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stoica1117's weblog
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last modified May 27, 2002 at 7:36
Asleep or drunk, and he's still hard. Now that's what I call virility. I prefer something softer than stone myself.
Today the mongrel and I went *outside* for an extended period. Glorious day, partly cloudy with no chance of riff-raff. The mongrel was so enthused, she actually richocheted off the couch. Given enough time, I think she might learn to moonwalk.
Speaking of the 1980's, I've been singing Billy Joel ever since The Longest Time played on the radio this morning. Unfortunately, I haven't been able to find a playable link with which to terrorize you. Curses.
The guy really floats my boat. Here's to a nice birch switch across my bare butt.
My favorite Prof' just called to invite me to a faculty dinner party she doesn't really want to throw. She told me that if I'm there, she'll enjoy the party more. The Real World elbows into my coocoonish little life! How shocking! I may have to put on clothes and actually speak with people. Gad. It would be "stupid" to decline such an invitation, somehow, yes? Ah. She's got great chillun, even though they scare me with their clever little minds, and a lovely couple of parrots called Maimonides and Yuki. I also get to talk with her, Julie, and such is joy and terror intermingled.
But how can I tell her I've left my corporeal body and am now living an impassioned life online? My body strewn across the chair like a shucked rubber suit.
{achoo!} I am not a hypochondriac. I am not a hypochondriac...
I keep a little dream notebook that I paste into with paper and glue. This little tome documents several dreams over the past years that include "bugs" like scorpions, snakes, rats, crustaceans, and cockroaches.
As for snakes and scorpions, my dreams have served to dull and not exacerbate my fears. Rats sometimes attack me in my dreams, but I deal with them matter-o-factly, and most often, they act as my familiars in crisis situations. {grin}
Where is my video of Cher, Live At The Mirage? Where is my unparalleled source of delightful 1980's campiness? Cher, bless her good heart and multiple cosmetic alterations, singing Eagle's songs and swinging a little white sailor hat. It's right up there with the white tigers and Siegfried and Roy. Utter fabulosity, and I shall tolerate no negative comments about Cher in this forum! Some people have Judy Garland. Others have Barbara Streisand. I have Cher. End of story.
Is it just me, or does Uma Thurman remind one of a pretty mantis?
Naked in terrycloth robe with mussed hair, smudgy glasses, drinking juice. Good.
Today's challenge: use the word "concatenation" in a sentence with "geiger counter", "okapi", and "speculum".
Sometimes a day is better slept through than actively wrestled with. No plazzing, there were tons of people and my little teeny book of Wallace Stevens failed to hold my attention. After the finger-stick, I left.
Got my album of Scott Joplin Rags today. I'm still deciding how I feel about the interpretations. The Gladiolus Rag is still my favorite, because some things are just hard to mess with. French Toast, for instance. Or industrial beige carpet. Nylon webbing. Penguins.
Narf. A picture or two. So wrong, so right.
Klutz:
1. A clumsy, awkward person.
2. A person lacking in certain social graces.
3. A Lindsey.
A morning of shopping and apharensis awaits! I try to alternate arms to avoid scarring, but suspect I'll end up with track marks just the same. The whole process only becomes disturbing when the orderlies start making jokes about becoming "addicted" to the "sticking". Otherwise, everyone is very nice, and the secretaries offer you packets of saltines and koolaid.
Shopping List: soymilk, bottle of odwalla (Future Chai, if possible), orange juice, disposable camera with which to document my tattoos, tailcoat, and hirsuteness.
Postscript to rollerblading wipe-out: My knee has full flex and the side of my shin is almost a normal color. The only problem is that I have lost feeling at the footward edge of my patella; an area about the size of a quarter. On the bright side, when and if I ever eat dirt again, I probably won't feel it.
About 9 months ago, I broke up with my now ex-girlfriend and resolved never to have sex again unless I was compelled to by an overwhelming feeling of Yes. Funny how when you get what you want, there's always a catch. Sucked into this Vortex of Yes, I expect to produce at least one disgusting confessional poem which may or may not contain the phrase "kitty-pronging".
I wonder if that dirty old man at the duckpond mistook me for a young Asian boy down on his luck, in lax knee socks and holey running shorts. If he did, I'll take it as a compliment.
Excerpt from Denise Levertov's Song For A Dark Voice:
Wake the violincellos of Lebanon,
rub the bows with cedar resin,
wake the Tundra horsemen
to hunt tigers.
My gawd, what an idea! Theophilus and Aleister. Those names make me think of a long line of upstanding British sons who attended Eton. Or Cambridge. Or Oxford. And then became radicals in tweed. (Now there's the name of a future punk band.) The monocled and tattooed! Huxleys and Learys in the making!
Boys, eh? Or is Theophilus possibly an androgynous name?
Twins! Chaos and Mayhem. Chay and May! Hee-hee. Maybe I'll just get a pair of lovebirds someday and call them Chay and May.
When one is too lazy to get a heating pad from an adjacent room, a small warm dog on the lap is very nice. Happiness.
Blargh. Must. Replace. Lost. Iron. (Not the kind you steam clothes with, stick decals to your backpack with, or use to make grilled cheese sandwiches with...hooray for Benny And Joon!)
I bet Marmite has lots of iron. Hmm.
Sometimes I get strange fruit cravings. The Mangosteen is the fruit of a certain species of tropical evergreen. Lovely, but indescribable. Just the sort of fruit segment one might enjoy crushing between the roof of the mouth and the tongue. Sweet, slightly tart. White flesh with fragile veining...okay. What do you call the tiny seperate juice bubbles in fruits like oranges? Mangosteen fruit doesn't have those separations, it's more tender, with fibers coming off the middle of the wedge.
Explain how one puts off a dirty old man by being dirtier! Is that like making a vomiting noise when teenage boys in monster trucks hit on girls walking by?
Beautiful run, 5:30 in the mornin'. Don't have much wind as I've been smoking and lazing, but what a grand sunrise! Early morning moon through blue spruce! Robins and mourning doves everywhere.
Strolling to the duckpond, I feel grand. Puff my chest a bit and feel dandy. Trip down the stairs and twist my ankle. Don't care!
Three herons at the duckpond! Black-crowned night herons, I looked'em up! Lovely. The big one on the footbridge caught a fat goldfish, and it was something to see that bird swallow something bigger than it's own head! Ducks a-waddle. Bullfrogs boasting. No hummers, no mice in the brush. At least, I didn't have time to seek out the scurrying muridae before an old man in a maintenance uniform pulled up on a bicycle.
"Lookin' for some fun?"
"Not particularly, no."
I dunno! Maybe my face was too open and happy cuz I let the pokerface slide! Ick, riff-raff!
"Whatcha doin' out so early?"
"Goin' for a run. Lookin' at birds."
"Yeah. Listen, I'll give you five dollars if you jerk me off."
"Uh. No."
"C'mon."
"No. No. No. No. No..." I put on my sunglasses and trotted off, still shaking my head, "no, no, no, no..."
"At least I tried!" he calls after me.
But it's such a beautiful day, not even the dirty old men can bring me down! Who do I have to thank for that, who?! I think you know who you are. *smiles* I am buffered against distastefulness, at least for a little while.
Ah, the sun is rising. What a day!
A lost soul, beaten by her drunkard father, ignored by police, forgotten by hospital staff, came knocking on my door at 1:00 am. I'm notoriously bad in emergencies, but I did the best I could. I brought her tissue to cry into, the phone book she asked for, offered her tea and a sympathetic ear. Girl was in shock, blood on her sweater. Walked over here barefoot amongst the downtown cockroaches. These are the times I become inarticulate and overwhelmed. What to do? We talked. She said her head hurt from coming forcibly in contact with concrete. She called a friend and they picked her up. I desperately hope she's okay. She told me she has no close friends, no other place to stay other than with her hideous father, and that it's hard to find anybody who cares nowadays.
A Good Man Is Hard To Find. I gotta get outta Albuquerque.
1. A spider roll, but any sushi will do.
2. A spicy, chocolately, sweet tawny port.
3. Reed's Crystallized Ginger and Ginger Brews
4. Godiva Chocolates
5. The libation of Janis Joplin!
6. Heady Romantic Aspirations
Pick sushi, tell your fortune!
What does scorpion poop look like?
Leftover Mexican food is over-rated, I think. Unless you happen to have a microwave, which I do not.
Oy. I dreamt about gerbils, most especially my beloved gerbil Rusty. I wonder if most dream dictionaries even care to mention gerbils. "Gerbils: small mongolian rodents related to jerboas and kangaroo rats. See Attila the Hun."
Oy was the name of one of my rats, may she rest in peace, nestled in the Sandia's next to her cagemate and her lover: pleasant Bea, and the illustrious cage-queen, Madeline. The athletic AquaRat died during a summer roadtrip; she's buried under a white stone in Vermont. Mym never fully recovered from her inner ear infection, and ended up having a fatal seizure.
Oy was so named because she was the most accident-prone sentient being I've ever come across. "Oy! I can't believe you fell off the fifth shelf of the bookcase! How did you get ON the fifth shelf of the bookcase??!" She was also in love with Madeline, the oldest and wisest rat in my family. Eventually I gave them their own cage together. If only I could have a relationship as madly passionate. *sigh* Madeline's fur was thinning, and at first I thought it was age, but then I realized it was because Oy was obsessively grooming Madeline in fits of lunatic love. Idn't that sweet, in a manic way?
Not to mention the frequency of lordosis in the Madeline/Oy love nest.
Double Oy. Nature is cruelly reminding me that both exercise and lots of SOYmilk are needed to keep uterine warfare in check. Resolutions. And I'm breaking out, piss. I just wanna stay home and read. Wah!
I don't plan on chilluns, but if a monkey wrench were dropped in my plans, I suppose Selkirk would be an interesting name for a girl. I'd have to go with Dylan Thomas for a boy. There's always room for suggestions, however.
This sign -> & is an ampersand. Good to know. Especially since I've forgotten what the little plastic ends of shoelaces are called. Dammit. Uvula! Penultimate! Ah, the power of language, what a something.
Remember, "Whatever the biological, it is the idealogical which identifies it." Rise up from the wordless primordial muck, all ye foul taciturn behemoths!
Because I'm a lesbian, will the state of my sex life be based on an assessment of my cuticles? This may be the only time in my life during which I have not had a single hangnail. The irony.
Ella Fitzgerald rocks my ass. *sigh*
The pile of books beside my bed is only getting taller and more ominous. My dog is becoming more and more woeful at the odd hours I keep. This morning, we run in the sun. After a shower. The problem with daytime is that I have to run into people and perhaps even speak to them. They'll want me to justify my small dog and extreme hairstyle. Eek. I can feel my assertion bending already.
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