Bob Dylan's senseless surrealism yet condescending nature in his song "Tombstone Blues" has been a frequently played song as of recent. I just don't understand, but I could see myself relating to the music...or maybe I don't. But there's a sense of hapless anger that I am experiencing.
I've been having a mild case of rebellion and boy it has been building ever since I moved out to UCSB. Everyday has been monotonous, boring, and tiring to the point where I want to break free from this lifestyle. I want to retreat from the many nights of perilous drinking...to the liberation of the soul. Free from the tyranny of cliches of beach culture and one night flings, I would reach eclectic nirvana. But sadly enough, I have to resort to the rum to feed my misery.
I can't stand the party culture of where I live. I have no problems of doing it once in a while, but I don't have the capacity to do this every night. The other night, I made myself look like a buffoon to my neighbors because of my shit attempt to talk. But then again, it's really my roommate's fault for attempting to use his masculinity to charm her. Unfortunately, his manliness failed to charm the girl as her boyfriend confronts my poor roommate. I don't understand why a lot of men try to talk sex in a direct manner, it just seems like a poor attempt to get to her panties. My roommate is one of many sex-driven men in Isla Vista who talks sex. I don't know, I just feel that it's a cheap effort... or maybe I have moved past the one night fling.
Is this a sign of maturity? I don't know, I'm still having this Holden Caufield existentialist crisis. I'm tired of this repressed lifestyle, but yet I'm forcing myself to sucker into enjoying these shackles.
But the music saves me from despair because I know that there's still hope . This poisonous day to day affairs may haunt me for the time being, but I know that I will someday meet me in Elysian Fields.
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