Tired Tired Tired

Today is stupid. Stupid. STUPID. I want to go to bed, but I got a lot of sleep last night, so I don't really know why I'm tired. So, stupid. Pah.

I feel like my blogs are always so boring because I don't do drugs. Well, fuck. I mean, a love a Betsy blog because they're like, "I went here and smoked a blunt, and then I went here and smoked a couple of bowls with this person, and then I met up with so and so and we had sex and then smoked. A blunt." Whereas MY day consists of this: "I get up and go to work, where I smoke nothing, and then I go home and maybe take a nap and smoke nothing, and then I meet up with maybe Michelle or Roger or Amie or Betsy or maybe all of them, and we smoke nothing (unless I'm with Betsy), and then I go home where I do not have sex, and smoke nothing". Sweet. My life sucks. Why is my life so boring? Seriously? Why can't I stay out until 5 in the morning every day and have a lot of sex and go racing and do a lot of drugs? Because that would make me happy--minus the drugs. But honestly, I'm so bored with my life, and I would like some God damn excitement for once. And not drama. I'm tired of drama. I want some straight up fucking excitement.

....and to continue with my boring life, here is the preface to "The Picture of Dorian Gray" by Oscar Wilde. I really just like it.

"The artist is the creator of beautiful things.
To reveal art and conceal the artist is art's aim.
The critic is he who can translate into another manner or a new material his impression of beautiful things.
The highest as the lowest form of criticism is a mode of autobiography.
Those who find ugly meanings in beautiful things are corrupt without being charming. This is a fault.
Those who find beautiful meanings in beautiful things are the cultivated. For these there is hope.
They are the elect to whom beautiful things mean only beauty.
There is no such thing as a moral or an immoral book. Books are well written, or badly written. That is all.
The nineteenth-century dislike of realism is the rage of Caliban seeing his own face in a glass.
The nineteenth-century dislike of romanticism is the rage of Caliban not seeing is own face in a glass.
The moral life of man forms part of the subject matter of the artist, but the morality of art consists in the perfect use of an imperfect medium.
No artist desires to prove anything. Even things that are true can be proved.
No artist has ethical sympathies. An ethical sympathy in an artist is an unpardonable mannerism of style.
No artist is ever morbid. The artist can express everything.
Thought and language are to the artist instruments of an art.
Vice and virtue are to the artist materials for an art.
From the point f view of form, the type of all the arts is the art of the musician. From the point of view of feeling, the actor's craft is the type.
All art is at once surface and symbol.
Those who go beneath the surface do so at their peril.
Those who read the symbol do so at their peril.
It is the spectator, and not life, that art really mirrors.
Diversity of opinion about a work of art shows that the work is new, complex, and vital.
When critics disagree, the artist is in accord with himself.
We can forgive a man for making a useful thing as long as he does not admire it. The only excuse for making a useless thing is that one admires it intensely.
All art is quite useless."

Love it.