Bring me a latte and a healthy dose of cynicism

So I wrapped up a column for the Thresher, watched the National play live from ACL over the little AT&T webcast thingy, and had my traditional Chipotle brunch. I love how Sundays default to being the most productive days of my week. I mean, it's because I spend my Saturdays face-down in my jersey sheets just like every other party-thirsty, off-campus hipster at Rice.

Ah, the party-thirsty hipsters. My friends.

This is one of those really cryptic, strange and lofty sort of posts. The kind that will piss off the three people who get it and confuse the other two people who read my blog.

If you bitch about your friends on your blog, but no one reads it except your friends, does anyone but your girlfriend yell at you? A question for the ages indeed.

They built a house made of empty beer cans on a rounded foundation of keg shells and now it's falling down around them. I'm watching all of this from my single perched high above the museum district. I hold my hands folded behind my back, wincing as the bombs planted over two years ago explode in the faces of the people I hold nearer than anyone else on this Earth. And it hurts to know I'm not immune. The most apt people in this country-- the top one percent of the population-- are just as susceptible to life's dramatics as the stupidest one percent.

I've seen this before.

Not only are they just as susceptible but, honestly, they behave just the same. Because your conscious mind can only go so far in protecting you from all those other body parts that completely fuck your life up. You know, mainly the genitals and the heart, or some twisted combination of the two, or mistaking one for the other. We're all stupid and guilty, and that doesn't fix a thing.

"Never trust your party friends. Your party friends are the least loyal, most selfish people you'll ever meet."
-Allen

Now would be the time to grow some character instead of defining it through the obscurity of the music you listen to, or the size of your boobs, or how many shots you can down in less than ten minutes, or money, or anything. Character is just actions convolved with situations.

I guess that's all I really had to say. I'll leave you with this applicable stanza from my favorite non-war-related poem, with apologies to Elliot.

Remember us—if at all—not as lost
Violent souls, but only
As the hollow men
The stuffed men