I am sitting on my deck at 0042 pst in my undergarments. the screen is open, annoying my neighbors with depeche mode, then the germs. blame the radio.
I have neglected my narcissism-portal of late; too busy livin', as the fuck-ups say.
thus, mere snippets -SNATCHES, really!- from the past near-month, as filtered through my fucking iPhone. by the by, FUCK iPhone for autocorrecting "iPhone" (complete with proper capitalization) but not FUCK. fuck, fuck, fuck.
the solstice parade: ass-cold and gloomy. kids getting squashed by a 15' diameter ball rolling down 34th N. I love this city, even if it's slightly predictable in its novelty. as a side note, the cold didn't affect the penis size of some of the bike riders. I suspect most participants think "I'm hung like an ox- I should ride in the parade"- not the other way around.
cherries. good christ. I prefer bings. the darker the sweeter.
music: okay, Ana tijoux, the small faces. I walked down pike tonight with my skirt flipping up, listening to "baby got back." twice.
karaoke: build me up buttercup. my friends were kind and danced.
the kick-through charleston.
spinach + dried cranberries + sunflower seeds. I reccommend feta for those who can handle it. bleu cheese (shouldn't it be 'fromage bleu'?) is sublime also.
alligator meat: it's chewy but appealingly so.
peanut butter cookies, a hug, and a "you're beautiful", among other things, from the clients I've seen do far at bbh. I fucking love it there.
in the process of rereading the 'little house' books. read 'little house on the prairie' from start to finish today, hence the sunburn on my legs. those books will make you hungry and break your heart.
I bought a ticket to cracker and cvb tonight. it'll be my 4th (?) time seeing them...
graffiti in the loo at the dubliner: "jeff goldblum is watching you pee." someone scrawled beneath that "best graffiti ever."
quote: "no one likes a dirty old man or a clean little boy."
golden gardens with k. temperature: 85 degrees. mimosas out of a half-emptied jug of orange juice.
Bret Easton Ellis.
fingers that smell of strawberries.
the FUCKING possum skulking noisily outside my window at 3am! can one "skulk noisily"? pardon my linguistic laziness. so this fucking ratty POSSUM has been making a creepy hateful racket outside my lair for the past week. I watched him through the darkened window, a possum-perv. creepy little fucker, it. I had my 2010, obsolete and tree-raping yellow pages delivered yesterday; I left it outside (throwing it away from my doormat in derision). the rattling of its plastic wrapper by said fucking possum is what caused my heed.
phone books are a fucking blasphemy. why not just send every resident a 6' length of trunk?
the station I'm listening to just reminded me: Jim Morrison died 40 years and one week ago. feel OLD AS FUCK?
entropy has discovered the deck. she's fucking fearless. I am impressed and paranoid simultaneously.
hummingbirds.
sweet potato fries.
moss-clots.
skirt sticking to legs. prying fabric off sweaty skin when disembarking bus.
my poppies and tomato plants are doing something. something. they're not dead, okay?
three-leaf clovers, barefoot. barefoot in the park. a couple with missing teeth asked me to take their photograph. they had a camera that required advancing of the film. and a dog
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we shall see how this works. i cannot edit this even if I wanted to..,