I made it. It’s 9:38 now. I was a total asshole and lunged at a seat that became available on the train – pimping this guy out of it. Oh well. I had to right my morning journal, right? What’s he gonna do – read The Wall Street Journal? Not on my time, buck-o. My Aunt Carol likes to play bunco. I learned how to play Spades a few weeks ago. When I was a kid we would play Rook. Or the worst was parcheesi. God-Christ that game was boring. Never did learn how to play Euchre – yes you read correctly – I’m from Indiana and I don’t know Euchre, I don’t smoke dope and I don’t give a shit about basketball. Sometimes I think I’m crazy. Other times I know I’m crazy.
I hope Karen’s crop pot doesn’t overheat and I come home to a kitchen ankle-deep in chili. That’d be TotalSuck.
And why is it so goddamn cold in this city? I forgot my hat and I might have to go buy a new set of ears at Carson’s. I mean god-DAMN.
The Cunt-Face Story
Our friend Brian was in a production of Sound of Music and one of the nun’s was trying to effect a British affectation and she turns to Maria and instead of saying ‘What is it you can’t face?” it came out as ‘What is it, you CUNT-FACE?’
It’s the little things. And the big expensive ones too.
Erik got a dog this week. Her name is Miss Opal. He said she only eats pancakes and the occasional McFlurry. I think he was kidding.
I think a very special step is coming up for me. I’ve thought about it a long time and I think that I might have to do it. I just hope I can muster the courage. I think it is time for me to get a manpurse. Or as I derisively call them: a thatchel. I know, I know. It makes me just another sheep in the rainbow coalition. I think it is from Erik. He had this really cool one that hung off a strap around his waist. I liked it because it wasn’t around the shoulder and it rests on your hip – plus it drew attention to his hot ass when he walked. But now I’m thinking of something bigger than that but smaller than a messenger bag. Sort of between a ZipLoc bag and my current Lands End (yes, I know – how un-glam) backpack. I refuse to get a Yak Pak because it makes me think of vomiting. One of my friends dated this twinkboy that was a dance major at a Chicago university and would go to the clubs with a teddy bear backpack. Oh and it didn’t stop there. Glitter. A visor. Bandana. Bracelets. Glowsticks. Necklaces. And the same goddamn orange cargo pants every fucking night. And he never danced on the floor – always onstage. Plus his apartment looked like a record store – wall to wall posters of pop stars and boy bands. ‘My mom doesn’t know I’m gay?’ Um. Right.
Does vomiting have two ‘t’s?
So anyway – I might have to go shoppin’ on Sunday to find my manpurse. Something I can carry Palm V and a notebook in would be fine.
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