The Best Laid Plans of Dumbasses and Bitches
Tues. June 4
Dumb-ass bitches. Are women all just mainly stupid or just the ones I attract? The multi-billion dollar cosmetic industry, fashion industry, and cosmetic/fashion magazine industry has me leaning toward the idea that it's all of 'em. A dumb-ass bitch will spend $100 on a new pair of shoes when she already has twenty, and not know a goddamn thing about some life-or-death thing like whether or not her brake shoes need replacing. They are almost entirely all walking penis traps, doing everything they can to gete us to notice their tits and their asses and their lips all while complaining that they are being exploited. The women I know are all a bunch of money-wasting emotional rollercoasters dependent on men for all common sense and higher thinking. There are rare exceptions I will admit.
I was looking forward to puffing my one and only little kernal of cannibis today when I got home, do some writing about Jim Crack trapped on the couch, give it some monstrous mythical proportions, get A. and J.C.'s conversation going, introduce some through lines--Shirelle smoked it. She had worked the graveyard shift, and was going to sleep anyway, and wasted my last little high in her own huge oblivion. It makes me not give a fuck about anything. The best laid plans of fuckheads and dumbasses.
Hot and smoggy today. My fingers are now resin-stained. Boogersnots. I got a lot done yesterday. I actually added to the official Jim Crack manuscript. It's dense.
Pete Lee popped in.
I haven't been noticing much lately. I 've begun this Writer's Journey book. What I have in mind for Jim flaunts its formula for story pattern, but at least it gives me a comparison.
Did forty minutes on the treadmill listening to Metallica, watching the Simpsons and Seinfeld and talking on the phone with Mariachi. Did some jounral transferral, stroked the guitar, finished Hall, played a game of chess, read some Robbins, had half a toke, renewed my internet account.
A big magnolia is blooming out the back window across the street behind us. All over town the jacarandas are lavendering the streets like sexy lingerie. I was going to make a quesadilla when I got home, but all the cheese is gone. Well, almost. I had a little one. Read the whole newspaper and did the crossword. Called about a writer's conference in Malibu. Sent a story to the Nelson Algren short story Awards. Cleaned up my desk. Planned my week on the planner.
The Stanley Cup Finals start tonight, the Colorado Avalanche against the Florida Panthers. The Dodgers'll be on a little later, too.
How to rid my brain of emptiness. Rid emptiness?
Jim may get Alice in Wonderland on TV. Step in gum. The woman in purple on the way back to work.
In the car he dumped Visine in his eyes, but it's tempearture matched his own and he couldnt' tell it was dropping until it had soaked the front of his shirt.
Dumb-ass bitches. Are women all just mainly stupid or just the ones I attract? The multi-billion dollar cosmetic industry, fashion industry, and cosmetic/fashion magazine industry has me leaning toward the idea that it's all of 'em. A dumb-ass bitch will spend $100 on a new pair of shoes when she already has twenty, and not know a goddamn thing about some life-or-death thing like whether or not her brake shoes need replacing. They are almost entirely all walking penis traps, doing everything they can to gete us to notice their tits and their asses and their lips all while complaining that they are being exploited. The women I know are all a bunch of money-wasting emotional rollercoasters dependent on men for all common sense and higher thinking. There are rare exceptions I will admit.
I was looking forward to puffing my one and only little kernal of cannibis today when I got home, do some writing about Jim Crack trapped on the couch, give it some monstrous mythical proportions, get A. and J.C.'s conversation going, introduce some through lines--Shirelle smoked it. She had worked the graveyard shift, and was going to sleep anyway, and wasted my last little high in her own huge oblivion. It makes me not give a fuck about anything. The best laid plans of fuckheads and dumbasses.
Hot and smoggy today. My fingers are now resin-stained. Boogersnots. I got a lot done yesterday. I actually added to the official Jim Crack manuscript. It's dense.
Pete Lee popped in.
I haven't been noticing much lately. I 've begun this Writer's Journey book. What I have in mind for Jim flaunts its formula for story pattern, but at least it gives me a comparison.
Did forty minutes on the treadmill listening to Metallica, watching the Simpsons and Seinfeld and talking on the phone with Mariachi. Did some jounral transferral, stroked the guitar, finished Hall, played a game of chess, read some Robbins, had half a toke, renewed my internet account.
A big magnolia is blooming out the back window across the street behind us. All over town the jacarandas are lavendering the streets like sexy lingerie. I was going to make a quesadilla when I got home, but all the cheese is gone. Well, almost. I had a little one. Read the whole newspaper and did the crossword. Called about a writer's conference in Malibu. Sent a story to the Nelson Algren short story Awards. Cleaned up my desk. Planned my week on the planner.
The Stanley Cup Finals start tonight, the Colorado Avalanche against the Florida Panthers. The Dodgers'll be on a little later, too.
How to rid my brain of emptiness. Rid emptiness?
Jim may get Alice in Wonderland on TV. Step in gum. The woman in purple on the way back to work.
In the car he dumped Visine in his eyes, but it's tempearture matched his own and he couldnt' tell it was dropping until it had soaked the front of his shirt.
posted by johnz at 6:35 AM
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