WELL, THIS IS IT. I've finally run out of things to say.
I've been racking my brain trying to find something to write about and I can't come up with anything—so I thought I'd just start writing and then maybe an idea would come to me, like a butterfly landing on whatever makes this simile work. I don't really understand the poetic fascination with butterflies... I mean, I guess I understand it. Butterflies have beautiful wings, and people like beautiful things—but they're still bugs. People get all stoked when butterflies land on them, but they're the same people who would start barfing and then never stop barfing until they barfed up all of their bones and organs if a cockroach settled in next to that butterfly. I'm tired of butterflies (and everything else beautiful) getting a free pass just because they're gorgeous.
This goes double for Sean Penn. Fuck Sean Penn. Sean Penn is an awful fucking dude. Sean Penn hit Madonna with a baseball bat once and he still gets to act in movies? That's garbage. Plus, it's not like he's acting in movies where you NEED Sean Penn, anymore, either. He's in some stupid fucking movie called The Gunman now. It's one of those generic movies that Vinnie Chase would ALMOST make in an early season of Entourage before losing the role to—I don't know—like Josh Hartnett or something.
I think a new rule should be that Sean Penn only gets to act in movies where the part HAS TO BE PLAYED BY SEAN PENN. So like, if they make a movie, and this is the character description: Male, somehow appears to be 35 years old and 190 years old simultaneously. Looks like a half-smoked cigarette. Face always scrunched like someone who's bad at impressions doing a particularly bad impression of Robert De Niro. Skin so leathery it looks like you could buy it at one of those hipster boutique stores that has, like, four items for sale and a restored Indian motorcycle and that's pretty much the entire contents of the store. THEN you can go get Sean Penn. Other than that, get the fuck out the movies, you terrible, woman-beating garbage disposal of a person.
Here's something tangentially related to garbage disposals.
I am in a generation of people who don't know how to fucking do dishes. Nearly every roommate I've lived with for the last 10 years has been awful at doing dishes. I'm constantly pulling plates and mugs and bowls specked with food residue out of spent dishwashers—still-steaming lies that boast of cleanliness, belying their hella gross realities.
I've got a theory: I think this generation grew up around dishwashers, and if you grew up middle class, you probably grew up around mad decent dishwashers. Then, you went to college, and someone else did your dishes for you, then you moved into a shitty house or apartment and you assumed you didn't have to rinse off your dishes, because you grew up around magical dishwashers and now you're fucking with that "Best Buy declined to give me financing based on my credit history" line of dishwashers. BUT YOUR HABITS HAVEN'T CHANGED. RINSE OFF YOUR DAMN DISHES.
Anyway, sorry about this week—next week I'll have a cohesive point about bikes or whatever.