Catching Up and By the Way the Works of David Lynch are Obvious

These past couple months I have fallen wildly behind, so this week I'm nailing myself to the giant green leather armchair I dragged home and finishing up the stuff for my Funclub, people on the Plushlist and all the others I've left in the lurch while personal difficulties left me defeated. I apologize to everybody who's waiting for stuff, but I assure what you get will be worth it. Convalescence, writing and exercise are the name of the game from here on in. Wish me luck, blogskateers. On another note, since Inland Empire, I've noticed it's becoming trendy to call David Lynch needlessly obtuse. This is not so. Mulholland Drive and Inland Empire suffer from transparency. If anything, their thematic elements are so blatant that it ruins the enjoyment of the so-called puzzle. Stop pretending David Lynch is too complicated and stop acting like you're some kind of supersleuth as you attempt to find meaning that's right in front of your face. If you'd like to attach meaning to something which wears its purpose and philosophy on its sleeve, I suggest you begin delving into the hidden themes in the portraiture of John Copley or in Kraft cheese singles. So, there we go, David Lynch is obvious, I'm getting back on track so you'll get some more swag soon enough and I'm still never going to eat another grapefruit in my life.

New Year's Resolution Diet Log: An Open Letter to the Grapefruit

Dear Grapefruit,
What the fuck? Are you kidding me? I finish eating a juicy, sticky, marginally satisfying orange. This does not sate me. So, I look through the fruit bowl and I spy what looks to be a juicier, stickier, more substantial orange. This orange fucking rocks. I'd heard tell that there might be grapefruits in that bowl, but I've been doing jumping jacks and squat thrusts and I'm hungry so I ignore this warning. Big fucking mistake. I reach into the bowl and find you, posing as an orange you transfructite you, and I start to peel you. This is when your true nature becomes obvious. But I've started peeling. What am I gonna do?
"Well," I tell myself, "you look to be about the same color as a tangerine, which is delicious, so you too must be at least somewhat delicious."
"Of course I am," you tell me, "why would people eat me if I tasted bad?"
I've heard this argument from broccoli and caviar before and I should have ignored it then just as I should ignore it now.
I take a bite. What the fuck are you? A big pink ball of wasabe? Ouch. If lemons had anuses, they would taste like you, grapefruit. I douse you in grenadine, which should be able to make you delicious, but you laugh as you negate its pomegranate goodness with your sour lemon anus taste. You should be ashamed of yourself, grapefruit. That shouldn't be. You shouldn't be. I am never eating you again and the four people who will read this post en route to buying nothing are advised to do the same. You suck, grapefruit. I'm glad I threw you away. At least you've succeeded in killing my appetite. I'm pretty sure nothing short of pussy or tiramisu can get your infernal taste out of my mouth, a mouth which I have no desire to put anything else in. Except for pussy and tiramisu.
Yours in eternal hatred,
Garrett Cook
P.S
Fucking die.