I bought two heavy coats in the dead of summer, on the hottest day of the year. I think that the world does an incredible job of making you forget that winter will ever come when you're in summer, and vice versa. It has to be, coup de grace, one of the best things the world does. If there were a highlight reel, this would be on it, I'm 100% certain. Bravo to all those involved.
The magic, if you can call it that, is that there were many to choose from.
Is this just far too convenient of a metaphor, this coats in the summer thing? Like some breezy summer novel metaphor shit? Do I need to spell it out here? I mean, probably. The whole thing a terribly convenient metaphor for thinking ahead and becoming a better person but this is isn't writing for a thesis, it's not Game Night At The Computer, this is shooting lay-ups in the park. Please don't take any of this seriously. Or, take it incredibly seriously, and develop a cult around it. You know what I like about cults? Almost every cult leader had great sunglasses. Fantastic sunglasses.
Anyway. Where were we? These coats were heavily marked-down.
I don't know. Sometimes when I write there's a tendency to start thinking about how it's going to unfold, or what point I'm trying to make, or some shit. Like, I'll start linking out to facts. Like this is the Fourth Estate. It's not. (Everyone got sick of blogs for this exact reason. You don't have to have a hot take on everything. Up to (but no more than) 18 people should ever actually write at any given time. We should vote them in and out like politicians, they should have to earn it, is what I'm suggesting).
Ok. Sorry. I'm getting sidetracked. All my notes are out of order. Half of them are pencil drawings of dogs driving in cars, I guess it's a series that I'm doing here the more that I look at them. Look, there's a whole thing I could say about status updates where people think they're living in the moment but they're not actually living in the moment because moments require both thumbs, and there you are writing a thing, which decisively not the moment. So basically narrating the story to the audience while A/B testing your audience at the same time, your actual life, on an invisible stage for an invisible audience of friends and family, all on their own tiny stages. That's fucking bananas and like 2 billion people partake in it. You can't be in the audience and the person on stage at the same time. Like, I think I finally get it about writing for yourself and not an audience. We created this amazing network of unfathomable magnitude only to set to the exact setting that is guarnteed to exhausts ourselves.
None of this has to do with sweaters, which is what they really were, but coats looked better as a headline, and here we are, six paragraphs deep if you count the short ones. And I still wear the sweaters. Actually, I sold one the other day. I needed the money. Money! Someone needs to write about money, but in a totally subjective way. I'm not saying I should. That would be a terrible idea, like taking ecstasy. (Who even does that? You feel great for thirty minutes to three hours and then guaranteed sarcophagusly depressed for 12. You know what else does that? Visiting family.) Going back to the money thing, it would be great to see articles like "Money: Still a Non-Tangible Collective Idea" and "Twenty Dollars: Not Bad!". I would not write that, but I would buy that. Probably for a dollar.
Sweaters. One of them was blue... that's the one I sold. It stretched to the point where I looked like I had half-way imploded. My wife likes the other one a lot and I wear it on Thanksgiving. But nobody thinks about Thanksgiving on the hottest day of the year, and they probably should, because summer is gonna end and you're going to miss that, too, and you only get so many summers, so many Thanksgivings, so maybe think about the whole year for the whole year, and think about the whole elephant, not just the part that you're touching.