(no subject)
Hullo interweb denizens,
I begin by stating that I am against the idea of these journals things. Why do you want eveyone to read your journal? Are you that interesting? If I wanted everyone to read my journal, I drop copies of it from an aeroplane and I HAVE done that but now that I am banned from the Parisan airspace due to the deaths of a few cows and infants from journal induced head-tramua, I must get my personal thoughts across here.
The first thing on my mind today is the fact that my former common law wife of three years, Mona, has moved away from her home and I have no idea where she has gone and no way of finding her. The past five letters I have sent her have been returned to me, stamped with a stamp reading "ADDRESS NO LONGER EXISTS". At first I thought she told the post office to simply send the letters back with this excuse, but I later learned that she actually burned the house down, so the address really did not exist anymore. My Mona...she's a live one. Anyway, if any of you happen to see Mona, please tell me. Here is a rather risqué portrait of her, wearing nothing but a bow. The colors are inverted, but it is my favorite picture of her and really captures her spirt.
Mr. Ray always can get attractive females to take their clothes off so he can photograph them! He must have some sort of delicacy I lack. Or it is just because I never really have a good reason in mind when I ask a lady to take her clothes off, other than spooning and perhaps a little flagellation.
So I must resign myself now to the company of Pearly Poll, one of the cheekier whores at Madame Claudine's brothel. She can put her legs all the away behind her head and lace her toes together, which is something Mona couldn't do. But still...she is no Mona.
If I learn she has run into the arms of that dirty dog Tzara...oooooh, that bastard was giving her the eye the entire time at the last Dada fancy dress ball. I told her not to go as "modern life"; her costume was too revealing.
Oh, Mona, please return to me. Your lips rotate to the angst of the millions of syphllic ants the universe over...your eyes are like two miscrant donkeys wandering in the moonlight of plutonic warfare. When inhaling the proton ridden pocketwatch of your left elbow, my libdo orders me to almost forget about the overwhelming unwashed state of the engine and indulge the boil weevils of my forefathers.
Well, I am off to the corner pub with Herni. I've found that relief from heartsickness can only be found in incredable amounts of Russian wine.
Your humble servent,
Emil S. Rosenstock.
I begin by stating that I am against the idea of these journals things. Why do you want eveyone to read your journal? Are you that interesting? If I wanted everyone to read my journal, I drop copies of it from an aeroplane and I HAVE done that but now that I am banned from the Parisan airspace due to the deaths of a few cows and infants from journal induced head-tramua, I must get my personal thoughts across here.
The first thing on my mind today is the fact that my former common law wife of three years, Mona, has moved away from her home and I have no idea where she has gone and no way of finding her. The past five letters I have sent her have been returned to me, stamped with a stamp reading "ADDRESS NO LONGER EXISTS". At first I thought she told the post office to simply send the letters back with this excuse, but I later learned that she actually burned the house down, so the address really did not exist anymore. My Mona...she's a live one. Anyway, if any of you happen to see Mona, please tell me. Here is a rather risqué portrait of her, wearing nothing but a bow. The colors are inverted, but it is my favorite picture of her and really captures her spirt.
Mr. Ray always can get attractive females to take their clothes off so he can photograph them! He must have some sort of delicacy I lack. Or it is just because I never really have a good reason in mind when I ask a lady to take her clothes off, other than spooning and perhaps a little flagellation.
So I must resign myself now to the company of Pearly Poll, one of the cheekier whores at Madame Claudine's brothel. She can put her legs all the away behind her head and lace her toes together, which is something Mona couldn't do. But still...she is no Mona.
If I learn she has run into the arms of that dirty dog Tzara...oooooh, that bastard was giving her the eye the entire time at the last Dada fancy dress ball. I told her not to go as "modern life"; her costume was too revealing.
Oh, Mona, please return to me. Your lips rotate to the angst of the millions of syphllic ants the universe over...your eyes are like two miscrant donkeys wandering in the moonlight of plutonic warfare. When inhaling the proton ridden pocketwatch of your left elbow, my libdo orders me to almost forget about the overwhelming unwashed state of the engine and indulge the boil weevils of my forefathers.
Well, I am off to the corner pub with Herni. I've found that relief from heartsickness can only be found in incredable amounts of Russian wine.
Your humble servent,
Emil S. Rosenstock.