Some Sort of Evil Blowing Hot and Angry
4-20 Su 9 PM
Why didn't I write here yesterday? I
4-21 M 10:50
Why didn't I write to here yesterday either? What a fucked-up crazy weekend. There is some sort of evil blowing hot and angry, shaking the trees demonically. No one understands anybody else. Love has blown away and left only the Godless fuck, hot and nasty. Those of us who did not believe are trapped here in it. We make our mistakes and indecisions and eventually the wind will burn us; it is now; the flames grow and eat the world.
The electricity is knocked out. I bought a candle with a prayer to St. Michael to banish Satan, sword raised high, the monster Satan cringing below. I have only to write it. The headlines scream, a boy found butchered, a girl missing.
I'm at Shirelle's new apartment on Gardner and Lexington off Santa Monica. We went to IKEA furniture store in Burbank to pick out a table and chairs for her little dining room. I assembled it for her. It involved sixty different screws. I did half of them with the wrong kind of screwdriver before it pissed me off. We got int he car to look for a hardware store. At the end of the street is an auto parts store by a liquor store. I said, "How many times have you been to this liquor store in the week since you moved in?"
"Never," she said.
"Yeah, right."
"I swear to God."
"Hm."
In the auto parts store, I found the right screwdriver for a dollar fifty-nine. I finished the chairs and table while Shirelle went to Astroburger and brought back some patty melts with grilled onion, bacon and avocado. We ate at the new table. I hurried home then and got my stuff and dropped off my time card at the LACAS office. I taught my night school class. It was a good class. I have a real high enrollment. My boss said she heard I was doing good things. So I wrote my page in third person when I got home, but I didn't work on Jim. Carlin and I had a talk about Saturday. She was more disgusted than I was. Peachtree called to talk about how weird it was, too. I told Getoff he was a chick-jackin' swoop-dog motherfucker. Shirelle stole my back scratcher and tied it a tree like a hostage.
Why didn't I write here yesterday? I
4-21 M 10:50
Why didn't I write to here yesterday either? What a fucked-up crazy weekend. There is some sort of evil blowing hot and angry, shaking the trees demonically. No one understands anybody else. Love has blown away and left only the Godless fuck, hot and nasty. Those of us who did not believe are trapped here in it. We make our mistakes and indecisions and eventually the wind will burn us; it is now; the flames grow and eat the world.
The electricity is knocked out. I bought a candle with a prayer to St. Michael to banish Satan, sword raised high, the monster Satan cringing below. I have only to write it. The headlines scream, a boy found butchered, a girl missing.
I'm at Shirelle's new apartment on Gardner and Lexington off Santa Monica. We went to IKEA furniture store in Burbank to pick out a table and chairs for her little dining room. I assembled it for her. It involved sixty different screws. I did half of them with the wrong kind of screwdriver before it pissed me off. We got int he car to look for a hardware store. At the end of the street is an auto parts store by a liquor store. I said, "How many times have you been to this liquor store in the week since you moved in?"
"Never," she said.
"Yeah, right."
"I swear to God."
"Hm."
In the auto parts store, I found the right screwdriver for a dollar fifty-nine. I finished the chairs and table while Shirelle went to Astroburger and brought back some patty melts with grilled onion, bacon and avocado. We ate at the new table. I hurried home then and got my stuff and dropped off my time card at the LACAS office. I taught my night school class. It was a good class. I have a real high enrollment. My boss said she heard I was doing good things. So I wrote my page in third person when I got home, but I didn't work on Jim. Carlin and I had a talk about Saturday. She was more disgusted than I was. Peachtree called to talk about how weird it was, too. I told Getoff he was a chick-jackin' swoop-dog motherfucker. Shirelle stole my back scratcher and tied it a tree like a hostage.
posted by johnz at 8:14 AM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home