ho ho ho

friday: how many time have i listened to this today? i'm not actually gonna talk about what happened because there's enough people to do that for me. but remember, the president eulogizes, "a street corner in Chicago" and it was my first thought anyway.

saturday: i was thirteen once, with an internet connection/such a boner for homoerotic subtext and we're back at this story again but this time the smoldering exiled prince who just needs to get his people back home shtick doesn't seem so great with yet another white face and sorry baby, bodice-ripper lieutenant general, you can look like you're in some terrible norwegian doom band and i will still want to ride your face and yank you further into me by the roots of your viking hair (it will hurt) and think about you in leather pants and your hands on a huge double-necked guitar, but idk it's not as exciting as the first time around

sunday: your hubs is watching us carefully. is this scary? let's talk about pills, xanax and wellbutrin and chinese hamster ovaries and you talk about which ones made you fatter/skinnier and i talk about the ones that drove me into the lake in april. no one says nutjob. nutjob is a term of endearment. we're squawking  because of the resonance. i'm watching him, watching us, and is this what it's like to be married? he accuses you of being a lightweight. you're deffo a lil drunk. but, girl, they made us this way.

monday: don't leave the house.

tuesday: i move paper from my desk onto other peoples' desks. later in the nosebleeds, i'm not turned on by soldiers for the first time in forever. look, soldiers yank my chain the way dead girls yanked poe's, but i know no one's gonna die in this playhouse tonight. so no waterworks. after, i have to check that my life is still there so i reread all our old emails. i realize i know what i am going to say if you die young.

wednesday: four hours and no shower is not enough. send help, can't stop listening to ke$ha, can't stop thinking about zizek, like maybe he's weeping about neoliberalism (but not really because he maybe doesn't care that much) and noam chomsky comes along and fingers his asshole til he feels better. i would pay for that download. okay, i wouldn't.

p.s. hey, j, saw you on the sartorialist. how you feeling about that?