--followed very closely by picking your nose and wiping it on someone. Although, I'm sure that based on facts, surveys, what-have-you, that would give me the comedic maturity of an 8 year-old, I'll stick with 16 anyway.
I think that my return-to-adolescence feelings have been rekindled primarily due to this nagging, clawing, grasping desire to cling, legs dangling, to feelings of dislike and, dare I say (Dare! Dare!) near-hatred. When you're sixteen those feelings are excusable. You deal--you write some nast-ass poetry, you beg someone older to buy you a bottle of Tequila, and you smoke Camel Wides 'til you puke. When you're twenty-four, you're a douchebag. I mean, what am I gonna do? Write an owner's manual to use him? No. I'm gonna let every asshole yahoo out there who thinks he's worthwhile give it the old college try. But, hopefully, by the time their pride's been cuisinarted (it's a fucking verb) to death, I'll be long gone and over it. Hopefully it won't piss me off anymore.
A note: I watched the first half of The Bourne Supremacy last night. For the record, Matt Damon never did it for me--I thought Good Will Hunting reaked of butt. I thought that Ben was the adorable wise-guy and that Matt was the over-rated, fucking clone, comedic second fiddle. This theory was further solidified by the viewing of Dogma. I thought this until that super-hot photo spread in Rolling Stone--y'know the one with the b&w picture of Matt lying in a four-poster bed wearing a button-down, looking like a big, white slab of sex with a side order of HUGE BALLS. God, he's brilliant.
