I am lonely tonight.
Tonight I want to clean my apartment and assasinate my paperwork and paint my crocodile puzzle and wooden hand. It is 10:00 p.m.
I want to make a plan for animating my life. Is it strange to make a schedule for finding a passion? I look at other peoples lives and they are filled with art and crackerjacks and sports and monkeyshines and hobbies and bonfires. I want busty bees bellydancing in museums, chimneysweeps clogdancing in parlors. I want exploding stories at the end of each week.
First I need to plunge my poisonous stinko toilet. I think this must be what gargoyles smell like.
My words were hurdling over themselves to get to you* and now
now I forgot all the things I promised myself I'd remember
but my head is too dreamy. Sounds like usual.
When anyone gets the hiccups or their voice becomes hoarse like mine is right now - - - - nnneeigh, they sound like a
bodacious boozehound
or charlie brown adult they sound like a game show degenerate masturbating in a dungeon
or whatever the perfect words would be.
You know what sounds awesome? Falling asleep 8 hours ago.
Also, treating myself to an extreme sausage sandwich and chocolate shake on my way to work in 3 hours.
Lets pray that I save my last cigarette 'til the car ride tommorow AMEN.
*no, not youuuuuu, YOU
I thought that piece of advice was only for silly sunken-eyed celebrities but now I realize that while Ive been thinking Im hot shit, truth is, I'm really cold diarrhea.
I probably get hit on/asked out on a date 5-10 times a week and 'til now I attributed it to my badass crosswords attitude and social awkardness. For some reason I believed my shyness and refusal to engage in conversations with complete strangers held some sort of mysterious unintentional charm.
But then suddenly it dawned on me that I was a bar-star at a freaking sausage factory.
At Coach on any given night there are about 5 girls to every 40 guys.
So, even if I was sporting Sasquatch facial hair and grew a third lazy eye, people would still approach me as often and keep coming back even after being rebuffed.
You know, its ok though, that my guaranteed ego boost for bad-body days has crumpled under the weight of truth because now I get excited when the ladies at the bar give me attention and call me their friend.
Although, technically, I guess the women are just as fucked by the male/female ratio when it comes to making friends as the guys are when it comes to getting lucky.
Shit, I thinked I liked things better when I was still delusionally hifalutin.
Way to piss in the pickles, Katie.
