Shit. Now that I have this job, it looks like I’m going to have to like organize my life, and stuff. And maybe like, sleep in my own bed more than twice a week, or something. I need to stop lighting my cigarette backwards. Oh, god, memories of my mother. Drunken mommy and her backwards cigarettes. Rad. Need to stop eating pizza after it has fallen on the ground. Dirty, dirty.
UNDER PRESSURE!
What, O What, is this writing job for? Hope it goes better than mine, which I'm still waiting for payment on. The Time Machine! And Quixote!
Posted by: ben at March 10, 2005 12:04 PMFor the greater good of mankind. Like twist-top wine, sort of, but with more variety.
in other news: this essay we have to write . . . well yes. I am either going to kill myself or find a random tree to kick. One of these is bound to be less painful.
Posted by: caroline at March 12, 2005 10:53 PMI made some kind of a connection between Prufrock at Ginsberg's "Supermarket in California," but I want to scream and shave my teeth off and puke angels onto the cement.
Posted by: ben at March 13, 2005 6:04 PMyeah. we can save it for when we're homeless. and that's just a small drop in the bucket, this time.
Posted by: caroline at March 14, 2005 2:27 PM