I can't believe I haven't updated in 15 days. 15 days?
You've lost that loving feeling. Whoa whoa. Whoa that loving feeling. Yo-u lost tha-t lovi-ng fe-eling. Now it's go-ne. Go-ne. Go-ne. Whoa whoa whoa.
Slow dance with me baby, it's been so long since I've held you in my arms. I want to smell the top of your head as I recount my random feelings and narratives here. Sway with me baby. Sway.
As I type this update I am sitting in underwear that I've turned inside out as I have completely run out of clean underwear and still have not had the will, time, nor quarters to actually take a load of laundry to a mat of launder and clean some of my fucking clothes.
Tomorrow I will go underwearless. I will be living on the edge. If you happen to read the journal and you see me in person tomorrow and we have the following conversation:
You: Well I for one am surprised that they haven't found all those Weapons of Mass Destruction. My impression was that Iraq had them laying out all over the place--- spread all willy nilly like Christmas Wrap after a Pirate's Booty game. But now... now there's this mention of a weapons program. I am fearful of the weapons program that has suddenly evolved. So very fearful.
Me: You cad, get it together. THERE ARE NO WEAPONS OF MASS DESTRUCTION. All they found were some trailer rigs. And tubes. Tubes that can't even be used for construction of weapons because they're the wrong fucking size. And as for a weapons program??? Can't you see what they're doing? They're trying to make you forget that the entire reason we went to this war never even existed.
You: I can't believe that you're saying that while we're under a code Orange.
Me: Nor can I, hold me, fellow American, I am scared and paranoid, but proud nonetheless.
And as we hold each other in the fear that The Man has produced, you will know that the only thing that separates my bits of femaleness and your abdomen/own crotch (depending on your height) will be a pair of dingy denims. That's it. That will be all.
As of late, I've found that I've developed a habit of picking my nose.
I'll give you a moment to absorb that TMI or go to your history bar and read something not as juvenile.
Yes, a nose picker I've become. I don't know what's caused this. I agree with Gene Wilder when he's dressed up as Willy Wonka, it is, indeed, a nasty habit. Lately, it just always feels like I have a boog chill happening and I feel the need to scratch. If that doesn't work, I do a quick fingernail nostril rim sweep. If that doesn't work, I resort to the nose blow of woe, and then continue to pick if needed.
WHAT'S WRONG WITH ME? WHAT HAVE I BECOME? WHY AM I SUDDENLY A NOSE PICKER? That picking time could be devoted to doing something more productive, like updating my damn journal.
Oh yes, if you didn't know this already, the electricity company will actually turn your electricity off if you don't pay the bill. I had always thought this to be a myth, but have recently experienced the reality of such an occurence. The cottage of wuv was on "Power Down" status for the last three days. Three days. Three mother fucking hot days, dark nights. It was one of those times where Lipman thought I was taking care of it, when, in fact, it was Lipman's turn to take care of the payment.
Yesterday Lipman was blowing air bubbles via a straw into the fish tanks to provide them with life-sustaining air.
Meanwhile, I'm freaking out about the Totino's frozen pizza staples that are busy defrosting in the freezer, losing their ability to provide us with nutrition and taste.
Wakey, of the House O' Wake, let us stay in her nice bedroom while she slept on the couch. She bought us a bottle of wine and rented a movie for us. (Sidenote: If you haven't seen Human Nature then you haven't seen a movie that I truly enjoyed and watched on Tuesday). Sleeping in her room was awesome because she has the most comfortable bed and it's just a really nice house she's got there.
Then yesterday we stayed at Lipman's folks house which was a good time all around, espcially because they'd just rented Waiting For Guffman and had not experienced the awesomeness of Eugene Levy singing "Nothing ever happens on Mars. Boring Boring Boring."
Today, the electricity is back on. I've just returned from a show and have found Lipman sleeping on the sofa, mouth half open, one hand resting comfortably on his crotch, the other swung over his head to protect his eyes from the swag lamp aura of light above.
The air is on full blast. We are home. Our own home. Our own bed. Free to sit at the computer in our dirty underwear that is turned inside out. Able to talk outloud to ourselves without thinking that someone will answer the obivously rhetorical question, "I think I should delete that bit about becoming a nose picker." Typing with full abandon about things that have no thru line, no point, no real ending.
Just an update.