Born of Frustration.

A fellow Baltimore blogger is also a huge of the band James, and it was playing on my mp3 player when I took this photo of a new Moleskine a few weeks ago. Hence the title, from the tune of the same name:

All is frustration
I can’t meet all my desires
Strange conversation
Self-control has just expired

My dissertation is largely about making hate (which I am not sure is avoidable by we feeble mortals) work for you, but I can’t seem to get anything out of the frustration with the Stupid Poopies who live below me.   No bad poetry scribbled into a Moleskine. No hardcore bass riffs or even any jingly-jangly mandolin tunes. Nothing.  Just two sleepless nights in a row and several pints of a new oatmeal stout.

I’m telling myself that frustration is not the tool that hate can be.  But I think I might hate our neighbors.  I hope not, though.  We’ve never even met, and I would hate to put someone in a pool of people I actually do hate — people who you’d hate, too, if you knew them.

So don’t get all judgy, you professors of the non-hate.  Fakers who think they love everyone.  Confess your hate.  It’s Okay.  I won’t tell anyone.  I’ll give you a hug to make you feel better.  My hugs are the best, since I am always soft and fuzzy, at least until I get out on my bike more.

No hugs for the Stupid Poopies, though.  No hugs at all.