My Powerbook is going to live in sunny Sacramento with a nice farm family who will give it plenty of room to run around for the next week or so. At least that’s what I told it. Actually, they’re going to do a Rosemary Kennedy number on it with a spoon. Oh, Pants, I am so sorry. I hope you still recognize me when we reunite. I have stored your consciousness in this hot nurse with the basket-weave hair don’t.
The living room ceiling is now gushing water, to which the landlord replies “Huh, weird,” although he did bring me some buckets. I would redouble my commitment to finishing leftover painkillers, except I have to wrangle underprivileged children tonight. I bet they will make fun of the huge zit I have on my chin.
I’ve fired both my therapist (for being obtuse: R U reading this, I know you up and Googled me) and my psych-pharm person (for having a pointy face that reminds me of a rat terrier, which is not the same thing as a Boston terrier), and I am deeply in debt due to stupid stuff-acquiring circumstances. Oh wait, housing and student loans and such are “good debt.” So are “business expenses.” Someone said to me the other day “I need stuff,” and I thought “Honey, stuff will be the death of us all.” Here I am lugging around sanctimonious guilt, and really I can’t even do Entitled Fuck properly. It’s amazing to exist in a world where some people have literally nothing but maybe a stray intestinal fluke, and other people judge potential mates by the quality of car ownership. Oh heyyyy, and there’s a tax payment due tomorrow. Yeah, heyyyy, how about that.
Really, I’m fine. Just hell of cranky and talking about it on the internets, thinking maybe I’m making a statement. It’s embarassing, I know. I am incapable of talking seriously about the joyous moments in life because they r 2 precious, so I’m left sounding insane and hypocritical. Therefore, this blog is over. Dreamhost has been trying to tell me that all week by crashing left and right, so let’s make it official. It’s been real. I’m OK, you’re OK.