Nothing's happened in the last 26 days. It was a lost month. Right after finishing my November 22nd blog post I ate 45 cans of Spaghettios in one sitting (the kind with the meatballs) and took heavy sedatives and hid under a gigantic pile of stuffed animals and hibernated. When I woke up it was mid-December, I had thirty-seven increasingly irate voicemail messages from my mother asking why I didn't show up to Thanksgiving, and I had grown a rockin' beard (see below).
Apparently I forgot to turn off the space heater, because my parents just slipped a $486.11 electricity bill under my door and my room is on fire.
I had some crazy-ass dreams while I was hibernating:
I dreamt that two more of my Prefix reviews were published, and that their descriptions were as follows:
1) Barbez: Insignificance
2) Sage Francis: concert review
I dreamt that Chris Whitley, an egregiously underappreciated singer-songwriter and guitarist, died of lung cancer. I urge you to read these moving accounts of his passing, and seek out his album Dirt Floor, which is as close as anyone will ever come to pleasing the ghost of Robert Johnson. It's quite simply a perfect record, very short and quiet and still and shockingly powerful in its quietness and stillness.
I dreamt that someone I barely even know kept me smiling for an entire month.
I dreamt of data entry and jobs and the future and commitments and music and friends and family and a lot of other things. I was out for a long time--there was a lot to dream about.