Piehole
July 22, 2000 - again -
They moan about why fish have to swim, birds have to fly, and why I have to love one man till I die.
- I promise to stop recycling recent pictures sometime soon -
I've been reading too much Rebecca Wells. My favorite writers consistantly remain southern women, they know me and I know them. They know the pain caused by the part of the intertube where you pump it up when you don't balance right or your thigh slips and gouges itself without warning. Not the brightly colored soft material they make them out of now, but rather the semi tire tubes that Dad brought home from the truck yard. Wells' most endearing characters are the beautiful southern women that married young and nearly lose their minds in the process. Very Blanche DuBois, give me drama, but only on the page. The title above isn't a testament about my state of things, but a quote from "Little Altars Everywhere."
Today is the first day in a week that I haven't taken any pain relief, I'm waiting for my appetite to kick back in any time now. I've lost over five pounds since last Friday, not that I'm complaining. I've depended on what my mother calls a "whore's breakfast." Good coffee and smoking eight-four thousand cigarettes. Three more pounds and I'm back at my freshman weight. It must be attractive because men have started doing things for me without a second thought, strangers even. That gas station that has a policy about anything over a twenty dollar bill has no problem with me buying my smokes with a hundred. A strange, yet handsome, man accosted me in the Exxon parking lot Friday morning while babbling about my appearance and proceeding to even open my car door. I couldn't stop giggling like a four year old once I had driven off. I asked two workmen for a screw, shut your filthy mouths right now, and they gave me an entire box. I swear on all that's holy that I'll only use my powers for good.
Today when I stopped at Buddies, there was a large, rotund, bright pink man being arrested in the parking lot. He kept slurring and yelling about how "he didn't hit that cop." His clothes didn't fit him and he was wearing all white... he looked like he had tried to bury himself in Georgia clay. It was impossible not to laugh, then for the next few minutes I made myself feel guilty for laughing at his misery. But we're all responsible for our own actions. If you saw me in that parking lot, covered in red dirt and screaming in a cop's face, my gut hanging out over ill-fitting clothing, looking eerily like a huge pink round baby, you best laugh at me too.
Lock up your menfolk, ladies, I've finally stopped sloughing.
31 Orgasms
No. 8
This fine specimen, his scooter and his suits, not to mention his big fat wallet, was more odd than most. He, I swear to God, wanted to save sex for special occasions. He taught me to drive and got me backstage to interview The Specials, or the one original member left in the band. He embarrased me when he got sauced, I think he had his own language after three beers. He also got cocky. I guess that night was a special occasion, because he tried to stand on the bed and wrap my legs around his shoulders, dangling me precariously over the floor. He slipped, dropped me on my ass, and cracked the side of his face on my television. I hadn't laughed so hard in years. He didn't think it was as funny as I did.
07/06/00
07/08/00
07/15/00
07/17/00
07/20/00
07/22/00
07/22/00 #2
Crimson and Clover.
I swear if that man had been wearing a diaper he would've been a big fat baby.
Taste;
Coffee.
Nothing stands out today. Would you like to change that? Heh.
Smell;
The smell of other peoples homes. I can't wait to be back in my own apartment. It's not a bad smell, but it isn't a good smell either.