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August 20, 2005
Exit Stage Left. No don't. Psych!O!
+15, M, in Cosbivell
After all that commotion and freaking out—and posting it all so that I didn’t get my shit together to rent a car before closing—I’m here tonight and getting off |God and a good GPS system willing| earliny in the more-more-more-ning. And I will at that point: will want more, more, more, and will get my funkskank assbooty out of here come hell or Vitamin Water.
So I phoned and rang my feller #823 of Odd Fellows Local #215-c002 and him come out of the hood to a place where the sticker price on the baseline model and that on the fully-loaded model is so a jumpin price that nobody can go without the load, especially when you consider the flagstone’s aging propensity to tilt toward the sun. But don’t worry, he was and is bling enough to handle it. He was excited to go to his blockparty.
Way home ran into a good friend who is ostensibly part of the operative>operational world, the one I’ve been holed-up, bunkered-down, and hiding-out from. I was afraid I’d get caught.
“Still in town?”
“Just got back.”
“Should come to this thing.”
“Think I’ll turn in early tonight. Big day tomorrow.”
I’d say a good 97+% of my days are a good bit (97+%?) bigger than the average bear’s.
More importantly, I really hate lying like that. Really, I do. Crack can usher in it’s good pals depravity and moral bankruptcy, sure. But, man, I just like to get high. I don’t like to lie. (To their “Hugs Not Drugs” slowgun I say “Highs Not Lies!” Viva la revolucion.
But the crack’s here (thoh Macksinquaye forgot a glass again, perhaps owing to my forgottion to remind him) and it’s good. Delicious. Good home cooking, this batch. My compliments to the chef, or Aunt Bernie or Grandma Jackson, of whoever.
So, sorry self for the head-fake, sorry ‘bout the blogsploitation of the blog citizens of this big, green world of grea(tness). I’ve got a teardrop of dirty electric pum throttling the backs of my corny-a’s. The lids above have taken on a thickness that could be considered advantageous should the beholder be in maintenance of a classic Bogart aesthetic. Blahg blahg, you get the picture of imperfection glowing about my life, but lord the tranquility the rock my savior will bring, the peace, the comfort…it permeates my soul. (And occasionally makes me hot for St. Therese of Lisieux, Jesus’ little paintbrush of love.)
Tomorrow’s the day. I promise. No, really. I mean it this time. I do. I do. I do to you, too. Forever and ever, Amen Brother.
Posted by peligrito at August 20, 2005 7:12 PM
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