Every so often (about every three or four months or so) I fall into this weird funk where I just don’t want to associate myself with anyone at all.  I really attribute it to my friends, and while I really love them, occasionally my brain just explodes if I spend too much time around them.  Sometimes I feel like we’re all just burnt-out alcoholics.  Sometimes Ann Arbor just makes me feel really depraved.  These yuppies and young hipsters and their gentrified neighborhoods, their adopted pet homeless guys, their Urban Outfitters.  Okay, I buy into it a little bit: buying from Urban, living in the lovely gentrified north side neighborhood, being really hip and shit.

I can keep ranting about how we all look the same, my friends and I, and how we look the same as all the other cliques of Mac-toting hipsters throughout this god-forsaken town.  I can keep ranting about how we all make music that sounds the same, or that we all have the same artistic conceptions because mostly everyone has done the same psychedelic drugs and taken the same courses in the art school.  I can complain endlessly about the fact that all we do is drink.

But I’m not going to do anything about it.  It’s really comfortable being here, that’s the thing.  I am comfortable in my nightly intoxicated rampages, fixing my vintage bicycles and listening to my “typical” hipster music.  We’re all really comfortable, I think – we have a rhythm and a flow.  Anything that interrupts that messes us up – Art Fair, trips to Africa, breakups, hookups, fuck-ups, whatever.  Sometimes Brendan and I talk about what’s going to happen to us when we graduate.  Where will we go?  Will we all actually move into a warehouse in Detroit together?  (God forbid we do; I would die of cirrhosis of the liver in a week.)

I said, I have a plan.  I am staying on at U of M for graduate school in the School of Information.  I don’t care what the rest of you are doing.  Then, armed with my M.S.I. and maybe a J.D. (social networking and intellectual property) I am booking it.  Getting the fuck out.  Getting a job with other Internet idealists like me.

Nothing I am doing now is helping me to prepare for this glowing LCD future.  I don’t really care.  Emma said she wanted to break away from the group and start a photorealistic art collective.  I am going to start composing pastoral symphonies in the 19th century Romantic idiom.  Only a lot more deranged because I’ve done LSD.