I Shanked the Shot After That
2/6/96
Oh shit, here we go again. The retard downstairs is playing his music after bedtime again. I didn't write at all yesterday. Boo hoo. Went to Brea Pulbic Golf Course and shot nine with John and Jim Viggers and Mike and Ramone. Chimelle came, too, but they wouldn't let us play a sixsome, so she and I played apart from the others, but after the first hole she quit and went to my mom's and the rest of us played a fivesome. As I was teeing off on the third, Ramone said he birdied the second, and Mike said,"Yeah, then you woke up with sperm all over your stomach." I shanked the shot after that.
Then Mike was talking about a woman who had a hand injury and was having seizures, and Ramone said, "Seizures, huh?"
And Mike said, "Yeah, but not the kid where the police come and take all your weed." I sliced that shot.
John and I went to see Vera at the hospital. The doctor told us she was too old to risk an operation to repair the tear in her aorta.
(A change in the body can cause a change in the soul.)
Chimelle's watching "Chicago Hope" and talking to the TV.
It's conference week at school. I went out Saturday night with Getoff--
Chimelle points out my "smile wrinkle that never entirely uncreases".
--and his friend whose name I lost, (Ch'elle said he looked like a pimp) who drove us around to Hollywood sidestreet bars, the Spotlight, where we shot darts, and I drank turkeys. We bought Macanudos at the Roosevelt, took a toke in the bathroom. HAC for pool; the guy was a good chauffeur. Home. 69. Ch'elle says it gave her a sore throat.
We watched "The Indian and the Cupboard" at school.
I can't think with this TV on.
Yea yeah yea. Jim Crack's flashbacks.
I look pregnant. Today Dylan Thomas was an amazing use of words. Howrad called. Whup tu scrum diddly bum dum. Zonkaroolooed. I thought of Eliza Christondo, a girl in my dorm who was my age but seemed younger. She never drank, but one night she did, I think to be drunk enough to sit on my lap, which she was doing when she leaned over and puked into a nearby trashcan. She passed out on the floor of my room, her skirt hitched up, panties showing. She was cute. She had a beautiful, wonderful innocent soul. I carried her up to her room and laid her on her bed and went back downstairs to party. I used to get letters from her after college for a while. I think she became a doctor or something. She's married now.
Oh shit, here we go again. The retard downstairs is playing his music after bedtime again. I didn't write at all yesterday. Boo hoo. Went to Brea Pulbic Golf Course and shot nine with John and Jim Viggers and Mike and Ramone. Chimelle came, too, but they wouldn't let us play a sixsome, so she and I played apart from the others, but after the first hole she quit and went to my mom's and the rest of us played a fivesome. As I was teeing off on the third, Ramone said he birdied the second, and Mike said,"Yeah, then you woke up with sperm all over your stomach." I shanked the shot after that.
Then Mike was talking about a woman who had a hand injury and was having seizures, and Ramone said, "Seizures, huh?"
And Mike said, "Yeah, but not the kid where the police come and take all your weed." I sliced that shot.
John and I went to see Vera at the hospital. The doctor told us she was too old to risk an operation to repair the tear in her aorta.
(A change in the body can cause a change in the soul.)
Chimelle's watching "Chicago Hope" and talking to the TV.
It's conference week at school. I went out Saturday night with Getoff--
Chimelle points out my "smile wrinkle that never entirely uncreases".
--and his friend whose name I lost, (Ch'elle said he looked like a pimp) who drove us around to Hollywood sidestreet bars, the Spotlight, where we shot darts, and I drank turkeys. We bought Macanudos at the Roosevelt, took a toke in the bathroom. HAC for pool; the guy was a good chauffeur. Home. 69. Ch'elle says it gave her a sore throat.
We watched "The Indian and the Cupboard" at school.
I can't think with this TV on.
Yea yeah yea. Jim Crack's flashbacks.
I look pregnant. Today Dylan Thomas was an amazing use of words. Howrad called. Whup tu scrum diddly bum dum. Zonkaroolooed. I thought of Eliza Christondo, a girl in my dorm who was my age but seemed younger. She never drank, but one night she did, I think to be drunk enough to sit on my lap, which she was doing when she leaned over and puked into a nearby trashcan. She passed out on the floor of my room, her skirt hitched up, panties showing. She was cute. She had a beautiful, wonderful innocent soul. I carried her up to her room and laid her on her bed and went back downstairs to party. I used to get letters from her after college for a while. I think she became a doctor or something. She's married now.
posted by johnz at 12:13 PM
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