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the latest
waddle: good morning, wordpress - 10:36 a.m. , 2009-07-03 elaborate murder attempt - 2:56 p.m. , 2009-07-01 building a tractor in the basement - 10:42 a.m. , 2009-06-19 ask no questions tell just a few lies - 3:17 p.m. , 2009-06-09 my long lasting flavor really lasts long - 1:10 p.m. , 2009-06-04
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THIS ENTRY WAS BROUGHT TO YOU BY THE LETTER H, THE VERB "SMACK," AND THE ANIMALS HORSE AND MONKEY Mundo Increible! Mexican movie posters. View them all, they deserve it, although I am extremely partial to the increible mundo. Dimethylmercury is some bad shit. What's on your bedside table? A point about the liminal nature of postmodern communication through images? Or just some ass-related supplies? WHICH BRINGS US TO Want to hear something gross? I think that you do. Okay. I haven't changed my sheets in quite a while. I have not changed the sheets to the point where I do not have a clear memory in my mind of the most recent sheet-changing jamboree. (Changing the sheets does not deserve to be called a jamboree, but I really wanted to use the word "jamboree" at least once today, and now! That goal! Has been! Accomplished! I! fucking! Rule!) I fucking rule, that is, except when it comes to changing the sheets regularly and not being a vile disgusting little girl with dirty sheets. I have not had the energy to change the damn sheets, and I think that makes me a fucking loser instead. (By the way, some person recently searched Google for "why am I such a fucking loser" and that's how I found out that I am way up at the top of that search, which makes me feel a bit like a fucking loser, to tell the truth.) I haven't had the energy to change the sheets, okay? Until today. I got up early, showered (see, I'm not that gross), dressed, and got picked up by my paintergrrrl friend for breakfast at Earwax. Which lasted around four hours, because that waiter guy (who definitely had not been as conscientious as I about that whole showering/clean clothes things) kept coming around with the coffee, and it's hard for me to say no to beverages. I don't thnk I have ever said no to a beverage in my entire life. So after four, five, sixseveneight hours of caffeine and sharing silly anecdotes, with the occasional break for somewhat serious discussion about the bizarre process of being Taught To Make Art, she left to do useful things (like maybe changing her sheets) and I stayed there, drinking more caffeine and getting more strange. My spine felt like a glass harmonica and at one point I felt scared of my own coat. When your coat scares you, you have had too much caffeine. I typed a lot too, because if I don't type at least one thousand words a day, whether it is silly internet crap like this or more thoughtful private writing, I start to feel like I am losing molecules, losing definition, my edges getting blurry, and I worry that I will just disappear. I am interested in the edges of things and the way they poke and intrude into their surrounding space. If I were a painter that is what I would paint. I am not a painter so instead I just type lots and lots of words in an effort to stay three-dimensional and not go curling up at the edges like an old stamp or blowing away in the wind like a leaf. What was my point? Did I have a point? Oh point, where are you? I can hear the point crying off in the distance, very faintly, like a neglected child left to lie in its crib all day. The point is crying out for its bottle and I am the point's irresponsible junkie mother, on the nod with the needle still in my arm, and the point's cries register only dimly, and here comes Point Protective Services to place the point with a foster family. Ah. The point is that I changed the sheets. The Change-The-Sheets Imperative came over me all at once when I got home from the caf�. "This is it," I thought. "These sheets must be changed. Before any more manly seed is spilled, before any more drool is drooled, before any more sick junkie sweat is sweated as I once again try to kick my gummi worm habit, twisting and writhing in the sheets with visions of wonderfully colorful segmented gelatin trembling before my eyes, I AM GOING TO CHANGE THESE SHEETS." So I did. SOME PERSONAL HOLIDAYS IN THE NEXT MONTH OR SO 1. Tomorrow, November 10, is the day Arthur Rimbaud died (in 1891), and I always celebrate that with liquor and symbolism and getting shot in the wrist by a drunk and disconsolate Paul Verlaine. 2. Wednesday is my sister's birthday. Go on with your bad self, sibling! 3. November 22 is Hot Girl-On-Girl Pie Action: Part Two In An Ongoing Series. It might not even be pie but some other baked dessert, but "girl-on-girl pie action" has a better ring to it than "girl-on-girl baked dessert TBA action." 4. The day after Thanksgiving is National Drink Forty-Ouncers And Play Scrabble All Day Day. Go ahead. It's fun and Buy Nothing Day doesn't extend to malt liquor. 5. December 2 is another big drinking holiday, because it is the special day of Saint Bibiana. She is the patron saint of hangovers and we can't let her down. ----mimi smartypants would rather have a muffin than a scone. back/forward |
