It looks like I’ll have to put off the willful extermination
of my miserable existence for at least another day or two now that my “like
new” used copy of Hard Rain just via the great US Postal Service. Before
watching I think I’ll eat a granola bar or maybe sharpen all 64 crayons in my
deluxe Crayola set, just in case any horses trot by my posh flat looking for
some salt to lick. Man, I physically feel like shit at this very
moment. Probably has something to do with that jar of pickles I consumed
at my late brother’s 43rd birthday party the other day, right after 14 rousing
rounds of Chinese Checkers. Following the games we briefly pondered the
plight of the Native American Indian before discussing the culinary arts and
how it can be a coping mechanism for the stress some folks feel due to their
chronic sleep paralysis which sometimes manifests itself as otherworldly
presences near their bedside, perhaps after they win the giant hairy bug
sweepstakes. However, right after that but just before he met his demise
via the business end of a 27 gauge plasma rifle held together by little more
than spit and popsicle sticks we – meaning me, my late brother and all 16
members of the local chapter of the once celebrated Belgium soccer team – were
treated to the arrival of a lovely group of plump hosiery laden Latina
prostitutes (who’d been ordered ahead of time to elevate the status of the
party from an aesthetic choice between a case of want and a case of
need). I personally asked them to stuff a couple pairs of their used
pantyhose in my mouth and then wrap another pair completely around my
head. I also requested they be verbally abusive while doing this,
occasionally interjecting with a profane word (but nothing vulgar) and then
trampling my face with the soft soles of their fishnet laden feet while
swapping stories with one another about mundane everyday banalities.
Yes, I was the one who late the last of those peaches and I do apologize. I always find fresh hard difficult and/or impossible to persist. I can’t stop imagining myself swimming around in and taking big gulps of cold red wine. Maybe tomorrow. I need to listen to more Bruce Springsteen in the next few days. The coffee I drank this morning definitely proved that to be true. I’m a bit surprised Peter would have released a song which used the word “rain” so prominently so soon after Rogers tune. In some ways it seems like a very calculated cynical move though I cannot die it is its own (not quite as) compelling entity which displays a certain expected level of artistry. Still, one does not exclude the other, am I right?
Don’t even say anything, that’s what one of them was thinking. weeping. By candlelight she said she was not going to say goodbye. Only the stars know what happened afterward. Whether I end tomorrow or 50 years from now I suspect I shall always return via that map.
Lost, just as most things are. At some point he was near the coast. Do you recall what should have been said earlier? Canned phrases and scripted situations and nothing was quite as smooth as it should have been. But it did not matter. For the briefest of moments…something so quick and lovely, but it barely existed at all. and now there is very likely only one person who remembers. And once that person is gone that moment will also be gone. or is that energy still out there in the universe somewhere? Just a tiny bit of purity.
They pounded my face until it resembled so much hamburger helper. It’s much easier during the week I find. Have you signed some sort of slip of paper which mandates who will be present at all times? Scream is really growing on me I must say. I have converted into someone not very nice at all. so many things are being extinguished though. I am now incapable of most…and I have felt very little. Might we not be confronted with our older selves at some point? It is much better for everyone to leave him behind. maybe he will along those city streets at sunset. Whom might he see at that time?
Don’t you hate it when you ask someone for a piece of paper and they give you several? I feel rather detached at the moment. Or do i? the speaker was an angel. We are always clinging to an illusion. Outside is grey again but I must say it feels rather good.
I’m young enough to
still have dreams but old enough to know they will never come true. Maybe later on I’ll go sit down on a
turned-on waffle iron, just for laughs! The
moon is overhead like a delicious pat of butter. Kat was the first one to have a little pompom
on her pink felt pump. It was
extraordinary.
Losing touch I suppose,
everything systematically eliminated. I have
several superhero shows I need to catch up on.
I also need to fax some things. Faxing
seems like such an outdated mode. I’m
shocked to the point of cardiac arrest that anyone still does it anymore. I am such a grotesque unpure thing. Unlike you.
You are you are a furry thing. We
are not related.
I think a meeting with
he and he may be able to figure me all out.
Perhaps afterward they would be a bit of choir and maybe some dancing in
the church with a skull emblazoned (there’s that word again) on the floor. Zafiro.
Yes. And the daughter of the cat. Memphis gold, that’s what they used to call
me back in the days where I could polish off 19 chocolate milkshakes in a row
without batting an eye and then go on to
win trophies in softball in mouthwash gargling.
Lodger and Rain Dogs, I should listen to both those today. all those different vocal stylings!!! love love love. Maybe afterward catch a televised game. Here really is a great movie. I can’t imagine ever not loving it. I am becoming much more fraudulent and this
is troubling to me. it’s hot
outside. I don’t believe the bride even
said hi to me. what a farce this has all
become. Much better off without me. that tree still gets me every time. very poor judge of his own work.
And the transparency in the mother of the aforementioned daughter
of the cat; yes, the cat herself. Denier.
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