What is your favorite word?
Do you have one?
Do you even care? Do you resist such stupid and ridiculous exercises in time-waste management?
My favorite words rotate. They change.
They come and go, like fashions and underwear.
I was thinking. There is one word I’ve always loved through it all.
The sound is beautiful.
Fills my heart with tender thoughts; sweet memories.
Look it up on freedictionary.com.
1. a turning away; estrangement
2. the state of being an outsider or the feeling of being isolated, as from society
Is alienation necessarily bad?
Hmm. I don’t bring work to my blog as a rule.
Though I spout all that “fuck privacy” bravado, I really don’t want to go job hunting just yet so I will strategically fail to mention where I work or names or other info which could possibly hand the discerning web reader all the necessary info to triangulate my clerical ass.
And in my immortal words, I won’t say anything I wouldn’t tell people to their face.
Alienation attacks in waves.
There are days I feel like I’m part of the sickening, madding crowd.
And there are days not.
Everyone was on my nerves today.
Chatterbox broads, unfriendly middle-aged women…the full gamut of misery-inducing fodder surrounding me for 8 elongated hours.
Alienation is really nothing other than not having anything in common.
Are you too smart? Too dumb? Too sensitive? Too insensitive?
Pin the tail on alienation, ha!
My alienation has always thrived on social shortcomings and inabilities.
Do people bother you?
Do you shun the human race?
Alienation makes me want to run away at lunch and leave everyone behind to eat their frozen lunches or spend five times the money on food they would have spent if they cooked themselves. Run, Forrest, Run!
Hollywood is not so bad for the alienation victim.
It’s actually therapeutic.
No matter how fucking alienated you feel, there will always be someone scarier and more isolated than you wandering these streets.
The “misery loves company” principle.
You think you got it bad?
Uh huh, check out that wretch walking down El Centro with flies buzzing his ass and last week’s Panda Express leftovers dangling off his scruffy beard.
We don’t have it so bad.
So I’ll climb into my little blog cubbyhole and talk shit for 395 words.