Tag Archives: bartleby

Sharks are jumpin and the cotton is high

Heyyyyyyyyyyyyy sexy! I’ve got Zellweger down in the basement Zellwegering the laundry. She knows her way around the delicates, that girl.

Every day (everyday) I think “Man, this is it, the day I finally eat the whole thing.” But I never do. You know why? Because I am Bartleby. I prefer not to. Also, I am too lazy to walk to the fridge. I wish the ceiling would just rain Captain Morgan and Diet Coke. I could tip my head back like a baby bird.

What do I prefer, you ask? Well, there’s shouting at the help, kicking the pets, and cheating on my spouse. And heavy, heavy drinking. This morning’s plans were spontaneous: I ran someone off the road for the first time in a long while, and that was great. After evading the police, I arrived home just in time to lay a trap for the mailman. I’ve hidden a black widow spider in the box! Now I’m going to have Consuela (my dumbass housekeeper with the stereotypical housekeeper name) throw out all the expired yogurts.

Continuing Chronicles of Bartleby

There is nothing better than sitting in a dark, climate-controlled office, shivering in a summer dress with a sun burn. I should search for a dusty air filter to stare at.

The last few days have been very jolly in the way that people can’t help being when the weather changes- long bike rides along the Charles, new clothes, parties and dirty jokes. I get a bang out of strolling around my neighborhood with a bright pink cocktail in hand.

The newest of the new drinks on offer at my house is the Los Angeles Iced Tea, which still has five kinds of liquor but replaces sour mix with Rock Star. This concoction gives rise to some interesting dreams. I woke up convinced not only that Prince showed up to our party, but that I had run into some ex-type bastard to find that both of his legs had been amputated. He invited me for a drink and I stood him up. Ha! Stood him up, he had no legs! His Purple Badness was not in actual attendance, but I can hold out hope that ex-bastard is scooching around on a dolly somewhere. No doubt he is merely off taking his James Spader lessons.

But I am not bitter, see how the sun it does shine.


Rock in Pictures

This is my roomie S. at our impromptu karaoke party on Saturday. I tear up when he sings I’m Not in Love. Even with the pornorific pencil moustache.

Last night one of the greatest rock bands ever was in our neighborhood. The first time I ever had a psychedelic snack, I was watching the video for Under the Milky way when they kicked in. I have not been the same ever since. Which is why I had to do a urine test when I applied for a job at a movie theater. Don’t worry, I always carry a spare. Oh but they still got it. Marty informed us that he has so much talent and charisma, it was bound to ooze onto the first two rows and coagulate there. At one point he needed a stool to support the weight of his genius. WE LOVE MARTY!

I quit my job. But I got another. I am going home to watch Bartleby.

Here are some more things that ROCK:

1. Leaving for sunny Berlin in a week-ish.

2. Orange Julius

3. Going to the roller rink this weekend.

4. Starsky and Hutch!!!


Apathy Level: Bartleby

Since my lifeforce got sapped by showing up every day to a dying husk of an office to do nothing, I’ve been a bit weary. Yesterday I had a pitched 30 minute battle with myself re: whether or not I should get up to use the bathroom.

I had to get a second opinion. The person I tapped felt that I *should* definitely get up and go. He or she was scandalized to envision any sort of elimination outside of tiled surroundings. Still, I wasn’t convinced.

I started to wonder “If I sit here long enough, will I just go ahead and go, or will my bladder explode? Does toilet-training override basic biological need?” Sometimes when I’m walking down the street, maybe to go to the subway, I also think about what would happen if I just stopped moving. I’d never get home. I might eventually freeze on the street, like some sort of mythological unfortunate. What does it feel like when you just can’t push yourself any farther? How do you know when you’re licked?

Epilogue: Did I go to the bathroom? I’m not saying. Just don’t check the plants in the corner.