She Told Me That, and I Thought About a Fly Buzzing
7-22-98 Wed 5:45 PM
I'm at Pio Pico again. I'm hiding out in an unused classroom to write this. I'm bummed. I didn't finish yesterday's three pages. I put the serviced radiator in the Chrysler today. Seems to be running pretty good, although now I'm noticing a hitch in the transmission. I breaded and fried the zuchinni Fumi gave me from her garden next door. I walked home the three miles from Shirelle's, but I'm still fat as ever. I've got some weird rash on my back now, too. What else? I took "White Dawn" back to the video store. I stopped at IL literature bookstore. I was going to pick up Henderson, the Rain King, but they didn't have it. I took $140 out of my account. I guess I'm going to have to make small payments on my credit cards the next two months thanks to the fucking district switching my pay calendar. I don't know how I'm going to have any cash for Pennsylvania. Shirelle told me she told her dad we're getting married. There's a fly buzzing around in here. I keep hearing him hit the wall. Doesn't that hurt him? Maybe that's why he keeps doing it; he wants to knock himself senseless. The only other writing I did today was my fifteen minutes of typing. I guess I'll write a page in the third person when I get home. I cooked with a towel wrapped around my waist. Carlin called. She asked if I was still pissed at her. "No," I lied. She told me that Toni Morrison is going to have a book signing at that bookstore south of here, Eso Wan, I think it's called. Too bad I'll be out of town, I would love to meet Toni Morrison. Man. I'm going camping in the Sierras I guess. What else? Nothing. There's nothing else? That's it. That's all. Life's a burn. Life's a bore. There's nothing more. Today anyway. I ate too much olive oil. Still no "Jeopardy!" Fuck. I hope class passes swiftly tonight. Maybe I should call in sick tomorrow. Fuck a duck, Chuck, buddy-o. Jesus. What else? I read Maughm while I walked home. Was that guy pretentious. The Modern Library released a list of the top hundred novels as voted on by I don't know who. Number one: Ulysses.
I'm at Pio Pico again. I'm hiding out in an unused classroom to write this. I'm bummed. I didn't finish yesterday's three pages. I put the serviced radiator in the Chrysler today. Seems to be running pretty good, although now I'm noticing a hitch in the transmission. I breaded and fried the zuchinni Fumi gave me from her garden next door. I walked home the three miles from Shirelle's, but I'm still fat as ever. I've got some weird rash on my back now, too. What else? I took "White Dawn" back to the video store. I stopped at IL literature bookstore. I was going to pick up Henderson, the Rain King, but they didn't have it. I took $140 out of my account. I guess I'm going to have to make small payments on my credit cards the next two months thanks to the fucking district switching my pay calendar. I don't know how I'm going to have any cash for Pennsylvania. Shirelle told me she told her dad we're getting married. There's a fly buzzing around in here. I keep hearing him hit the wall. Doesn't that hurt him? Maybe that's why he keeps doing it; he wants to knock himself senseless. The only other writing I did today was my fifteen minutes of typing. I guess I'll write a page in the third person when I get home. I cooked with a towel wrapped around my waist. Carlin called. She asked if I was still pissed at her. "No," I lied. She told me that Toni Morrison is going to have a book signing at that bookstore south of here, Eso Wan, I think it's called. Too bad I'll be out of town, I would love to meet Toni Morrison. Man. I'm going camping in the Sierras I guess. What else? Nothing. There's nothing else? That's it. That's all. Life's a burn. Life's a bore. There's nothing more. Today anyway. I ate too much olive oil. Still no "Jeopardy!" Fuck. I hope class passes swiftly tonight. Maybe I should call in sick tomorrow. Fuck a duck, Chuck, buddy-o. Jesus. What else? I read Maughm while I walked home. Was that guy pretentious. The Modern Library released a list of the top hundred novels as voted on by I don't know who. Number one: Ulysses.
Labels: Literary Los Angeles, Lowlife Literature
posted by johnz at 6:32 PM
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