….when you see something gross, disgusting, heinous, or otherwise disturbing; and you know damn well that it is now burned into your brain. Random recalls will most definitely be a week ruiner.
The day will come when
the beauty you have to rely on
comes from the inside.
Won’t that be enlightening?
On the front porch, having some beers. Watching the lightning, listening to the thunder. I love thunderstorms! Perfect way to end a Monday.
1. Yesterday may have been my birthday. I may have turned 40somethingish. I quite possibly might have drank 2 1/2 bottles of wine. I most definitely slept for 5 hours straight ( for an insomniac, this is amazeballs!).
2. Something in my fish tank is making a weird squeaky/humming noise. Maybe it’s my fish trying to communicate? No fish, you can not join my league of minions!
3. I woke up with 2 tiny little dots on my arm this morning. Like the smallest vampire ever came and bit me. They kinda hurt. And they are really red. I’m probably gonna die.
4. I spent 4 hours sanding yesterday. By hand, with a sanding block. My arm is so sore today, I might cry. I feel like I have a Popeye arm on the right, and an Olive Oyl arm on the left. I’m a wimp.
5. It seems fitting to have a birthday celebration all weekend long. I am going to shower, dress like I have a reason to be fancy, and begin day-drinking asap! Because it’s Friday. And I do what I want.
So, I finally decide to get off my ass, shower, dress, and pretend like I might want to participate in this day.
Step out of the shower, wrap in a towel, wrap hair up in a towel. Lean in real close to the mirror; just to make sure no new wrinkles have surfaced, and what do I see? An ant! An ant, just chillin’ on the towel I just wrapped my hair in! What in the actual fuck?! I grabbed that sucker and squeezed it to death with my bare hands; like a bad-ass, and rinsed it down the drain! Dammit! Now I’m gonna have that heebie-geebie, itchy-scratchy, something is crawling on me, feeling all day!
Did I already say how much I hate Wednesdays?
p.s. I give my humble apologies to the family/friends of Mr. Ant, whom was brutally slain in my bathroom this afternoon. His funeral is being held somewhere between the u-trap and the sewer drain in front of my house.
p.p.s. Wednesday can fuck itself
in the ass
minus the lube.
That is all for now.
I woke up this morning; covered in sweat, from a dream/nightmare that I was in prison. Prison? Me? Never. I mean, I’ve done some bad stuff in my lifetime, we all have. But nothing prison-worthy. Jail, maybe, but definitely not prison. Can’t sleep after that, so I make my first pot of the day. Coffee that is. As I enjoy my first cup, my mind will not stop ticking off the reasons that I had that dream. Shut the F#$* up brain!!
So, I do the unthinkable. That’s right, I dig out my Dreams Interpreted Dictionary. FML. Apparently, dreams of prison represent the traps we create for ourselves. Traps from a sense of duty, or guilt. So not me. Not. At. All. Shit!
Wednesdays are becoming the bane of my week. So, my new weekly plan is to drink my self into a near-comatose state every Tuesday night, completely sleep through Wednesday, and awaken every Thursday morning, refreshed, and eager to complete the week.
I’ll let ya know how that works out.
I have to much clothing. Dressers, closets, bags, totes, boxes full. It’s disgusting. And shoes. Let’s not go there. So, yesterday I decide to perform a purge of sorts. Go through all of it. Keep some, unload rest. Donate, consignment, whatever! Started out really well, but then I came across an old notebook. A journal of mine. As I read some of the entries, I remembered why I started this particular journal. I have always kept journals. I like to write things down. Things I hear, things people say, things I see, things I think. And this journal, dated 2004/2005, was specifically things that I wanted to say out loud, but couldn’t. Couldn’t because “someone” back then told me,” being truthful is good, but your truth is to sarcastic, mean, and asshole-like”. Not everything needs to be said out loud. That hit me like a punch to the throat. So, for a while I stopped with the word-hole, and instead, wrote it down. Re-reading some of these entries, I guess I can see how some could be considered harsh. Whatever. Since then I have learned to speak the truth in a manner that the receiver might find helpful instead of hurtful. Wisdom with age, blah, blah, blah. Of course, the biggest truths I reserve for myself. The reasons I do what I do, the decisions I make; or don’t make, and who I am as a person. Some have even been brave enough to ask about these truths. Most don’t get the answers I give. Again, whatever. As long as you understand your own self, it’s good. You don’t need to understand me.
So, as I was hunting for a new hiding place for this journal; it hit me, Shit! I have more journals hidden! Hidden everywhere, in all my junk! If these said journals fell into the wrong hands, mayhem could ensue!! Not really, but you never know. I should probably find them, and do something with all of them. Yeah, maybe next week.
As for all my clothes, they are in piles all over my bedroom. I’ll do that shit another day.
when you’re lighting a sparkler
and you’re waiting for the spark
and when it sparks
you jump, just a little
even though you knew it was coming
you were waiting for it
Yeah, that’s probably one of my favorite feelings, ever.
Not sure if it was the music in my player all day ( Muse, Tool, 311, Clutch, Artic Monkeys), the tacos I made for dinner ( I ate 4 of them bitches!!), or the half a bottle of wine I’ve already downed (Cheers!!), but something has my mind a-pondering tonight. Why do people have to feed their own insecurities into what you say? Is it human nature? If it is, I must not have any. I love you man. Your my BFF, soul-mate maybe. You can have intelligent conversation. I can tell you all my shit, and you don’t judge. You tell me your shit, and I don’t judge. You can grow a handlebar like nobody’s business, and you’re still hot. You love food and spirits, as do I. We have sex, and it is what it is, nothing more. You’re so laid back, I have to check for a heartbeat sometimes. I love you man. And that’s cool. For a few days. then you get scared. Chill, pussy! It is what it is, nothing more. Get secure. I am. Pussy. I still love your handlebar. And you.
Conversation with co-worker about boobs, butt plugs, and security blankets.
That, my friend, is the epitome of an awesome work day.