That's my family, Kay. It's not me
A beautiful night and I'm cranky - one more night of Inga... I thought it would be tonight. Chris Martiny's play was brilliant but Daphne's little child was behind me talking all through it, and my ego was having a hard enough time being quiet--what with Martiny's way with words, a way of many pauses and repetitions... and ellipses.
Then, in the dog run, some idiot has treats in his dumb shorts, and Inga can't take a hint. What did that idiot think? His dog can't go a minute without a treat? He's so insecure he's afraid the dog will run away from him, from his short-wearing foulness the minute he is treatless and therefore useless?
If someone gives out a treat, Inga will stick her nose in their pocket until I have to pull her away, along with her startledness, a trait I'm afraid she learned from me.
it's very bad form to bring treats into a dog run - that shorts wearing schmuck deserves all he gets; normally, I'd talk on the phone and let him be irked by Inga's probing--but I couldn't this time; Kim didn't pick up my call.
maybe it's the weird cigarettes Sameetah brought me from India. They're like freaking air. So I bought nicorette lozenges to try and quit smoking again. But I got the mint flavor instead of the cherry, and I hate mint. The reasoning? 81 mint lozenges instead of the 72 in the cherry pack. So what's so bad about mint its worth losing 9 lozenges?
It's been little impasses like that all day for me. And I feel bugs and things crawling on me, and my teeth feel like they're trying to escape my mouth. My lips are like frightened prison guards.
Why is the night so beautiful? And all the girls so luminescent? And me... and my dog, and Daphne's kid, and Martiny's queer subjects, why are we blackened with treat-ish desires and nagging questions that make us forever discontent, unable to stop probing and begging and nagging and obsessing and just exist in a state of perfection? Who profits from all the godliness we don't use? It's like banks getting rich off our savings, a savings we don't know we have and which actually loses rather than gains interest, interest in this case being time. By the time we realize our money was always with us, it's too late to spend it. Ghostly dollars drift around us like dust storm halos.
Then, in the dog run, some idiot has treats in his dumb shorts, and Inga can't take a hint. What did that idiot think? His dog can't go a minute without a treat? He's so insecure he's afraid the dog will run away from him, from his short-wearing foulness the minute he is treatless and therefore useless?
If someone gives out a treat, Inga will stick her nose in their pocket until I have to pull her away, along with her startledness, a trait I'm afraid she learned from me.
it's very bad form to bring treats into a dog run - that shorts wearing schmuck deserves all he gets; normally, I'd talk on the phone and let him be irked by Inga's probing--but I couldn't this time; Kim didn't pick up my call.
maybe it's the weird cigarettes Sameetah brought me from India. They're like freaking air. So I bought nicorette lozenges to try and quit smoking again. But I got the mint flavor instead of the cherry, and I hate mint. The reasoning? 81 mint lozenges instead of the 72 in the cherry pack. So what's so bad about mint its worth losing 9 lozenges?
It's been little impasses like that all day for me. And I feel bugs and things crawling on me, and my teeth feel like they're trying to escape my mouth. My lips are like frightened prison guards.
Why is the night so beautiful? And all the girls so luminescent? And me... and my dog, and Daphne's kid, and Martiny's queer subjects, why are we blackened with treat-ish desires and nagging questions that make us forever discontent, unable to stop probing and begging and nagging and obsessing and just exist in a state of perfection? Who profits from all the godliness we don't use? It's like banks getting rich off our savings, a savings we don't know we have and which actually loses rather than gains interest, interest in this case being time. By the time we realize our money was always with us, it's too late to spend it. Ghostly dollars drift around us like dust storm halos.