Flakes Of Flakiness
2001-06-03 - 10:47 p.m.
This is the first draft of my life. The final draft is already sold under the inconspicuous title of �The Bible�.
There are little people in your body. They bring food through your stomach on big carts, as if they were mining. The little people break down the bad bacteria and shove �em in the appendix. Lucy�s people are very advanced. Lucy�s little people use subway tunnels to move around her system. They carpool too. Carpool tunnels. Poor Lucygirl.
I went to church today. As per usual, I helped Step-mother out with one of her religious skits, the script of which she always gives me the day before. No angel wings this time; I was just cast as �BystanderNo.1�. I forgetted a line. At the end of the service, they handed me a scholarship. I have until my second semester of college to decide if I want to accept it or not. I didn�t want to cause a raucous this morning, but it�d be like Ghani accepting money from the KKK. Speaking of which, I really see no difference between the Klan and the KPW (Kids Praise and Worship group). Both three letter acronyms that brainwash their members for �the greater good�. Noplace but in Hymn#347 can you convince the elderly to rise and sing �Jesus, Jesus, cum-fill your lambs...� So mostly I try to avoid the whole brain-numbing experience, sometimes by listening to my eyes (not unlike tasting a colour). But the idea remains: I�m not part of their faith, but they want to pay me off for helping them to greater the voids within themselves. Yay.
�You are not your own.� �Child Reading at the Podium
I have a birthmark between my ass and my lower back. And a callus on my right middle finger. Sometimes, when I wake up in the morning, and I don�t know whom I am, I look for these distinguishing marks to reassure me. Just thought I�d let you know.
I�m going to get my permit soon, and Sarah and I are planning to take a road trip in August to one of the Dakotas. Videotapes of us getting hangovers in Canada and the whole works. This, of course, means that I�ll need to marathon my 35 hours of driving time. Ten hours a day er so...Just so that I can go through the three-month waiting period before I get my license. It should turn out to be one of the most humorous spoonfuls of JLS I�ve ever tasted.
This weekend, I dressed up in Sister�s clothes and went to WalMart (TM). Tight leather pants, tight turtle neck t-shirt, and a pleather jacket...striking the line between a uptown butt pirate and a Calvin Klein model. Well, at least I would have, if there was a line between the aforementioned groups. Not that I have anything against uptown butt pirates. It�s the downtown butt pirates you have to watch out for...the ex-cons with their torn jeans and all (and that fashion is so five-minutes-ago). But anyways, there I was, with a doublepurpose. I was on a mission to get head. Specifically, a Styrofoam (TM) head to turn me into my own Siamese Twin (TM) for graduation. My other purpose was to get into a fight for looking stereotypical. Any stereotype that a person can impersonate should have some violent opponents, and I was out to find the little buggars. In this case, I was desperately trying to get in a fight with homophobes. Both purposes were a flopp...no one would give me head and no one wanted to fight me over it.
If I was King of the Coca-Cola industry, my first decree would be focused on the production of Coke in keg-sized quantities. You see, I wanted to have a keg party this week; a keg of Coke, and a keg of Mountain Dew (TM). But they don�t sell Coke in kegs. We might end up stashing a keg-worth of coke in our collective fridges, and try to drink it over the course of a day. My second decree would be in the order of engaging with Pepsi in close-quarters bumper-sticker warfare. I might even cut a deal with Ford and get them to put a Coca-Cola bumper-sticker on every purchased car.
I threw out all my unused shyt today. The whole of my personally owned items, including my computer, can now be placed inside one large Tupperware (TM) container. Strangely, it�s not waterproof. One would think that I, as a neo-minimalist, would have no desire for wrinkle-free shirts. Quite to the contrary, I�d very much enjoy some wrinkle-free plain white T-shirts, so that I never have to fold my clothes (which I don�t do anyways) and never need to purchase a clothes-flattening iron.
Sidenote: People have actually said that it is painful to watch me iron clothing. On a good day, I seem to create more wrinkles than I press out. On a bad day, I end up burning the table I�m using as a substitute ironing board.
Step-sister has recently been diagnosed with slight OCD, and this has caused Sister to start washing her hands every half-hour. She wouldn�t believe me when I told her that Obsessive Compulsive Disorders are not contagious. Step-sister, on the contrary, spent this weekend poking around the internet to find a tattoo, so that she could have her boyfriend put it on her hip (boyfriend-guy is not even an amateur tattooist). Her boyfriend gave himself a garage tattoo of a Chinese symbol of some sort, possibly to cover up the scars on his forearm. Step-sister�s boyfriend�s father died a few months ago, and they buried him this weekend. Tattoos on the house. Another of Step-sister�s friends and I spent a couple hours this weekend manually reversing Michel Jackson LPs in a search for demonic messages. We found �kill yourself� and �have sex with me�. There was something else on the record about his penis, but it was hard to make out exactly what he was saying...it sounded sorta like he had his mouth full.
