Here goes: I was all ready to send a blog about beer, its virtue and preeminence in my life. But when I clicked "post blog," myspace froze and i lost everything i wrote. compound that with the fact that i've been drinking (field study for my beer blog, of course), and you can imagine how frustrated i am. i don't know who the fuck "tom" is, or why he has a flashlight in his profile picture, or why he runs such a shitty site, but suffice is to say that his space is not my space. my space is the tiny alcove in the corner of my room where i pretend to be an intellectual commenting on thematic and societal trends. my space is where i will bury tom's body when i am done building a lego house with his exoskeleton.
however, my anger got me thinking--what, exactly, is frustation? outside of a maddening emotion, frustration is particularly dangerous because it embodies the impetus to not act, to allow the stodginess it engenders to dictate inaction and resignation. it is hard as hell to keep on typing after the beer blog fiasco, and it's going to take some serious reflection time (read: masturbation and then a cigar) to get over it. furthermore, and even more unsettling, is the possibility that i've let frustration dominate my modes of action and thought for years; after all, my success tonight in overcoming frustration owes more to the half-empty corona to my left than to an achievement in self-control.
the most i can do, now that my magical ale-related verbiage is resting in derelict non-existence, is to bestow upon all ye who read this the wish, most sincere and ale-aided, that frustration cease to play a prominent role in your decision making. if not for my own victory this evening, i would not have done what i'm about to do at the end of this sentence: copy and paste this shit so that tom can't fuck it up again.
Stay tactless, tom
ps-speaking of frustration, does anyone have an in with incubus? fuckers at epic records won't return my calls.