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Do Do Wap is Strong in Here

Friday, August 27, 2004

I Had a Dream that Mary-Ellen Dated the Singer from Fine Young Cannibals 

i'm not doin my homework and you can't make me! ok, i'll do it after one of my colossal 14 hour naps, maybe. i think i'm just going to try to spell stuff with this semester's transcript - 80's boy band names like "FABB" or "BADD" - and turn in assignments written in fat tip washable pastel marker with funyon grease gluing the pages together. i haven't even gotten to the preface yet, and i'm already tossing the books across my room and whining into my drool caked pillow. if i get through the introduction to my world history book by midnight, i've promised myself a frozen charleston chew, so that should get me gnawing on the end of my pen and reading stories about bone fragments in the desert in no time. i'm going to go lick the varnish off the doorway now.


Thursday, August 19, 2004

I, Nightranger 

i of the taco platter and frosty hopps, i of the smoke ridden neighborhood dive, i of the spinning, light emiting diode wheel, i of the highlighted barry white lyric.

"surfer girl" as sung by an anemic mouse will be sending out signals in undulating waves as i try to roll away from the cigarette stench in my torpid dreams. oigh... we scandanavians are supposed to be of sturdier stock. grizzled fishermen. vicious vikings. sheep fuckers. the scandanavian idea of heaven is that you get to fight and die a gory, dismembered death over and over again for eternity. three beers down my windpipe, and god forbid anyone try to wedge me out of my bedroom door, lest they be set upon by a massive gorgonzola fart that has actual physical heft and presence.

the thought of maybe seeing 2/3rds of a bosom on friday has got me thinking about how long it might take me to barricade myself into my closet. i'm sqeamish. so be it. i prefer the black and white world of the kindergarten class, where social games venture no further than simon says, and if your breath smells like a pig's dick, you'll hear about it.

ug. i can't take it no more. never let yourself get too relaxed when there's no toilet paper in the house.


Tuesday, August 17, 2004

Poofters Froth 

what?! it's just a tiny outbreak of scabies, out on the tip of my pinky! not even an outbreak, really, i'd call it more of an 'isolated occurrence' if you really have to address it at all, which you don't. i've allready lanced each little pustule and let the oily liquid drain into the sink, then i soaked it in warm salty water for like a half hour. you don't even half to think about it. yes, some of the juice got in your food, but who can really say what's in your food anymore these days what with all the pesticides and biotech stuff. don't worry, i'll just ask the waiter for a wet nap and a band-aid. hey! stop screaming! please? hey, come back!


Sunday, August 15, 2004

Rise to the Occasion with Rice 

it is with diminished vigor that i report to you on this grey night. all vitality and youthful verve has drained into my feet, making them feel like sacks of chewed beef. a formless mass of lukewarm microwaved "food" is what passes for solace tonight.

punch in, punch out, punch in, punch out, the sound of the time card clicking into place echoing through grey matter... the drone of the universe and the dissonance of the city vying for dominance in the gassy pockets of my head... my eyelids sweat and neck muscles crackle. i hunch over and gnaw on a fingernail.

still prone to feral compulsion, to discard my stiff, stinking garments and lay prostrate among the ants and silverfish and box elders, beneath a thin current of wind, seems the only means by which i could ever hope to re-connect with the cyclical machinations of something approaching the eternal.

i know i'll find it. i'll fold my bones, close my eyes, and see the outline of a smile, faintly glowing behind the swirling nimbus of sleep.


Saturday, August 07, 2004

Pseudomonas Aeruginosa 

maybe it was some milk with an extra dose of bovine growth hormone. i'm craving meat at odd hours of the night and eating everything double fisted. i've noticed some hairs, thick and brittle like insect legs, poking out of my face where before only fair hairs sprouted. my literary/musical tastes have been leaning further and further toward the lunkheaded and bawdy. i half expect to wake up with a surplus cluster of testes clinging to a forearm. pretty soon, i'll start marking my room with my scent and be able to see in the dark. i'll shred all my clothes and make a nest of the tatters in a corner of the basement, scratching crude representations of my family and indigenous wildlife on the walls. you'll have to feed me by shoving a tray of rancid dogmeat toward me from a safe distance with a broomhandle like they do to sloth in goonies. then you'll wake up one morning to come down and throw fruit at me, and the basement window will be shattered. it will smell like amonia. there will be a few bloody clumps of hair sticking to the window frame next to a mangled rabbit carcass, and i'll be gone.


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