today i am troubled because . . .
when "and a dab of
rectal fluid" is in the
recipe, just pass.
. . . centipedes live for about six years, sometimes longer. that means every time i see one and fail to catch it in time to kill it, i have to assume that it is going to be hanging out behind my bookshelf or bureau or bathroom sink for up to a decade. in high school a spider lived in my bedroom window. at night i would see it hanging upside down on the curtain, and i would watch it and watch it and watch it, sometimes for almost an hour at a time; it never moved. and then i would turn out the light and roll over to go to sleep, and if i sat up and turned on the light five minutes later the spider would be down at the bottom of the curtain, making its steady, stealthy way into my bed, and as soon as i drifted off it would bite me and bite me and bite me. spider bites are easy to recognize once you've received a few. when you examine the site closely, you can make out the distinct entry wound from each individual fang in the center of its small red welt. my spider, for some reason, tended to strike three times in a row in the same general region, usually on my stomach. i loved my spider. i talked to it, i named it, i told it about my day and wished it sweet, sanguineous dreams. i missed it when it was gone. but centipedes live for about six years, sometimes longer, and so now i not only have to face them, to force myself to stay in a room with one, but i will also have to chase them about when they try to run for it, because i would rather let the ghastly twenty-ton queen mother of all murderous arachnids chew my face off and lay eggs in my brain than wonder while i'm brushing my teeth some night in 2009 whether the centipede that beat me to the door in 2005 is about to march over the toes of my left foot.
. . . i'm pretty sure that if a person who knew nothing of him were to watch the speech george w. bush made last night without any sound, that person would think one of two things: (1) that the president of the united states is actually a faultily wired automaton whose movements are dictated by puppeteer chimps administering electrical shocks via remote control, or (2) that he is the victim of some sort of neurotransmitter typhoon that has left him manic, tic-laden, and deranged. turn on the sound, my lovelies, and you are forced to admit that, actually, he is both. and that don't leave us but nowhere. i understand that at some point a well-placed round of applause was begun by one of the president's aides. excellent.
. . . i can't stop eating chunky peanut butter out of the jar with a fork. my mouth says yes, but my tush says DIE, YOU DISGUSTING WHORE! HAVEN'T YOU HURT ME ENOUGH?
. . . the eels are playing right now not thirty minutes from my home. and i'm writing this.
rectal fluid" is in the
recipe, just pass.
. . . centipedes live for about six years, sometimes longer. that means every time i see one and fail to catch it in time to kill it, i have to assume that it is going to be hanging out behind my bookshelf or bureau or bathroom sink for up to a decade. in high school a spider lived in my bedroom window. at night i would see it hanging upside down on the curtain, and i would watch it and watch it and watch it, sometimes for almost an hour at a time; it never moved. and then i would turn out the light and roll over to go to sleep, and if i sat up and turned on the light five minutes later the spider would be down at the bottom of the curtain, making its steady, stealthy way into my bed, and as soon as i drifted off it would bite me and bite me and bite me. spider bites are easy to recognize once you've received a few. when you examine the site closely, you can make out the distinct entry wound from each individual fang in the center of its small red welt. my spider, for some reason, tended to strike three times in a row in the same general region, usually on my stomach. i loved my spider. i talked to it, i named it, i told it about my day and wished it sweet, sanguineous dreams. i missed it when it was gone. but centipedes live for about six years, sometimes longer, and so now i not only have to face them, to force myself to stay in a room with one, but i will also have to chase them about when they try to run for it, because i would rather let the ghastly twenty-ton queen mother of all murderous arachnids chew my face off and lay eggs in my brain than wonder while i'm brushing my teeth some night in 2009 whether the centipede that beat me to the door in 2005 is about to march over the toes of my left foot.
. . . i'm pretty sure that if a person who knew nothing of him were to watch the speech george w. bush made last night without any sound, that person would think one of two things: (1) that the president of the united states is actually a faultily wired automaton whose movements are dictated by puppeteer chimps administering electrical shocks via remote control, or (2) that he is the victim of some sort of neurotransmitter typhoon that has left him manic, tic-laden, and deranged. turn on the sound, my lovelies, and you are forced to admit that, actually, he is both. and that don't leave us but nowhere. i understand that at some point a well-placed round of applause was begun by one of the president's aides. excellent.
. . . i can't stop eating chunky peanut butter out of the jar with a fork. my mouth says yes, but my tush says DIE, YOU DISGUSTING WHORE! HAVEN'T YOU HURT ME ENOUGH?
. . . the eels are playing right now not thirty minutes from my home. and i'm writing this.
posted by juniper pearl @ 8:13 PM
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