This is the wise wantonness and benevolence of my soul: it does not hide its winter and frosty storms; neither does it hide its chilblains.
Let them pity me and sigh with me over my chilblains: 'He will yet freeze to death on the ice of knowledge!' — so they wail.
In the meanwhile, I run with warm feet hither and thither upon my mountain of olives: in the sunny corner of my mount of olives do I sing and mock all pity.
Thus sang Zarathustra.
Thus Spoke Zarathustra, "On the Mount of Olives"
I remind you that I have no idea if you are reading this. Kindly tell me if you may be attending or else maybe, horror of horrors, there are not enough tacos. Always enough bourbon, though.
4 comments:
I will attend.
In the words of the eternal Roxy Music, "Thus: even Zarathustra, another-time-loser, could believe in you. With every [Friday] a let down, every [taco] a bring down, it gets you down. But your the search for perfection, your own predilection, goes on and on and on and on."
Maybe this will be the one. The one where Taco Friday magically turns into a bare-fisted fighting match fueled by whiskey and a youthful sense of adventure. Maybe...
This is obviously about the grandiosity of self-loathing. Allow me to examine your negative introjects?
Thom and I will be in attendance!
I will give five dollars to anyone who, while at Taco Friday, throws a punch in earnest.
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