i know it's more than a bit late, but merry christmas, anyway.
anonymous
March 14 2003, 22:01:32 UTC
dear puppy,
when the girl said she was taking off to go drink beer canned in the town of its namesake, possibly better known for getting rock stars dead, with some kids who keep banal electronic records of their lives on public display, as you'd expect, your pumpkin couldn't give a fuck. but you know what? she said something about needing a little plastic assistance to get a five dollar bottle of champagne, just around the corner, and that goddamned californian saw too much trouble in such a pre-plans plan.
when the champagne (which, incidentally has the privilege of sharing titles with that prick that's going to keep pumpkin standing guard over her future weekend nights) was first brought into question, the girl actually let this out, for the record, in a singsong half-whine, "oh, i didn't know you were feeling festive! i don't want you here drinking alone, baby."
no kidding, you son of a bitch. pumpkin's barely been able to stop sighing for a full minute or stop scrunching her face up within the span of a few more. what do festivities have to do with fucking any of this? and what's more, she can't sleep, and that's the only thing she can want, as alone and defeated as she is.
she says that she doesn't consider me proper company, but she hugs me like she means it, so i'm letting this one go.
Saturday morning in March.unburiableMarch 15 2003, 08:23:45 UTC
Dear pumpkin,
I am very sorry to have missed your numerable calls the evening last, but under the circumstances I was finding myself quite terribly drowsy due in large amounts to rum and ale (both from the same chipped wooden mug). Some friends and I had hopped out to a local saloon to watch three other creatures from the Casselberry forest make songs on the stage, but it proved too dangerous because there were hunters outside who seemed to make it their business of using bullets to end the lives of those with valuable front teeth. The rain was a prominent feature during the flight. Speaking of flights, while sleeping I dreamt the air ride that should bring me to where you are failed in the sky and the electric plane came tumbling down back toward the cement.
This morning when I was telegrammed your message of insomnia, I felt rather bad about it and I wished to snuggle up with you inside the carved-out belly of a great white shark and soothe you to sleep with a lullaby I learned near Wonder lake, where there has reportedly been sightings of a rather gruesome sea creature floating about at night and snatching walking things from the edge of the waterfront. Even if we were to have found ourselves in such horrific company I would indisputably brave any such danger and then some, so long as you and I were alone together in that shark belly.
I have to stretch my hoppers now or else I think there might be puppies chasing me.
a spine, on your behesttownmoronApril 18 2003, 13:27:16 UTC
you know what, good sir? i don't think i could have spent one more day shitfaced trying to pretend like making cabinets to be used in your "life saving carraiges" wasn't the most soul-sucking waste of my fucking life. so, kind fellow, i urge you to take this job that you have relieved me of, and shove it right the fuck up your fat fucking ass. and when you have done so, you can also accept my foot right on your face, where i shall stand triumphant while your life essences leak out, to be absorbed by the sawdust covered floor.
It was the challenge of a lifetime, standing forlornly in line at the supermarket. The dilemma was this: If I jump out of line and race back toward the bakery to get buns for the hamburgers, can I make it back in time without someone shoving my stuff out of the way?
Right in front of me was this fucking really huge fat lady arguing about her credit card not working. “My credit is perfect,” she says. “There’s no reason my card should be denied. You need to run it through again, or call whoever you need to call, or something, but that card is fine. My credit’s perfect.”
She sounded embarrassed, which I guess happens to everybody when their card is denied. But like I cared. Would she keep this argument up in time for me to go back and get the buns I forgot? That’s what I needed to focus on.
So I charged. I cut through the detergent aisle, past the handsoaps and the eye make-up and the cough syrups and the fucking dishpan rags. I just booked it. My heels were made of fire.
The buns I grabbed felt stale, but fuck it. As long at the hamburgers are good, who really gives a shit about the buns? To get back I cut through the wine aisle and grabbed a twelve-pack of good German beer. I almost slipped on a broken jar of pickles some jerk probably left there for someone else to clean up.
When I got back to the line, with sweat on my brow, the fat lady with the bad credit card was long gone, and some asshole had put all my stuff into a basket and kicked it out of the way. I picked the basket up off of the ground, swinging it through the air. “Okay people, who’s the asshole?”
Everyone turned around and looked at me. “That’s right. Who’s the fucking asshole who shoved my stuff out of the way? Who’s the fucking lunatic who thinks this is funny?”
I turned to one of the fat old ladies at the cigarette counter. “Was it one of you fat fucking assholes? Was it?”
It made as much sense as throwing my housekey into the ocean.unburiableMay 23 2003, 15:16:17 UTC
I had so much weighing on the immediate execution of a fast and faultless drive home. What I got in return was nothing. I had everything dashed against rocks and to show for it I had bruises on my mind, and a digital clock on the dashboard that pretty much seemed to be spitting numbers out with all the careful consideration of a tommy gun.
But that’s rush hour traffic for you, isn’t it? Aren’t I fucking ridiculous for not having gotten my shopping done before rush hour on the Friday night we’re supposed to have this barbeque?
Son of a bitch. I just know people are going to be pissed off when there are no buns for the hamburgers. And they’re going to cut the burgers down the middle to fit them on hot dog buns, and when I finally get there, my wife is going to say to me:
“Honey, can you go out and get some more hot dog buns, because we’ve run out.”
Sometimes I want to take a swing at my wife with the fishing rod. Maybe as I cast the line I can get the hook caught on her cheek, or her nose, and then I’ll throw out the line like normal, and with it will go her face. How pretty will she be then, huh?
I’m starting to think she’s sleeping with that kid next door, so will they still be together after she loses an eye on a fishing trip? Will he still want to fuck her like that? I know I wouldn’t.
I bet he’s at the party right now. He’s probably drinking my beer, sitting in my favorite lawn chair, helping my wife cook hamburgers without the buns. He’s probably smiling at her. She’s probably smiling back.
when the girl said she was taking off to go drink beer canned in the town of its namesake, possibly better known for getting rock stars dead, with some kids who keep banal electronic records of their lives on public display, as you'd expect, your pumpkin couldn't give a fuck. but you know what? she said something about needing a little plastic assistance to get a five dollar bottle of champagne, just around the corner, and that goddamned californian saw too much trouble in such a pre-plans plan.
when the champagne (which, incidentally has the privilege of sharing titles with that prick that's going to keep pumpkin standing guard over her future weekend nights) was first brought into question, the girl actually let this out, for the record, in a singsong half-whine, "oh, i didn't know you were feeling festive! i don't want you here drinking alone, baby."
no kidding, you son of a bitch. pumpkin's barely been able to stop sighing for a full minute or stop scrunching her face up within the span of a few more. what do festivities have to do with fucking any of this? and what's more, she can't sleep, and that's the only thing she can want, as alone and defeated as she is.
she says that she doesn't consider me proper company, but she hugs me like she means it, so i'm letting this one go.
xo.
sleepy bunny.
Reply
I am very sorry to have missed your numerable calls the evening last, but under the circumstances I was finding myself quite terribly drowsy due in large amounts to rum and ale (both from the same chipped wooden mug). Some friends and I had hopped out to a local saloon to watch three other creatures from the Casselberry forest make songs on the stage, but it proved too dangerous because there were hunters outside who seemed to make it their business of using bullets to end the lives of those with valuable front teeth. The rain was a prominent feature during the flight. Speaking of flights, while sleeping I dreamt the air ride that should bring me to where you are failed in the sky and the electric plane came tumbling down back toward the cement.
This morning when I was telegrammed your message of insomnia, I felt rather bad about it and I wished to snuggle up with you inside the carved-out belly of a great white shark and soothe you to sleep with a lullaby I learned near Wonder lake, where there has reportedly been sightings of a rather gruesome sea creature floating about at night and snatching walking things from the edge of the waterfront. Even if we were to have found ourselves in such horrific company I would indisputably brave any such danger and then some, so long as you and I were alone together in that shark belly.
I have to stretch my hoppers now or else I think there might be puppies chasing me.
All my love,
Benji Rabbit.
Reply
Reply
Right in front of me was this fucking really huge fat lady arguing about her credit card not working. “My credit is perfect,” she says. “There’s no reason my card should be denied. You need to run it through again, or call whoever you need to call, or something, but that card is fine. My credit’s perfect.”
She sounded embarrassed, which I guess happens to everybody when their card is denied. But like I cared. Would she keep this argument up in time for me to go back and get the buns I forgot? That’s what I needed to focus on.
So I charged. I cut through the detergent aisle, past the handsoaps and the eye make-up and the cough syrups and the fucking dishpan rags. I just booked it. My heels were made of fire.
The buns I grabbed felt stale, but fuck it. As long at the hamburgers are good, who really gives a shit about the buns? To get back I cut through the wine aisle and grabbed a twelve-pack of good German beer. I almost slipped on a broken jar of pickles some jerk probably left there for someone else to clean up.
When I got back to the line, with sweat on my brow, the fat lady with the bad credit card was long gone, and some asshole had put all my stuff into a basket and kicked it out of the way. I picked the basket up off of the ground, swinging it through the air. “Okay people, who’s the asshole?”
Everyone turned around and looked at me. “That’s right. Who’s the fucking asshole who shoved my stuff out of the way? Who’s the fucking lunatic who thinks this is funny?”
I turned to one of the fat old ladies at the cigarette counter. “Was it one of you fat fucking assholes? Was it?”
Reply
Bullshit.
Reply
But that’s rush hour traffic for you, isn’t it? Aren’t I fucking ridiculous for not having gotten my shopping done before rush hour on the Friday night we’re supposed to have this barbeque?
Son of a bitch. I just know people are going to be pissed off when there are no buns for the hamburgers. And they’re going to cut the burgers down the middle to fit them on hot dog buns, and when I finally get there, my wife is going to say to me:
“Honey, can you go out and get some more hot dog buns, because we’ve run out.”
Sometimes I want to take a swing at my wife with the fishing rod. Maybe as I cast the line I can get the hook caught on her cheek, or her nose, and then I’ll throw out the line like normal, and with it will go her face. How pretty will she be then, huh?
I’m starting to think she’s sleeping with that kid next door, so will they still be together after she loses an eye on a fishing trip? Will he still want to fuck her like that? I know I wouldn’t.
I bet he’s at the party right now. He’s probably drinking my beer, sitting in my favorite lawn chair, helping my wife cook hamburgers without the buns. He’s probably smiling at her. She’s probably smiling back.
Reply
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