Our love is simple

Well, here I am at Blogspot.com because livejournal is, like, so tenth grade. I said I'd never cave.. then my friends list just became so boring.

I'm living in Edinburgh and it is very, very cold, despite what Wikipedia may say about its "surprisingly temperate winter climate," or something like that. In fact, it is so cold that I was hesitant to leave my room at all today, save for a brave expedition to the store for chocolate chip cookies and some "yoghurt" covered peanuts. What did I do in my room all day, you ask? Well, I'll tell you. I watched many episodes of Daria, read half of American Pastoral, and indulged in an inordinate amount of napping. If I didn't know any better, I'd think I was turning into the great L. Greco herself. Despite sleeping through my only lecture on Friday, blessing myself with a homemade three-day weekend, I still managed not to go grocery shopping, not to do my laundry, not to explore my massive English Lit. anthology.. not to do anything at all but lie around in my underwear wishing I could write like Philip Roth and talk like the characters in The Life Aquatic ("How did you get my espresso machine?" "We fuckin' stole it, man."), with the exception of an exciting, three-am adventure into the city to find a late-night snack (enter: probably the worst and best 1/4 pounder with cheese I've ever consumed, washed down with a couple shots of Jack). Oh, college.

What am I doing in this fucking city? I hope this all turns out to be right. I hope I find it in me to create something soon. I think I'll pray to the Good Lord to send me some unbearably funny friends. It feels good to laugh, it feels good to laugh hard. I'm tired of being the only one who tells funny jokes; I'm tired of walking; I'm tired of inflation; I'm tired of this goddamn useless British DVD player that spits out all my wonderful movies in disgust. Send me a familiar face, send me fresh vegetables, hell, send me to the moon if they've got a Whole Foods.

I've just been sent the new Jenny Lewis album, Acid Tongue, by my good, good, wonderful friend, Ben Dunbar. We're talking Tom Petty, we're talking Fleetwood Mac, we're talking a little early '90s, but most of all, we're talking motherfucking Jenny Lewis. I can't think of a better pickmeup for an alienated ex-pat than J. Lew. Thanks, Ben. You're a real pal.