09.Jan.2004

for a minute there, i bored myself, i bored myself.

--

guitar rock. all day.

Sobriety merely colors a different personality; reflection is usually met with regret. I had a horrible dream. He bought me Christmas lights and sent a Christmas card to my father which read, "I really have to see your daughter."

And I thought, "How odd, he's never once talked to my father."

The Huntington House, though it is no more, never fails to make uncomfortable appearances through my REMs. So you drove through another state and brought me Christmas lights? I'm not even sure I care what the metaphor entails.

--

What is a forgotten list, and why am I first-rank in the hierarchy of girl-shadows you string on your fingers when there's simply nothing left to occupy the draining hours? Do you ever get tired of constantly playing the same patterns? Do you ever find yourself expelling the same nonsensical, romantic bilge while intoxicated and just stop to slap yourself in the face?

You know, because, I do.

Have you contemplated hiring new writers for the script? Will you come over to my house for some pizza and ranch dressing, and, this time, when the silent moments befall us, will you sustain an exorbitant quantity of shut-the-fuck-up? It will have to be veggie pizza and lite ranch dressing, but the sentiment still applies.

Come partake of the sustenance of my imagination!

Does the cycle ever stop itself from running? "Put down the whiskey sours, Agent Spiffy, and please step away from the bag of curvy reproductive organs. She's not listening to you."

I'm not mad at you.

Yes, Casanova, I'm talking to you.

--

I found a luggage sticker underneath my bed, left by the Canadian paramour I'm lambasting dryly yet affectionately in the paragraphs above. Despite my taking the direct approach to cut ties to him twice, I peeled this sticker from its sheet and pasted it to the back of my cell-phone.

Anna found it.

"Noganosh Josephmr?" she asked.
"Mr. Joseph Noganosh," I answered.
"Oh," she said, trailing cute and dark demure/sultry bedroom eyes across the back of my Motorola. "Who's that?"
"The goofy time bomb serial killer thing with glasses," I said.
"Oh!" she said. "Yeah, I never met him."

--

"Michelle?"
"Ja?"
"I have to ask you a serious question."
"Proceed."
"How long are you going to be haunted by your ex-boyfriends?"
"Well ... I'm not so much haunted as I am pleasantly spooked."
"Okay, your fuck-buddies, then?"
"Meh, they're just masturbatory fodder at four in the morning when you know no one else is going to come by to suffocate you with fuck."
"Suffocate you with fuck?"
"Suffocate you," I said, flashing eye-smiles, "with fuck."

Crawling out of bed, finally, after a ridiculous morning of nonsexual epiphanies, Mia intercepted me and said, "Good afternoon, sexy."
"Blargh."
"Bad night?"
"Bad alcohol."
"Well, your printer has arrived, so get cracking!"

I'm living in a book I know dicty journalists would retrieve from a bookshelf merely to cash in their vocabulary merit points to essentially exclaim, "This is truly another reason why I'm convinced there hasn't been decent, contemporary fiction in the last decade."

How do you think I feel, oh hip and ostensibly clever one? I live here.

--

Take me to bed and put me back together.

--

time & machine