I don't intend to trouble you when I have nothing noteworthy to say.
Unlike some people.
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[via twitter] |
4:45 PM
I love you, too, boyfriend. I wish I had more time to write wonderful things about you, but I've gotta run, and I can't take you with me 'cause the place I'm going scares the mother lovin' shit out of you... Much love,
4:03 PM
I think I've inadvertently helped boot someone out of the military. A buddy of mine from high school found this website not long ago, and he kindly put a link to it on his homepage. Of course, now the brass are trying to discharge my friend because they think he's gay. In their straight and narrow minds, there are certain things "normal guys" don't look at--namely, Vogue (in any of its linguistic forms), other wangs, and websites run by gay men. Now that the war's essentially over, I guess the whole "stop loss" project is moot. It's a good thing I don't have to worry such ocular faux pas, or I'd never get to peruse my boyfriend's brand (monkey) spanking new Penis Blog Project.
3:34 PM
Answer the following multiple-choice question. Today is: ___ (a) My friend Lesley's 30-somethingth birthday. ___ (b) The feast day for several uninteresting saints. ___ (c) Tax day. If you answered "a," you're obviously a close, personal friend, and I haven't heard from you in months. Drop me a line and send Lesley a gift. Now. If you answered "b," you're obviously a devout papist. Move to north Mississippi and attend tent revivals until you feel an affinity for Protestantism. Celebrate your new-found freedom by marrying your cousin or sodomizing an over-ripe piece of fruit (e.g. a week-old watermelon, not Nathan Lane before his morning shower). If you answered "c," you're obviously the sort of anal-retentive fopdoodle who gets anxious when things aren't done in a timely fashion. Do us all a favor: fake an illness at work, dump your numerous projects in someone else's lap, go home, guzzle a 12-pack in the bedroom while listening to Aldo Nova (just that one album) cranked up to ten on the stereo, then pass out in the hammock out back.
3:12 PM
It's springtime in NOLA, but it feels like winter. If only Julie Andrews' voice wasn't kaput, I'd have a new diddy for her. rage hatred bile spleen anger fury wrath seething boiling ire rage hatred bile spleen anger fury wrath seething boiling ire rage hatred bile spleen anger fury wrath seething boiling ire rage hatred bile spleen anger fury wrath seething boiling ire rage hatred bile spleen anger fury wrath seething boiling ire rage hatred bile spleen anger fury wrath seething boiling ire rage hatred bile spleen anger fury wrath seething boiling ire rage hatred bile spleen anger fury wrath seething boiling ire rage hatred bile spleen anger fury wrath seething boiling ire rage hatred bile spleen anger fury wrath seething boiling ire rage hatred bile spleen anger fury wrath seething boiling ire rage hatred bile spleen anger fury wrath seething boiling ire rage hatred bile spleen anger fury wrath seething boiling ire rage hatred bile spleen anger fury wrath seething boiling ire rage hatred bile spleen anger fury wrath seething boiling ire rage hatred bile spleen anger fury wrath seething boiling ire rage hatred bile spleen anger fury wrath seething boiling ire rage hatred bile spleen anger fury wrath seething boiling ire rage hatred bile spleen anger fury wrath seething boiling ire rage hatred bile spleen anger fury wrath seething boiling ire rage hatred bile spleen anger fury wrath seething boiling ire rage hatred bile spleen anger fury wrath seething boiling ire rage hatred bile spleen anger fury wrath seething boiling ire rage hatred bile spleen anger fury wrath seething boiling irerage hatred bile spleen anger fury wrath seething boiling irerage hatred bile spleen anger fury wrath seething boiling ire rage hatred yougetthepicture
12:51 PM
5:13 PM
You know, I've been thinking (no jokes, please). I've been thinking two things. The two things are these: Sometimes, the only thing that keeps me going is the hope that one day I'll have it all under control. I fantasize that eventually the renovations to the house will be finished, the garden will be dug and planted, all my work-related projects will either be complete or running themselves, Running With Scissors will take a long break between plays, and the boyfriend and I will go away on vacation. It's Sisyphean, but I guess it's just conceivable enough that my brain doesn't stop to laugh itself silly. New Orleans isn't itself in winter. On my way to work this morning, I passed a girl in an old white pickup truck. She was the uber-Ninth Ward chick: a mess of dark hair pulled back into a ponytail, light eyes, wearing something with spaghetti straps. Probably in combat boots. Her windows were down and I could see the perspiration on her forehead and her two Catahoulas leaning out of the back, trying reach around the cab and lick her face. She'd obviously taken the dogs for a run down by the tracks and was headed home. Just looking at her I could tell what she sounded like, knew what she smelled like, knew what kind of cigarettes she smoked: she's a fixture, like the praline ladies used to be, or the shrimpers are today, parked on the side of the road, selling fresh seafood by the pound. Or the vegetable man. It's the sweat and the dog slobber and the rolled-down windows and everything about her that typify the heat and the humidity and the city. To me, seeing her is equivalent to seeing the crocus.
2:58 PM
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