Addicted to Andrew

Elliot Smith’s “XO” is one of the most fantastic and soothing albums I’ve ever heard. I kind of wish it would kick off the first 42 minutes of every one of my days. Except I’d probably, eventually, undoubtedly get sick of it. Right? I worry about divorce. You have to get sick of that person eventually, right? Maybe the single saving grace in a marriage is that your wife isn’t saying the exact same thing every single morning for the first 42 minutes of your day. She’s mixing it up a bit, changing her rhythms and her thoughts and advancing and evolving and doing it with you, growing together, and so that’s the only real way to avoid divorce is to avoid stagnation and stillness and to always push on further. Not that this is a particularly pressing matter – marriage is way way down the line. When I say I worry about divorce I mean in an abstract, non-threatening “Every once in a while it occurs to me that divorce is a possibility in my life but it never actually causes me any stress” kind of way.

Because every actor puts a bit of themselves into the role, I have a very easy method of determining whether or not somebody is a good actor:

Intelligent people are probably good at acting.

Stupid people probably suck at acting.

Funny people are probably good at acting.

Dull people probably suck at acting.

People I like are probably good at acting.

People I don’t like probably suck at acting.

BAM.

Scienced.

…I broke.

I will be there on opening day.

And the second day.

And the third.

And the fourth…

I can not stress enough: cool movie posters are my biggest weakness.

(That, and my asthma.)

The worst thing about winter: the layers.

Why? Because, compared to summer, I wear two to three times as many clothes that are all two to three times the size and thickness of my summer wardrobe which means that there’s four to six times LESS room in the washing machine, which means that there’s now twelve times MORE awkward exchanges with the bodega owners who refuse to turn my hard-earned Washington greens into barely-earned Washington silvers. (I’m talkin dollars to quarters here, people.)

The worst part of winter: paying four times more for extra awkward interactions.

Andrew Adams: Suckered.

For the first time in over a year and a half, I’m finally living in a place that I plan on spending more than three months in. Which means that, for the first time ever, I feel free to decorate. And I am lovin’ it.

My bedroom’s going to be nothing but a blanket fort.

And the only lighting is going to be Christmas lights and lava lamps.

Dry-erase markers by all the many mirrors.

A maze of bookshelves.

And this poster.

I always feel a lot of pressure to make the first post (of anything) interesting.

I then never feel that pressure ever, ever again.

In fact, this is what I predict for this Tumblr. It will start out mildly entertaining for a week or two before becoming wildly predictable, a mass of poorly planned one-liners and reblogs. Three weeks later, I will simply stop using it.

Soon after, I will meet a girl who I’m trying desperately to impress. So to show off my dazzling wit and HTML prowess, I’ll return to Tumblr reinvigorated. And as anybody who’s ever met a born-again Christian knows, the second go-round is always WAY more intense. The deluge of clever posts and inspiring reblogs will be outstanding! This (probably brunette, maybe redhead, rarely blonde) girl will fall into my arms and tell me I’m even more handsome than in the picture I sent her and declare me the love of her life and move in with me and redecorate so that my bedroom is more interesting looking.

At which point I will no longer feel the need for this Tumblr.

So what I’m saying is: you can gauge how interesting my love life is by how interesting this Tumblr is.

And that is sad.