they would smash their guitars on the ground and leap from crates while screaming about hating love and wear flagrantly emo t-shirts and lie bleeding from multiple orifices after a drug overdose in a deluxe hotel suite renders them unconscious and vulnerable to the ministrations of the tapeworm papparazzi. meanwhile, their new CD rockets to unprecedented heights of success, selling over 37 copies nationwide.
- lovely people at the flea market: the lady at the fruit stand who smiled and gestured for me to take my single orange for free; the convivial old Mexican man who took the bolt of cloth off my hands, saying he didn’t want to short-change me, before halving his offer from two dollars to one;
- a burgundy dress with a flirty hem, pinched waist, and a bust that has the unfortunate effect of downgrading my apparent cup size from near C to like beesting A’s;
was probably an act of cast-iron stupidity on my part.
but 1) no more clandestine dicking around required, 2) noa rescued my cushy red chair of love, and 3) i’m home.
actually i’m not so sure how i feel about that last part.
but lo! wodehouse’s profundity arrives to brighten my day:
Introduced to his child in the nursing home, he recoiled with a startled “Oi!’” and as the days went by the feeling that he had run up against something red-hot in no way diminished. The only thing that prevented a father’s love from faltering was the fact that there was in his possession a photograph of himself at the same early age, in which he, too, looked like a homicidal fried egg.
we spent 25 hours in bed, exempting trips to a Japanese restaurant (for sushi and gristly beef cutlet), the shower (vibrant blue loofah like a cuddly sea sponge?) and Sam’s market (through whipping wind and a thin drizzling rain). busied ourselves until 4 in the morning; woke up again at 9, me sleepy-eyed and his hair standing up on the back of his head like someone had run a comb through it wrong. he was dissuaded from going to work. he asked where i saw myself in 10 years. he said how hard would i push my children if we had kids?
we smoked last night. it was tremendously cold and i couldn’t tell if i was shaking because i was high or because it was frigid. afterwards we went back inside and lapsed into a languid sitting around, reading about the biology of the female orgasm and swapping bad pot puns on facebook, laughing abruptly at unfunny things, sampling handfuls of frosted wheaties and greasy popcorn. i woke up this morning and it was pattering rain. wind rolling marbles on the metal roof.
study finds manatees asimilar to underwater potatos
drank a creamy cup of hot chocolate while thumbing through some three hundred pages of incomprehensible but typically enraptured ode to the glisten of some twelve yo girl’s nose hairs. perversion of the nabokovian persuasion is must-have reading for pedos, sad-eyed bartenders and disaffected college students
been a weird week. ran up at 8:45 a.m. from southside to foothill in kitten heels and a microskirt, with the effect that both my little toes have blisters that are squashy and about the size of coins. failed at methodology. bought and wolfed down a steak sandwich, then leaked water from an offensively orange water cooler into a snow cone cup while coworkers squabbled around me. gonna miss these kids.