Marc
Now, each day I live as if I am already dead, and I tell you what I would like for you to do. When I am dead - I say it that way because from the things I know, I do not expect to live long enough to read this book in its finished form - I want you to just watch and see if I'm not right in what I say: that the white man, in his press, is going to identify me with "hate." -- from The Autobiography of Malcolm X by Malcolm X
One. Gosh. I haven't written anything since late Monday night, and I sit down to write something right now and my mind goes completely blank. I've had a whole week to come up with something -- something! -- to write about. Surely something has to have happened to me, or there's been some kind of event that I'd like to comment upon, right?
Two. A Story: I went out to the bar last night with the intentions of (a) drinking two beers, and (b) playing at least a few games of foosball. I was halfway through goal (a), and I had just found a partner for goal (b) -- an "activity partner", if you will -- when we were approached by this dude and this chick who said, "You wanna play teams?" Instantly my mind shoots back to a bar in Geneva IL with Scoot, my pal Jeff, Zach, Rick, Matt, Quinn, and others, and I find myself along with combinations of the others getting fucking schooled in foosball by these foosball pros at that particular bar's table. Fast forward to last night, and the same damn thing happens. My fun was fucking ruined by some douchebag -- who, I found out later, owns his own foosball table at his house -- and his girlfriend, who proceeded to take over our table after blanking us on every ball. I just stood there for the last three points (I was on offense) because the ball never even came my way. I'm not saying my partner, Jeff, was bad. It was just that the douchebag and his girlfriend were way too good. What an asshole. Hence I only accomplished goal (a).
Three. Tomorrow is eviction day. I'm hoping we don't get kicked out, and if we do, I'm hoping I'll be able to find someplace to stay. We're not going to get kicked out, I know, but in the back of my head there's this running dialogue that goes a little something like, "You should've never let her bring that FIRST cat home! Fuck the SECOND cat, right? Once the first cat's in the door, you might as well start a cat farm, cause people never have less than two cats. It's always, 'This is Snowball, and that's Snurfles.' You should've never let her bring that FIRST cat home!" Stupid me. Stupid cats. Stupid SAMI going to evict my ass.
Four. Finally, I have a decent computer chair. In fact, it's a bit more than decent. It is fantastic! Its my mom's old chair, and it has a headrest, and it swivvles, and I can lean back in it when I'm pondering something especially fascinating -- like Venus flytraps. Or Matt's balls. I wonder how many people who read this page on any given day have seen Matt's balls and/or schlong? I'm guessing at least fifty percent or more. Cause, as we all know, to know Matt is to know what Matt's schlong and/or balls look like. Right?
Up Next: "People Take Pictures of Each Other" by the Kinks; "Making Time" by Creation; and, "A Whiter Shade of Pale" by Procol Harum.
Tomorrow: Normal. Chicago. Sheboygan.
Now, each day I live as if I am already dead, and I tell you what I would like for you to do. When I am dead - I say it that way because from the things I know, I do not expect to live long enough to read this book in its finished form - I want you to just watch and see if I'm not right in what I say: that the white man, in his press, is going to identify me with "hate." -- from The Autobiography of Malcolm X by Malcolm X
One. Gosh. I haven't written anything since late Monday night, and I sit down to write something right now and my mind goes completely blank. I've had a whole week to come up with something -- something! -- to write about. Surely something has to have happened to me, or there's been some kind of event that I'd like to comment upon, right?
Two. A Story: I went out to the bar last night with the intentions of (a) drinking two beers, and (b) playing at least a few games of foosball. I was halfway through goal (a), and I had just found a partner for goal (b) -- an "activity partner", if you will -- when we were approached by this dude and this chick who said, "You wanna play teams?" Instantly my mind shoots back to a bar in Geneva IL with Scoot, my pal Jeff, Zach, Rick, Matt, Quinn, and others, and I find myself along with combinations of the others getting fucking schooled in foosball by these foosball pros at that particular bar's table. Fast forward to last night, and the same damn thing happens. My fun was fucking ruined by some douchebag -- who, I found out later, owns his own foosball table at his house -- and his girlfriend, who proceeded to take over our table after blanking us on every ball. I just stood there for the last three points (I was on offense) because the ball never even came my way. I'm not saying my partner, Jeff, was bad. It was just that the douchebag and his girlfriend were way too good. What an asshole. Hence I only accomplished goal (a).
Three. Tomorrow is eviction day. I'm hoping we don't get kicked out, and if we do, I'm hoping I'll be able to find someplace to stay. We're not going to get kicked out, I know, but in the back of my head there's this running dialogue that goes a little something like, "You should've never let her bring that FIRST cat home! Fuck the SECOND cat, right? Once the first cat's in the door, you might as well start a cat farm, cause people never have less than two cats. It's always, 'This is Snowball, and that's Snurfles.' You should've never let her bring that FIRST cat home!" Stupid me. Stupid cats. Stupid SAMI going to evict my ass.
Four. Finally, I have a decent computer chair. In fact, it's a bit more than decent. It is fantastic! Its my mom's old chair, and it has a headrest, and it swivvles, and I can lean back in it when I'm pondering something especially fascinating -- like Venus flytraps. Or Matt's balls. I wonder how many people who read this page on any given day have seen Matt's balls and/or schlong? I'm guessing at least fifty percent or more. Cause, as we all know, to know Matt is to know what Matt's schlong and/or balls look like. Right?
Up Next: "People Take Pictures of Each Other" by the Kinks; "Making Time" by Creation; and, "A Whiter Shade of Pale" by Procol Harum.
Tomorrow: Normal. Chicago. Sheboygan.
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