Ignore That Knock On Your Front Door Day!
It's just those people who buzz into apartment houses without saying who they are so they can knock on every door in the building to tell people to go to church. Please play a CD with a beat whose time corresponds to the knocking so you can ignore the knocking completely if it's making you graze your knuckles along the valley of the naked torso lying next to you with a little less of an absent mind.
Or why not pretend you've been lying there for ages, barely wrapping your pelvises in a bathtowel for the rare occasion that one of you has to go to the kitchen to retrieve a few more plums and water from the Brita pitcher, just lolling about for months and years and days, staring at the ceiling or rolling over on your side to see if he or she is staring at the ceiling or if he or she has rolled onto his or her side to find out what you're staring at. Sometimes you rest your fingers on a thigh and sometimes your hair gets stroked away from in front of your eyes and sometimes you fall asleep for a few minutes you think but all the while more and more people gather outside your door and demand that you fulfill your duties to the outside world. Bill collectors, landlords, gas meter readers and UPS deliverymen who need a signature for this package. Ten deep they send their right arms swinging up beside their heads mechanically pounding upon a door that's never ever gonna be unlocked no not even if something's on fire. They'll never stop pounding because they have no respect for the fact that just ten feet away behind eight inches of crumbling drywall one of you just pulled too much blanket over with a kick of the leg and the other one of you just tugged a little bit of the blanket back.
Happy Ignore That Knock On Your Front Door Day!
Sunday, November 10, 2002
Saturday, November 09, 2002
Don't Die From Lack Of Sleep Day!
Die from the hallucination brought about by your lack of sleep. For example, put a handgun on your desk. Then just stand there until you believe you are not in your own study but rather in the parlour of a wealthy and reknowned society type whom you believe to be cuckolding you with the spouse you never had. The handgun was placed there on the edge of his desk by you, obviously, laying down the gauntlet if you will. When your ailing cat saunters past your line of vision, you will hallucinate that the society type has lunged for the gun because that is the cowardly thing to do. Grab his forearm and try to direct the barrel of the gun towards the enormous (and I mean big) mirror. Either you or the dude that's in your head should fire the gun and shatter that big ass mirror. That's when all of the socialites will run from the party in the ballroom to see what happened (ie. your mom will get up from watching 60 Minutes 2 to see what the cat knocked over). When a crowd has formed around the two of you struggling for control of the gun and women are shrieking and men are shouting for 911 to be dialed (ie. when your mom asks you what the hell you're doing) fire one more shot. Then the two of you should just look each other in the eye for a second, neither of you betraying who was shot, until finally one of you falls to the ground dead, leaving the other to stand there, mouth agape, blood-stained hands outstretched in revulsion at having done just what you drove up to this mansion to do.
And by the by, the one who falls down dead will be you since you only made up the other dude because you haven't slept in a couple days and you thought maybe you could hallucinate yourself some friends but it all went kinda haywire. The bullet should hit your belly. Van Gogh died that way I think. (Bullet to the abdomen, I mean. I haven't a clue what kind of hallucinations went through that faggot's head.)
Happy Don't Die From Lack Of Sleep Day!
Die from the hallucination brought about by your lack of sleep. For example, put a handgun on your desk. Then just stand there until you believe you are not in your own study but rather in the parlour of a wealthy and reknowned society type whom you believe to be cuckolding you with the spouse you never had. The handgun was placed there on the edge of his desk by you, obviously, laying down the gauntlet if you will. When your ailing cat saunters past your line of vision, you will hallucinate that the society type has lunged for the gun because that is the cowardly thing to do. Grab his forearm and try to direct the barrel of the gun towards the enormous (and I mean big) mirror. Either you or the dude that's in your head should fire the gun and shatter that big ass mirror. That's when all of the socialites will run from the party in the ballroom to see what happened (ie. your mom will get up from watching 60 Minutes 2 to see what the cat knocked over). When a crowd has formed around the two of you struggling for control of the gun and women are shrieking and men are shouting for 911 to be dialed (ie. when your mom asks you what the hell you're doing) fire one more shot. Then the two of you should just look each other in the eye for a second, neither of you betraying who was shot, until finally one of you falls to the ground dead, leaving the other to stand there, mouth agape, blood-stained hands outstretched in revulsion at having done just what you drove up to this mansion to do.
And by the by, the one who falls down dead will be you since you only made up the other dude because you haven't slept in a couple days and you thought maybe you could hallucinate yourself some friends but it all went kinda haywire. The bullet should hit your belly. Van Gogh died that way I think. (Bullet to the abdomen, I mean. I haven't a clue what kind of hallucinations went through that faggot's head.)
Happy Don't Die From Lack Of Sleep Day!
Friday, November 08, 2002
Freak The Babysitter The Fuck Out Day!
Whether it's the bookish neighbor girl who seems a little sad about something or the gay boy that was recommended to you on your office email bulletin board, he or she has gotten a free ride for long enough. These are your children we're talking about. How's about you keep their hormone-addled, potentially suicidal, possibly recently date-raped teenage caregiver on his or her toes.
I'm not saying get a nannycam, Orwell. I'm saying send the virgin rifling into houseplants and behind crevices on the bookshelf to find the nannycam that ain't even there. All you have to do is go about your business like you would any other "Date Night" (you two are fucked by the way). "Jenny had a nap at five so she might be a little rowdy," you'll say in the dismissive tone of someone saying shit no one needs to hear because everyone's on the same page. "There's some pizza and coke in the fridge and you're welcome to it." Right, right. Little Tommy is already at his or her feet begging to be held upside down. And when the spouse is already in the car and you're just about to close the door just let the following drop to the carpet as light as a feather:
"Oh and by the way we know what's going on. Be home at 11."
Then shut the door behind you. When that movie or that dinner party starts to bore the living shit out of you, just imagine the frenetic activity going on in your home as a freshly panicked teen racks his or her brain to make sure what was heard was heard right. If only you could be there to watch your sitter hold your baby in such a delicate and hesitant manner so as to avoid any possible misinterpretation of "innapropriate touching." How sad the phone calls will be to boyfriends and girlfriends who can't come over and remove their tops on your couch anymore (this bums you out a little). Sure, you might have to look for another sitter next week, but at least that kid's gonna remember you for the rest of his or her gradually less enchanting lifetime. Not to mention that no one's going to be complaining about stretched out dresses no more.
What's it like to be as unhappy as you?
Happy Freak The Babysitter The Fuck Out Day!
Whether it's the bookish neighbor girl who seems a little sad about something or the gay boy that was recommended to you on your office email bulletin board, he or she has gotten a free ride for long enough. These are your children we're talking about. How's about you keep their hormone-addled, potentially suicidal, possibly recently date-raped teenage caregiver on his or her toes.
I'm not saying get a nannycam, Orwell. I'm saying send the virgin rifling into houseplants and behind crevices on the bookshelf to find the nannycam that ain't even there. All you have to do is go about your business like you would any other "Date Night" (you two are fucked by the way). "Jenny had a nap at five so she might be a little rowdy," you'll say in the dismissive tone of someone saying shit no one needs to hear because everyone's on the same page. "There's some pizza and coke in the fridge and you're welcome to it." Right, right. Little Tommy is already at his or her feet begging to be held upside down. And when the spouse is already in the car and you're just about to close the door just let the following drop to the carpet as light as a feather:
"Oh and by the way we know what's going on. Be home at 11."
Then shut the door behind you. When that movie or that dinner party starts to bore the living shit out of you, just imagine the frenetic activity going on in your home as a freshly panicked teen racks his or her brain to make sure what was heard was heard right. If only you could be there to watch your sitter hold your baby in such a delicate and hesitant manner so as to avoid any possible misinterpretation of "innapropriate touching." How sad the phone calls will be to boyfriends and girlfriends who can't come over and remove their tops on your couch anymore (this bums you out a little). Sure, you might have to look for another sitter next week, but at least that kid's gonna remember you for the rest of his or her gradually less enchanting lifetime. Not to mention that no one's going to be complaining about stretched out dresses no more.
What's it like to be as unhappy as you?
Happy Freak The Babysitter The Fuck Out Day!
Thursday, November 07, 2002
About That Bridge You Were Worried About, When You Come To It, RUN LIKE HELL IT'S GONNA BLOW!!! Day!
Yeah, the fucker's wired with enough C-4 to blow a hole in the riverbed so big it'll bring the water level down three full inches (it's a really wide river). That's the bridge we were talking about you crossing when you finally came to it, right? Well, you're too late. It's a suicide mission, Connor. They're only sending in the bomb squad guys who've either got no family or full pension going to their wives when they bite the bullet. And ain't no one here wearing a badge who ain't made his phone call home yet to tell the little lady where the insurance policies are filed and the loose cash is hidden.
I know this is disappointing, but if you head south on the Patch Thruway you'll hit the Stratford Tunnel and that'll get you across the river with maybe having lost about 40 minutes drivetime. And if you're gonna hit rush hour, best to do it from the Stratford than from this here bridge that you came to to cross. Now get goin.
And for Christ's sake Connor, make sure you got some change for the toll!
Happy About That Bridge You Were Worried About, When You Come To It, RUN LIKE HELL IT'S GONNA BLOW!!! Day!
Yeah, the fucker's wired with enough C-4 to blow a hole in the riverbed so big it'll bring the water level down three full inches (it's a really wide river). That's the bridge we were talking about you crossing when you finally came to it, right? Well, you're too late. It's a suicide mission, Connor. They're only sending in the bomb squad guys who've either got no family or full pension going to their wives when they bite the bullet. And ain't no one here wearing a badge who ain't made his phone call home yet to tell the little lady where the insurance policies are filed and the loose cash is hidden.
I know this is disappointing, but if you head south on the Patch Thruway you'll hit the Stratford Tunnel and that'll get you across the river with maybe having lost about 40 minutes drivetime. And if you're gonna hit rush hour, best to do it from the Stratford than from this here bridge that you came to to cross. Now get goin.
And for Christ's sake Connor, make sure you got some change for the toll!
Happy About That Bridge You Were Worried About, When You Come To It, RUN LIKE HELL IT'S GONNA BLOW!!! Day!
Wednesday, November 06, 2002
More Movies About Suicide! Day!
We will be heard, goddammit! While the TV networks have been busy turning characters from white to black just to keep Kweisi Mfume from bursting a pair of briefs, Hollywood has done nothing to make more movies about one friend committing suicide and a whole lotta other people talking about it then fucking. In the past like ten or thirty five years we've had what? The Big Chill? Too many sweaters! Permanent Record? Never saw it! That One With The Suicide And The Talking And Then The Fucking? Too little too late!
Every day in America over twelve hundred people commit suicide probably. And who gets left behind? Seven close-knit, passably attractive, loquacious friends who have been waiting for years for a friend to commit suicide so they could finally start in with the bang bang. I wanna watch!
Until I hear tell that there are no less than five movies (three with titty) in production about a bunch of friends dealing with one friend's suicide by talking about it then making the naughty genital smoosh, I will not seek employment!
Happy More Movies About Suicide! Day!
We will be heard, goddammit! While the TV networks have been busy turning characters from white to black just to keep Kweisi Mfume from bursting a pair of briefs, Hollywood has done nothing to make more movies about one friend committing suicide and a whole lotta other people talking about it then fucking. In the past like ten or thirty five years we've had what? The Big Chill? Too many sweaters! Permanent Record? Never saw it! That One With The Suicide And The Talking And Then The Fucking? Too little too late!
Every day in America over twelve hundred people commit suicide probably. And who gets left behind? Seven close-knit, passably attractive, loquacious friends who have been waiting for years for a friend to commit suicide so they could finally start in with the bang bang. I wanna watch!
Until I hear tell that there are no less than five movies (three with titty) in production about a bunch of friends dealing with one friend's suicide by talking about it then making the naughty genital smoosh, I will not seek employment!
Happy More Movies About Suicide! Day!
Tuesday, November 05, 2002
Don't Be The Guy Who Lets The Old Lady Get Off The Elevator First Day!
You should be the guy that gets sneered at by the guy who steps in your way as he makes room for the old lady to get off the elevator. You'll take a quick aborted step and you'll stumble and just nearly give him a body check. He'll shine a real big smile at the old lady as she shuffles out of the car, then he'll step out of your way and flash you a look that says nobody knows how to behave anymore and maybe he'll even wave his arm out the door with an exaggerated twirl of his hand as if to say, "Take leave, oh impatient one. The floor is yours, but then you probably believe all the world is yours for the taking, and respect for the elderly is just another outdated convention to keep you from doing what you want whenever you want." Yes, it's a very long-winded twirl of the hand. But don't worry. Just look the do-gooder in the eye and say, "My wife's been kidnapped. They're going to kill her."
Happy Don't Be The Guy Who Lets The Old Lady Get Off The Elevator First Day!
You should be the guy that gets sneered at by the guy who steps in your way as he makes room for the old lady to get off the elevator. You'll take a quick aborted step and you'll stumble and just nearly give him a body check. He'll shine a real big smile at the old lady as she shuffles out of the car, then he'll step out of your way and flash you a look that says nobody knows how to behave anymore and maybe he'll even wave his arm out the door with an exaggerated twirl of his hand as if to say, "Take leave, oh impatient one. The floor is yours, but then you probably believe all the world is yours for the taking, and respect for the elderly is just another outdated convention to keep you from doing what you want whenever you want." Yes, it's a very long-winded twirl of the hand. But don't worry. Just look the do-gooder in the eye and say, "My wife's been kidnapped. They're going to kill her."
Happy Don't Be The Guy Who Lets The Old Lady Get Off The Elevator First Day!
Monday, November 04, 2002
"Show Me Your Breath" Day!
Today's the day to let your eyes shuffle through the giant streetside window of a bar and just get kind of blanked out by all the same-old same-old outside. Cars pass, folks bend their shoulders against the cold and pull their hats down tighter, homeless people pee without knowing it. Seen it all before, yeah, but it's all so much more beautiful than anything in that novel soaking up the circle of condensation from your pint.
And just then, a couple will walk out of the restaurant next door and stop in front of your window to adjust their hats and gloves. They'll be smiling, radiatiing the glow of a romantic meal and much wine. They'll look at each other just to smile at each other. They're in love. And one of them is an ex of yours from a brief relationship not 4 months dead.
If someone were to look from the street, it would look like they're flanking you. Each on either side of you, equidistant from that bewildered look on your face. You'll look from one to the other, wondering if they planned this out: "Oh my God, my ex is in that window. Let's just go stand right out front and moon at each other for a second!" You would of course be overjoyed to know that you are so prominent in the thoughts of people you know have long since forgotten about you that they would so much as break stride on the sidewalk to make sure they have your attention.
Your ex will say something you can't make out. The companion will start to pant in your ex's face. Your ex will pant in turn, so that they both send gusts of hot breath, the steam visible in the cold, into each other's faces. That's what your ex said. "Show me your breath," said the one you just never clicked with. Then they'll stop the hyperventilation to check the eyes for glimmering before a quick kiss. And then they'll be gone.
Sure, you were glad it ended between you two. All the same, watching them through the window of the bar just then, you won't help but feel a little pang of regret. But relax, everything looks better from behind the streetside window of a bar. Go belly up and buy yourself one too many.
Happy "Show Me Your Breath" Day!
Today's the day to let your eyes shuffle through the giant streetside window of a bar and just get kind of blanked out by all the same-old same-old outside. Cars pass, folks bend their shoulders against the cold and pull their hats down tighter, homeless people pee without knowing it. Seen it all before, yeah, but it's all so much more beautiful than anything in that novel soaking up the circle of condensation from your pint.
And just then, a couple will walk out of the restaurant next door and stop in front of your window to adjust their hats and gloves. They'll be smiling, radiatiing the glow of a romantic meal and much wine. They'll look at each other just to smile at each other. They're in love. And one of them is an ex of yours from a brief relationship not 4 months dead.
If someone were to look from the street, it would look like they're flanking you. Each on either side of you, equidistant from that bewildered look on your face. You'll look from one to the other, wondering if they planned this out: "Oh my God, my ex is in that window. Let's just go stand right out front and moon at each other for a second!" You would of course be overjoyed to know that you are so prominent in the thoughts of people you know have long since forgotten about you that they would so much as break stride on the sidewalk to make sure they have your attention.
Your ex will say something you can't make out. The companion will start to pant in your ex's face. Your ex will pant in turn, so that they both send gusts of hot breath, the steam visible in the cold, into each other's faces. That's what your ex said. "Show me your breath," said the one you just never clicked with. Then they'll stop the hyperventilation to check the eyes for glimmering before a quick kiss. And then they'll be gone.
Sure, you were glad it ended between you two. All the same, watching them through the window of the bar just then, you won't help but feel a little pang of regret. But relax, everything looks better from behind the streetside window of a bar. Go belly up and buy yourself one too many.
Happy "Show Me Your Breath" Day!
Sunday, November 03, 2002
A Beercan In The Back Pocket Of Your Jeans Will Spill Some, Yeah, But If You Put It In There With The Lip Facing Away From Your Ass, It'll Just Dribble Down The Outside Of Your Pocket Which Won't Kill Nobody Day!
Unless you start to wrestle, which you're probably gonna do since there's not too many other reasons for putting a beercan in your back pocket beyond getting into a shoving match with somebody. And if you start shoving somebody, let's face it, someone's gonna get thrown to the ground and you're gonna start to wrestle because sometimes just about everyone's a little attractive and it just feels good to hold somebody and be held by somebody, even when that somebody is screaming in your ear, "SAY MERCY FAGGOT!!!" So if you wrestle but you keep your ass in the air, the beercan will probably foam up and out onto the skin of your back, which will be bare because your shirt's already been tugged way up to your shoulderblades. And after the initial foamover, it'll just sort dribble out of the can steadily and it'll pour down into your underwear and your asscrack and it'll feel so cold. You'll honestly be better off if you get flipped onto your ass and the can gets crushed and cracked and practically emptied out in one splat because at least if you're on your ass, all the beer will pour out onto the ground instead of down into your pants.
But if you just wanna walk away from the grill with two hot dogs and a coke for your little sister and you need to put your beercan in the back pocket of your jeans so you can hold everything, go ahead. It won't kill nobody.
I want you to know that until I fell in love with you, A Beercan In The Back Pocket Of Your Jeans Will Spill Some, Yeah, But If You Put It In There With The Lip Facing Away From Your Ass, It'll Just Dribble Down The Outside Of Your Pocket Which Won't Kill Nobody Day was just another excuse for me to get real loaded and remind my Dad about the time he hit my mom real bad (she was knocked out for a second).
Unless you start to wrestle, which you're probably gonna do since there's not too many other reasons for putting a beercan in your back pocket beyond getting into a shoving match with somebody. And if you start shoving somebody, let's face it, someone's gonna get thrown to the ground and you're gonna start to wrestle because sometimes just about everyone's a little attractive and it just feels good to hold somebody and be held by somebody, even when that somebody is screaming in your ear, "SAY MERCY FAGGOT!!!" So if you wrestle but you keep your ass in the air, the beercan will probably foam up and out onto the skin of your back, which will be bare because your shirt's already been tugged way up to your shoulderblades. And after the initial foamover, it'll just sort dribble out of the can steadily and it'll pour down into your underwear and your asscrack and it'll feel so cold. You'll honestly be better off if you get flipped onto your ass and the can gets crushed and cracked and practically emptied out in one splat because at least if you're on your ass, all the beer will pour out onto the ground instead of down into your pants.
But if you just wanna walk away from the grill with two hot dogs and a coke for your little sister and you need to put your beercan in the back pocket of your jeans so you can hold everything, go ahead. It won't kill nobody.
I want you to know that until I fell in love with you, A Beercan In The Back Pocket Of Your Jeans Will Spill Some, Yeah, But If You Put It In There With The Lip Facing Away From Your Ass, It'll Just Dribble Down The Outside Of Your Pocket Which Won't Kill Nobody Day was just another excuse for me to get real loaded and remind my Dad about the time he hit my mom real bad (she was knocked out for a second).
Saturday, November 02, 2002
Check The Right Breast Pocket Of That Thrift Store Western Style Ivory Snap-Up Shirt For An Old, Faded To-Do List Day!
Sometimes when you enter your local Used Clothing Warehouse and Overpriced No-Brand Small Appliance Outlet, you can feel that it's gonna work out. Most days, you know before you even leave the house that the size tags on the pants will all be off by three inches and all the sweaters will have a faint waterstain on the belly that you won't notice until you're waiting on line to pay. But on those rare days, you walk through the door and you are certain you're gonna find a new and treasured addition to your wardrobe.
And then there's a day like today. When your trip to the Used Clothing Warehouse and Overpriced No-Brand Small Appliance Outlet doesn't just feel lucky, but downright fated.
So you sift through rack after mile long rack of deep color plaids and bowling shirts that used to belong to someone named "Ray," but you're not so much browsing as you are hunting down something lost, like you would a pair of keys or hope. The funny thing is, you're patient. You know it's here, even though you don't know what it is yet, but you're excited by the feeling of certainty. You haven't felt certain about anything in about six years, right? Yeah, it was six years ago.
So anyway, a few more screeches of bent steel shirt hanger along the peeling silver painted pipe and there it is, a red, navy and white checkered plaid western style shirt with ivory snaps for buttons. Without a doubt it's the one. Eveything around you kind of goes silent and blurry and still, just like when you saw that face at that party. Kind of looks like the shirt you're wearing right now, but like the color scheme was directly inverted.
Go try it on. Fits perfect right? Now check the right breast pocket and see if there's an old, faded to-do list pasted up against the inside of the pocket.
Well waddaya know!
grapes for fruit salad
eggs
money order - $372
mom's b-day gift
call futon place
Emily maybe (stupid???)
firewood
Kind of wacky when you find stuff like that in used clothes or used books, huh? Even wackier, and this might explain why your hands are starting to shake real bad, check the right breast pocket of the shirt you put on this morning for a brand new to-do list that you just scribbled out before leaving the house.
Well waddaya know!
grapes for fruit salad
eggs
money order - $372
mom's b-day gift
call futon place
Emily maybe (stupid???)
firewood
Same handwriting even. You should buy the shirt and then go and visit loved ones to see if they still exist.
Happy Check The Right Breast Pocket Of That Thrift Store Western Style Ivory Snap-Up Shirt For An Old, Faded To-Do List Day! By the way, who's Emily?
Sometimes when you enter your local Used Clothing Warehouse and Overpriced No-Brand Small Appliance Outlet, you can feel that it's gonna work out. Most days, you know before you even leave the house that the size tags on the pants will all be off by three inches and all the sweaters will have a faint waterstain on the belly that you won't notice until you're waiting on line to pay. But on those rare days, you walk through the door and you are certain you're gonna find a new and treasured addition to your wardrobe.
And then there's a day like today. When your trip to the Used Clothing Warehouse and Overpriced No-Brand Small Appliance Outlet doesn't just feel lucky, but downright fated.
So you sift through rack after mile long rack of deep color plaids and bowling shirts that used to belong to someone named "Ray," but you're not so much browsing as you are hunting down something lost, like you would a pair of keys or hope. The funny thing is, you're patient. You know it's here, even though you don't know what it is yet, but you're excited by the feeling of certainty. You haven't felt certain about anything in about six years, right? Yeah, it was six years ago.
So anyway, a few more screeches of bent steel shirt hanger along the peeling silver painted pipe and there it is, a red, navy and white checkered plaid western style shirt with ivory snaps for buttons. Without a doubt it's the one. Eveything around you kind of goes silent and blurry and still, just like when you saw that face at that party. Kind of looks like the shirt you're wearing right now, but like the color scheme was directly inverted.
Go try it on. Fits perfect right? Now check the right breast pocket and see if there's an old, faded to-do list pasted up against the inside of the pocket.
Well waddaya know!
grapes for fruit salad
eggs
money order - $372
mom's b-day gift
call futon place
Emily maybe (stupid???)
firewood
Kind of wacky when you find stuff like that in used clothes or used books, huh? Even wackier, and this might explain why your hands are starting to shake real bad, check the right breast pocket of the shirt you put on this morning for a brand new to-do list that you just scribbled out before leaving the house.
Well waddaya know!
grapes for fruit salad
eggs
money order - $372
mom's b-day gift
call futon place
Emily maybe (stupid???)
firewood
Same handwriting even. You should buy the shirt and then go and visit loved ones to see if they still exist.
Happy Check The Right Breast Pocket Of That Thrift Store Western Style Ivory Snap-Up Shirt For An Old, Faded To-Do List Day! By the way, who's Emily?
Friday, November 01, 2002
So Then...You're In A Motel Room In Ohio Then... Day!
Hm. Well, you made it out of town leaving someone very special behind to wake up in the morning and read a note on the kitchen table, assuming the cat doesn't bat it behind the refrigerator beforehand. You've been worried about that throughout the entire drive today, but can you honestly remember the cat ever playing with an envelope? And yes, the house could've caught fire, ensuring that when the one you've jilted (for whom you still care a great deal, really you do) makes a run for it there won't be much attention paid to retrieving mail from the table. So the letter would've burned up and you would be nowhere to be found.
Yeah that could've happened but it didn't and you know it so shut up. You're only thinking about shit like that so you don't have to focus on "Brand New You Day 1!" which so far amounts to a liedown on an extraordinarily firm Super 8 mattress with crippling anxiety about going outside to eat dinner. The curtains are closed and the ceiling seems a little too low and even though there's a WalMart across the parking lot, you could swear you're in outer space right now it's so damn quiet.
Turn the television on. You haven't watched television in ages. Why not see what's on the tube these days.
There you go. It's Brand New You, TV Watcher!
So then... You're in a motel room in Ohio then. This whole Starting Over From Scratch thing isn't exactly the screaming orgy atop a speeding motorcycle that's on fire at the edge of a cliff that you would envision when you used to wonder what life would be like if you finally broke it off. Maybe you should get back in your car and drive further. Or drive back.
Happy So Then...You're In A Motel Room In Ohio Then... Day!
Hm. Well, you made it out of town leaving someone very special behind to wake up in the morning and read a note on the kitchen table, assuming the cat doesn't bat it behind the refrigerator beforehand. You've been worried about that throughout the entire drive today, but can you honestly remember the cat ever playing with an envelope? And yes, the house could've caught fire, ensuring that when the one you've jilted (for whom you still care a great deal, really you do) makes a run for it there won't be much attention paid to retrieving mail from the table. So the letter would've burned up and you would be nowhere to be found.
Yeah that could've happened but it didn't and you know it so shut up. You're only thinking about shit like that so you don't have to focus on "Brand New You Day 1!" which so far amounts to a liedown on an extraordinarily firm Super 8 mattress with crippling anxiety about going outside to eat dinner. The curtains are closed and the ceiling seems a little too low and even though there's a WalMart across the parking lot, you could swear you're in outer space right now it's so damn quiet.
Turn the television on. You haven't watched television in ages. Why not see what's on the tube these days.
There you go. It's Brand New You, TV Watcher!
So then... You're in a motel room in Ohio then. This whole Starting Over From Scratch thing isn't exactly the screaming orgy atop a speeding motorcycle that's on fire at the edge of a cliff that you would envision when you used to wonder what life would be like if you finally broke it off. Maybe you should get back in your car and drive further. Or drive back.
Happy So Then...You're In A Motel Room In Ohio Then... Day!
Thursday, October 31, 2002
Pay A Small Child To Spit In Your Face Day!
Best to do this one with the child's mother watching. You can't have mommy ask little Kevin where he got that thirty five dollars and let him tell the story of the man or lady who appeared out of the shadows of the bus shelter sounding a death rattle with every breath, trying to even out his or her voice so as not to scare the boy away, or worse, make him cry, before he or she got to feel the wonderful splash of hot innocence staining the face of failure with profanity in its purest and most powerful form. The spit of a child. Mommy might not understand if you don't ask her directly and you will be arrested for soliciting a child or at least beaten to death by the child's uncle.
And pick a kid from an impoverished neighborhood. If the mom can reconcile the fact that either her little baby perform this wholly non-sexual, albeit odd, service, or her little baby get made fun of for wearing shoes donated by the church, then it all should work out. Though she'll most likely jack up the price. And she still might have the child's uncle beat you to death. But you won't feel anything but the stain of that spit streaming down the left hand crevice where your nose meets your face anyway. If it's cold enough, the spit might freeze there. Either way, as spit dries on skin it gets really, really heavy. You've loved, no?
Happy Pay A Small Child To Spit In Your Face Day!
Best to do this one with the child's mother watching. You can't have mommy ask little Kevin where he got that thirty five dollars and let him tell the story of the man or lady who appeared out of the shadows of the bus shelter sounding a death rattle with every breath, trying to even out his or her voice so as not to scare the boy away, or worse, make him cry, before he or she got to feel the wonderful splash of hot innocence staining the face of failure with profanity in its purest and most powerful form. The spit of a child. Mommy might not understand if you don't ask her directly and you will be arrested for soliciting a child or at least beaten to death by the child's uncle.
And pick a kid from an impoverished neighborhood. If the mom can reconcile the fact that either her little baby perform this wholly non-sexual, albeit odd, service, or her little baby get made fun of for wearing shoes donated by the church, then it all should work out. Though she'll most likely jack up the price. And she still might have the child's uncle beat you to death. But you won't feel anything but the stain of that spit streaming down the left hand crevice where your nose meets your face anyway. If it's cold enough, the spit might freeze there. Either way, as spit dries on skin it gets really, really heavy. You've loved, no?
Happy Pay A Small Child To Spit In Your Face Day!
Wednesday, October 30, 2002
Ken Landerbee, Retired Food Services Administrator Day!
Ken Landerbee spent thirty three years as the Food Services Administrator for a larger-than-most arts and applied sciences college located in the midwest. The name of the college, presently, will be withheld as it is irrelevant.
Yesterday, Ken's wife, Amy Landerbee, was released from the psychiatric ward of the county hospital that she has called home for the twelve years since checking herself in for observation. The college's excellent health coverage paid the bill. Amy was not a textbook schizophrenic, but by the time she was admitted to the hospital her paranoia seemed to have permanently destroyed the woman Ken married. Ken had never felt such a rush of relief as when he was told he could no longer care for her and must turn her over to professionals. His past twelve years alone have been the happiest since the early years of his marriage to Amy.
Amy has been in their home for 28 hours as of this writing. She has neither spoken nor slept.
Happy Ken Landerbee, Retired Food Services Administrator Day!
Ken Landerbee spent thirty three years as the Food Services Administrator for a larger-than-most arts and applied sciences college located in the midwest. The name of the college, presently, will be withheld as it is irrelevant.
Yesterday, Ken's wife, Amy Landerbee, was released from the psychiatric ward of the county hospital that she has called home for the twelve years since checking herself in for observation. The college's excellent health coverage paid the bill. Amy was not a textbook schizophrenic, but by the time she was admitted to the hospital her paranoia seemed to have permanently destroyed the woman Ken married. Ken had never felt such a rush of relief as when he was told he could no longer care for her and must turn her over to professionals. His past twelve years alone have been the happiest since the early years of his marriage to Amy.
Amy has been in their home for 28 hours as of this writing. She has neither spoken nor slept.
Happy Ken Landerbee, Retired Food Services Administrator Day!
Tuesday, October 29, 2002
"Nice Fuckin' Foliage Asshole!" Day!
Today is about the fact that even when it seems like nothing will ever make this life worth living ever again, Baby Jesus snaps his fingers and shouts, "Zam! Waddaya think o' them apples?" And you suddenly find yourself in the midst of simply the most wonderful moment that has to have ever gone down on this big dumb planet.
How wonderful, you ask? Well, let's say you're on a weekend excursion up to New Hampshire to get a look at the changing leaves and you park your car by the side of the road to check out a block of houses known countywide for their front lawn displays of beautiful Autumn color and they even have a contest every year for who flashes the best auburn glow. So you're admiring a few acres of artfully maintained Oak and Maple trees seemingly strategically planted out front of somebody's house. And just as you're complimenting the landowner on his beautiful display, an 89 Honda Civic hatchback slows to a crawl just behind you and the bearded fellow behind the wheel (his young son sitting beside him) cups his hand to his mouth and shouts out the window "Nice Fuckin' Foliage Asshole!!!" before turning just a few houses down into a driveway of yet another home sporting a jaw-dropping display of red and yellow blur. The homeowner you were speaking to gives his forearm an "up yours" slap, then tips his hat to you before trudging back into his front door.
Sound like it might give you the momentum to make it through another day? Then let's head north. I know this chick who's got a car, but she drinks so we'll have to trade off wheel duty. Cool?
Happy "Nice Fuckin' Foliage Asshole!" Day!
Today is about the fact that even when it seems like nothing will ever make this life worth living ever again, Baby Jesus snaps his fingers and shouts, "Zam! Waddaya think o' them apples?" And you suddenly find yourself in the midst of simply the most wonderful moment that has to have ever gone down on this big dumb planet.
How wonderful, you ask? Well, let's say you're on a weekend excursion up to New Hampshire to get a look at the changing leaves and you park your car by the side of the road to check out a block of houses known countywide for their front lawn displays of beautiful Autumn color and they even have a contest every year for who flashes the best auburn glow. So you're admiring a few acres of artfully maintained Oak and Maple trees seemingly strategically planted out front of somebody's house. And just as you're complimenting the landowner on his beautiful display, an 89 Honda Civic hatchback slows to a crawl just behind you and the bearded fellow behind the wheel (his young son sitting beside him) cups his hand to his mouth and shouts out the window "Nice Fuckin' Foliage Asshole!!!" before turning just a few houses down into a driveway of yet another home sporting a jaw-dropping display of red and yellow blur. The homeowner you were speaking to gives his forearm an "up yours" slap, then tips his hat to you before trudging back into his front door.
Sound like it might give you the momentum to make it through another day? Then let's head north. I know this chick who's got a car, but she drinks so we'll have to trade off wheel duty. Cool?
Happy "Nice Fuckin' Foliage Asshole!" Day!
Monday, October 28, 2002
When You Finally Get Up To Close The Drapes, You'll Realize That A Classroom Full Of Children Has Been Watching You Cry For The Past Twenty Minutes Day!
When you're finished wiping away your tears, maybe you can get started on all that egg on your face. You knew when you moved in that there was an elementary school with several floors on direct eye level with your bedroom. Hell, you've been able to discern math problems on the chalkboard when the light's been right. So you promised yourself that you would always remember to close the drapes before even the thought of seducing yourself towards self-abuse might enter your mind, and you've been very good about it. Except for that one month.
So why not cover up when you feel a fit a sobs coming on? Crying, for you, is just as erotic as genital masturbation. Or maybe you knew all along they might see. You hoped that when the teacher announced that she had to step out for a moment and everyone should read quietly, a small black boy with a wandering mind would let his eyes bounce around the room until they found their way out the window and across the street and in through another window where someone's head is hunched forward and the shoulders are shaking up and down really fast and jerky.
The little black boy would get up and stand quietly by the window and watch without comment. And the little white girl who has a crush on him would go and stand beside him and ask what he's looking at.
"That man is crying," he would say. The girl would correct him, "That's not a man, that's a lady" she would say rather prissily to go with the prissy little dresses her mother makes her traipse around in. The boy would say, "It looks like a man." Then they would just watch you like they were looking at snowflakes fall. Soon, their classmates would join them by the window, a couple at a time, until nearly every child had gotten up from his seat to watch you bellow out your sobs from your shaking, shivering frame. (One boy would stay in his seat because he had gotten pushed to the ground and kicked in the face just before coming into class and so he himself would be busy crying for most of the class period. The other handful of children who would remain seated are weird.)
When the teacher would return to the class, naturally she'd be ready to freak when she saw all her students out of their seats. But since they would be silent, she'd know there's something good going on outside. So she would stand at the rear of their congregation and search the street outside for smoke. And then she'd see you, and she'd try to make out your face to determine if she knows you.
So, there you go. When you finally turn off the waterworks and you rise to the window to close the drapes, you'll see across the street, framed by the expanse of seven foot tall classroom windows, a display of curious kids' faces, their eyes wide, their mouths shut tight, their teacher standing behind them looking uncertain.
I'd at least wave goodbye, or I mean hello. Or something.
When you're finished wiping away your tears, maybe you can get started on all that egg on your face. You knew when you moved in that there was an elementary school with several floors on direct eye level with your bedroom. Hell, you've been able to discern math problems on the chalkboard when the light's been right. So you promised yourself that you would always remember to close the drapes before even the thought of seducing yourself towards self-abuse might enter your mind, and you've been very good about it. Except for that one month.
So why not cover up when you feel a fit a sobs coming on? Crying, for you, is just as erotic as genital masturbation. Or maybe you knew all along they might see. You hoped that when the teacher announced that she had to step out for a moment and everyone should read quietly, a small black boy with a wandering mind would let his eyes bounce around the room until they found their way out the window and across the street and in through another window where someone's head is hunched forward and the shoulders are shaking up and down really fast and jerky.
The little black boy would get up and stand quietly by the window and watch without comment. And the little white girl who has a crush on him would go and stand beside him and ask what he's looking at.
"That man is crying," he would say. The girl would correct him, "That's not a man, that's a lady" she would say rather prissily to go with the prissy little dresses her mother makes her traipse around in. The boy would say, "It looks like a man." Then they would just watch you like they were looking at snowflakes fall. Soon, their classmates would join them by the window, a couple at a time, until nearly every child had gotten up from his seat to watch you bellow out your sobs from your shaking, shivering frame. (One boy would stay in his seat because he had gotten pushed to the ground and kicked in the face just before coming into class and so he himself would be busy crying for most of the class period. The other handful of children who would remain seated are weird.)
When the teacher would return to the class, naturally she'd be ready to freak when she saw all her students out of their seats. But since they would be silent, she'd know there's something good going on outside. So she would stand at the rear of their congregation and search the street outside for smoke. And then she'd see you, and she'd try to make out your face to determine if she knows you.
So, there you go. When you finally turn off the waterworks and you rise to the window to close the drapes, you'll see across the street, framed by the expanse of seven foot tall classroom windows, a display of curious kids' faces, their eyes wide, their mouths shut tight, their teacher standing behind them looking uncertain.
I'd at least wave goodbye, or I mean hello. Or something.
Sunday, October 27, 2002
It's Help Your Elderly Neighbor Pull Her Husband's Head From Inside The Oven Before The Ambulance Arrives So She Can Try To Keep His Suicide A Secret From Her Children Sunday!
Remember "Help The Aged Widow In The Apartment Downstairs With Her Groceries Thursday"? This is kind of like that one, in that it's another old lady making you get off the fucking couch. Except when you're through with this one you might be so bewildered by the sudden turn your day has taken that you'll develop a drinking problem and disappear for a while.
So, naturally, the elderly neighbor in question speaks very little English so in the last seven years of you two sharing an apartment building, your conversation has consisted of bright smiles and nods and the occasional wave hello from the sidewalk. The husband you never ackowledged. He always walked with his eyes to the ground.
When you open your door, her face will be gray as ashes. When she looks up at you, you'll feel like you both always knew she would one day have to ask you for your help in this matter. You won't know what's happened as yet, but you'll nod in assurance that you're not gonna fuck this up. She'll turn her back to you and you won't see her eyes again until her husband is lying on her living room floor, where he will appear to have fallen, quite peacefully and readily, to his death.
You'll follow her into her apartment and the lifetime of photographs and decoration on the walls will be so dense that when you arrive in the kitchen you won't even realize what you're supposed to be looking at until you look at the ground and you see the soles of a man's shoes.
Your first thought will be a memory of when you were in a high school English class and you finally found out that when people put their heads in ovens, they mean to die from the gas inhalation, and not by baking the flesh from their skulls. The air will be thick with gas and you'll first check that a window has been opened and the gas has been turned off, then you'll pick up the phone and begin to dial 911. Your freshly widowed neighbor's hand will press down on the cradle of the phone and disconnect you. Then she will get her arm underneath her husband's left shoulder and begin to pull. You'll understand, then, and you'll get your arm underneath his right shoulder and you'll heft him up from the oven rack, unfortunately giving his head a crack upon the roof of the oven which neither of you will acknowledge. Another tug and you'll note how thick his brown cardigan is, probably warmer than your down winter jacket. Before the next heft, you'll place your hand on her shoulder and she'll leave you to it. You'll get him by both shoulders and slowly pull his torso from atop the open oven door. You'll be as gentle and as graceful as if you feared his limbs might rip from his body should the stride of a tug be broken.
You'll lay him out on the kitchen floor, on his back. The look on his face will not be a sad one. You'll try to find sadness there, but the closest you'll come to discerning an expression on his face will be the vague squint to his eyes. You'll look up at the doorway in time to see your neighbor walk into the living room. You'll get your grip under the shoulders and you'll drag her husband to her.
In the living room, you'll lay him out beside a curio. You'll feel terrible when you do it, but you'll lift one arm up over his head and leave the other by his side because that's what chalk outlines always look like on television. Your neighbor will open one door of the curio and slap a shelf of trinkets and children's photographs to the floor, falling atop her husband. She won't be angry. She'll be painting the picture she'd like a policeman to see. Feeling clever, you'll remove anything that fell atop his body and you'll roll him over a bit so you can put some of the trinkets under his back on the assumption that if he fell there by the curio, the items he grabbed and slapped at might reach the floor before him. Later, you'll wonder if this was a correct assumption.
You'll both stand above him. You'll look over at your neighbor and at first you'll think she's looking at her husband in mourning. Then she'll bend over to move a small porcelain figurine of a puppy closer to his outstretched hand. Then she'll look up at you and show you her eyes. They'll ask for your approval. You'll nod. She'll return your nod and go into the kitchen where she'll pick up a newspaper from the kitchen table and begin fanning the air out the window.
When you return to your apartment, you'll light a cigarette and stand by your window. You'll have a secret that you're going to keep from a family you're never going to meet. You'll stand staring out your window for the hour it takes an ambulance to pull up outside your front door. Then you'll go into your bedroom and lay down for a while.
Happy Help Your Elderly Neighbor Pull Her Husband's Head From Inside The Oven Before The Ambulance Arrives So She Can Try To Keep His Suicide A Secret From Her Children Sunday.
Remember "Help The Aged Widow In The Apartment Downstairs With Her Groceries Thursday"? This is kind of like that one, in that it's another old lady making you get off the fucking couch. Except when you're through with this one you might be so bewildered by the sudden turn your day has taken that you'll develop a drinking problem and disappear for a while.
So, naturally, the elderly neighbor in question speaks very little English so in the last seven years of you two sharing an apartment building, your conversation has consisted of bright smiles and nods and the occasional wave hello from the sidewalk. The husband you never ackowledged. He always walked with his eyes to the ground.
When you open your door, her face will be gray as ashes. When she looks up at you, you'll feel like you both always knew she would one day have to ask you for your help in this matter. You won't know what's happened as yet, but you'll nod in assurance that you're not gonna fuck this up. She'll turn her back to you and you won't see her eyes again until her husband is lying on her living room floor, where he will appear to have fallen, quite peacefully and readily, to his death.
You'll follow her into her apartment and the lifetime of photographs and decoration on the walls will be so dense that when you arrive in the kitchen you won't even realize what you're supposed to be looking at until you look at the ground and you see the soles of a man's shoes.
Your first thought will be a memory of when you were in a high school English class and you finally found out that when people put their heads in ovens, they mean to die from the gas inhalation, and not by baking the flesh from their skulls. The air will be thick with gas and you'll first check that a window has been opened and the gas has been turned off, then you'll pick up the phone and begin to dial 911. Your freshly widowed neighbor's hand will press down on the cradle of the phone and disconnect you. Then she will get her arm underneath her husband's left shoulder and begin to pull. You'll understand, then, and you'll get your arm underneath his right shoulder and you'll heft him up from the oven rack, unfortunately giving his head a crack upon the roof of the oven which neither of you will acknowledge. Another tug and you'll note how thick his brown cardigan is, probably warmer than your down winter jacket. Before the next heft, you'll place your hand on her shoulder and she'll leave you to it. You'll get him by both shoulders and slowly pull his torso from atop the open oven door. You'll be as gentle and as graceful as if you feared his limbs might rip from his body should the stride of a tug be broken.
You'll lay him out on the kitchen floor, on his back. The look on his face will not be a sad one. You'll try to find sadness there, but the closest you'll come to discerning an expression on his face will be the vague squint to his eyes. You'll look up at the doorway in time to see your neighbor walk into the living room. You'll get your grip under the shoulders and you'll drag her husband to her.
In the living room, you'll lay him out beside a curio. You'll feel terrible when you do it, but you'll lift one arm up over his head and leave the other by his side because that's what chalk outlines always look like on television. Your neighbor will open one door of the curio and slap a shelf of trinkets and children's photographs to the floor, falling atop her husband. She won't be angry. She'll be painting the picture she'd like a policeman to see. Feeling clever, you'll remove anything that fell atop his body and you'll roll him over a bit so you can put some of the trinkets under his back on the assumption that if he fell there by the curio, the items he grabbed and slapped at might reach the floor before him. Later, you'll wonder if this was a correct assumption.
You'll both stand above him. You'll look over at your neighbor and at first you'll think she's looking at her husband in mourning. Then she'll bend over to move a small porcelain figurine of a puppy closer to his outstretched hand. Then she'll look up at you and show you her eyes. They'll ask for your approval. You'll nod. She'll return your nod and go into the kitchen where she'll pick up a newspaper from the kitchen table and begin fanning the air out the window.
When you return to your apartment, you'll light a cigarette and stand by your window. You'll have a secret that you're going to keep from a family you're never going to meet. You'll stand staring out your window for the hour it takes an ambulance to pull up outside your front door. Then you'll go into your bedroom and lay down for a while.
Happy Help Your Elderly Neighbor Pull Her Husband's Head From Inside The Oven Before The Ambulance Arrives So She Can Try To Keep His Suicide A Secret From Her Children Sunday.
Saturday, October 26, 2002
Catch The Afternoon On Super 8 Day!
When you're not lying in your futon farting around listening to CDs and occasionally saying hey to the people you really love who for some reason keep walking past your bedroom door even though they don't live there but for some reason they're all there to say hey and smile and then look for something to eat, you envision it. Whether you're in an office sitting at a strange person's desk or you're at a bar with the people you really love but whose company you're not enjoying, you'll let your mind wander back to your tiny little bedroom and you'll think, "wouldn't that rule?"
But then you run home to your apartment and you lie down on your futon and you immediately realize the lighting's all wrong, all your CDs suck, and the only other person in your apartment is your shitdick roommate who won't pay the fucking broadband bill. There's debris all over your futon and it's sticking to your legs and you're bored out of your mind and you begin to think all those romantic visions of how you'd like to waste your time will never come true.
You're right. But that doesn't mean you have to masturbate again. Why not take that romantic afternoon of life lived right and get it down on Super 8? The lighting's always right on Super 8, but you can manipulate it if you want to make it even better. And you can cast people to portray those friends you love, but with better smiles and less puzzling bosoms. Hell, cast someone to play you too. You're no "Attractive Person" yourself, ya know. And how 'bout we location scout for a better bedroom, yeah? Gimme your credit card.
It'll be a lot of hard work and aggravation, but when you're all done you'll be able to come home to that life that's getting it all wrong and just dim the lights and flick the switch on the projector and click clacking away on the wall before you will be the life you should be leading but for some reason nothing's ever pretty.
Happy Catch The Afternoon On Super 8 Day!
When you're not lying in your futon farting around listening to CDs and occasionally saying hey to the people you really love who for some reason keep walking past your bedroom door even though they don't live there but for some reason they're all there to say hey and smile and then look for something to eat, you envision it. Whether you're in an office sitting at a strange person's desk or you're at a bar with the people you really love but whose company you're not enjoying, you'll let your mind wander back to your tiny little bedroom and you'll think, "wouldn't that rule?"
But then you run home to your apartment and you lie down on your futon and you immediately realize the lighting's all wrong, all your CDs suck, and the only other person in your apartment is your shitdick roommate who won't pay the fucking broadband bill. There's debris all over your futon and it's sticking to your legs and you're bored out of your mind and you begin to think all those romantic visions of how you'd like to waste your time will never come true.
You're right. But that doesn't mean you have to masturbate again. Why not take that romantic afternoon of life lived right and get it down on Super 8? The lighting's always right on Super 8, but you can manipulate it if you want to make it even better. And you can cast people to portray those friends you love, but with better smiles and less puzzling bosoms. Hell, cast someone to play you too. You're no "Attractive Person" yourself, ya know. And how 'bout we location scout for a better bedroom, yeah? Gimme your credit card.
It'll be a lot of hard work and aggravation, but when you're all done you'll be able to come home to that life that's getting it all wrong and just dim the lights and flick the switch on the projector and click clacking away on the wall before you will be the life you should be leading but for some reason nothing's ever pretty.
Happy Catch The Afternoon On Super 8 Day!
Friday, October 25, 2002
Walk The Streets For As Long As It Takes For A Cab To Pull Up Beside You And Release A Passenger Who Stands In Front Of You For A Second To Look Into Your Face And Then Wrap A Pair Of Arms Around You And Take You To A Bedroom And Tuck You In For The Best Night's Sleep You've Had Since You Were A Baby Day!
Wear some layers because even though you can't feel anything anymore, you haven't been eating well lately and your body is ripe for catching a cold, especially with the drizzle that's brewing in those clouds up above. That coat sewn from white flags won't keep you warm enough on its own. The rain will be good for you though, I mean for the imagery. You need to walk with a bit of a hunch to your shoulders to make someone you haven't seen in five years shout "pull over!" from the backseat of a cab. And don't worry about offering any warnings against anybody getting mixed up with bad ideas like you. Tonight is about rescue. Tomorrow you can talk it all out over brunch, if you don't steal everything you can carry and climb out the window before sunrise. There's gonna be a really good brunch place nearby tomorrow so you should think about sticking around. Citysearch voted it "Best Sunday Morning Nosh!"
Wear some layers because even though you can't feel anything anymore, you haven't been eating well lately and your body is ripe for catching a cold, especially with the drizzle that's brewing in those clouds up above. That coat sewn from white flags won't keep you warm enough on its own. The rain will be good for you though, I mean for the imagery. You need to walk with a bit of a hunch to your shoulders to make someone you haven't seen in five years shout "pull over!" from the backseat of a cab. And don't worry about offering any warnings against anybody getting mixed up with bad ideas like you. Tonight is about rescue. Tomorrow you can talk it all out over brunch, if you don't steal everything you can carry and climb out the window before sunrise. There's gonna be a really good brunch place nearby tomorrow so you should think about sticking around. Citysearch voted it "Best Sunday Morning Nosh!"
Thursday, October 24, 2002
If You Can't Figure Out What To Eat, You Should Go Back To Bed And Swear Aloud Day!
You think just because you plunk the down the seven bucks at the Hometown Buffet that you're somehow magically going to be suddenly decisive? You aren't even sure if you're hungry. Sure, you feel sort of weak and you have a headache and whoah! everything just went gray there for a second, but what does that have to do with your stomach? You might just be a little tired still. Yeah, you've been in bed for 88 hours but you haven't actually slept in 60. Go give it another shot. But try counting your swears as you mutter them into the pillow clenched in your fists. It'll be like counting sheep. And if you want you could even close your eyes and envision a pack of the word "Cocksuck" one by one jumping over a wooden fence in slow motion. I bet that'll knock you out in no time, yo.
Whatever you do, don't go outside to look for food. You might run into one of your friends.
Happy If You Can't Figure Out What To Eat, You Should Go Back To Bed And Swear Aloud Day!
You think just because you plunk the down the seven bucks at the Hometown Buffet that you're somehow magically going to be suddenly decisive? You aren't even sure if you're hungry. Sure, you feel sort of weak and you have a headache and whoah! everything just went gray there for a second, but what does that have to do with your stomach? You might just be a little tired still. Yeah, you've been in bed for 88 hours but you haven't actually slept in 60. Go give it another shot. But try counting your swears as you mutter them into the pillow clenched in your fists. It'll be like counting sheep. And if you want you could even close your eyes and envision a pack of the word "Cocksuck" one by one jumping over a wooden fence in slow motion. I bet that'll knock you out in no time, yo.
Whatever you do, don't go outside to look for food. You might run into one of your friends.
Happy If You Can't Figure Out What To Eat, You Should Go Back To Bed And Swear Aloud Day!
Wednesday, October 23, 2002
If The Coffee Shop Waitress Touches Your Palm When She Gives You Your Change, She Totally Wants It Day!
It's just common knowledge. There is a provocative manner of giving a man his change just as surely as there is a chaste one. A lady of virtue whose heart belongs to another would do her best to draw the man's hand open flat with its palm to the sky so that she might allow her hand to hover no less than three inches above his, in perfect position to drop the change into his hand without so much as an exchange of body heat. And then she might choose to squat low behind the counter and recite the Lord's prayer and perhaps cut into herself with pens.
And then there is the whore. She with her skirt sewn of various different thrift-store purchased college letterman sweaters and her hair mussed into just the state of frenzy to imply a love for, as well as a distrust of, emo music. She with her belly button naked as a bikini clad three year old's and her long-john top rising higher up her torso with every reach for the shelf supporting the pint-sized cappucino mugs. Such a woman has no qualms about allowing her fingers to graze and slither along the sweat laden palms of any boy who might be game for such a dalliance (and such boys are plentiful, I assure you). She could allow the change to drop from her grasp or even leave the change on the counter and pull herself out of reach before her customer's hand might have the chance to brush against her own when he oh so innocently reaches to retrieve his change.
"Reaches to retrieve his change" indeed!
A tramp who would be refused audience by Jesus himself, it's as if she doesn't even realize she's doing it. She'll just drop her hand into your own and let her fingers scrabble about in the flesh for as long as it takes to open her fingers and release the difference of price and cash tendered. She sometimes does it without even making eye contact. Perhaps she prefers it so. Perhaps she finds it painful to look anyone in the eye, for fear she might see a reflection of herself there, in her fallen state of moral disrepair. Such a woman might seem to not care for conventional moral code or precautionary measures to avoid transmission of communicable disease, but rest assured, she is aware of the letter emblazoned on her bosom and she would give her life to have it sewn over, perhaps from the fabric of another thrift-store bought college letterman sweater. If you meet such a woman, pity her. And if when you pay for your cup of tea you feel the heat of her fingertips against your palm, you're totally gonna get laid.
Happy If The Coffee Shop Waitress Touches Your Palm When She Gives You Your Change, She Totally Wants It Day!
It's just common knowledge. There is a provocative manner of giving a man his change just as surely as there is a chaste one. A lady of virtue whose heart belongs to another would do her best to draw the man's hand open flat with its palm to the sky so that she might allow her hand to hover no less than three inches above his, in perfect position to drop the change into his hand without so much as an exchange of body heat. And then she might choose to squat low behind the counter and recite the Lord's prayer and perhaps cut into herself with pens.
And then there is the whore. She with her skirt sewn of various different thrift-store purchased college letterman sweaters and her hair mussed into just the state of frenzy to imply a love for, as well as a distrust of, emo music. She with her belly button naked as a bikini clad three year old's and her long-john top rising higher up her torso with every reach for the shelf supporting the pint-sized cappucino mugs. Such a woman has no qualms about allowing her fingers to graze and slither along the sweat laden palms of any boy who might be game for such a dalliance (and such boys are plentiful, I assure you). She could allow the change to drop from her grasp or even leave the change on the counter and pull herself out of reach before her customer's hand might have the chance to brush against her own when he oh so innocently reaches to retrieve his change.
"Reaches to retrieve his change" indeed!
A tramp who would be refused audience by Jesus himself, it's as if she doesn't even realize she's doing it. She'll just drop her hand into your own and let her fingers scrabble about in the flesh for as long as it takes to open her fingers and release the difference of price and cash tendered. She sometimes does it without even making eye contact. Perhaps she prefers it so. Perhaps she finds it painful to look anyone in the eye, for fear she might see a reflection of herself there, in her fallen state of moral disrepair. Such a woman might seem to not care for conventional moral code or precautionary measures to avoid transmission of communicable disease, but rest assured, she is aware of the letter emblazoned on her bosom and she would give her life to have it sewn over, perhaps from the fabric of another thrift-store bought college letterman sweater. If you meet such a woman, pity her. And if when you pay for your cup of tea you feel the heat of her fingertips against your palm, you're totally gonna get laid.
Happy If The Coffee Shop Waitress Touches Your Palm When She Gives You Your Change, She Totally Wants It Day!
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