Sunday, February 10, 2008

picnic patriotique

"Hurry up," said Natasia, "it's cold out here; and I don't know how much longer I can hold this cow."

"Quit being a queen," I said as I rubbed my hand back and forth, furious, "everytime you open your mouth I have to start over again."

Now where was I? Oh yes, "Ohhhoh sayyy caaan youu seeeee!"

"Godammit, Sherman, this thing just licked me! What's it doing? That's my nipple you little shit. OW! Sherman, this thing's trying to give me head!"

"Byyyy thee daaawn's eeaaarleeee liii...for fuck's sake! For fuck sake! YEAAAAH."

"It's about damn fucking time, Sherman. You and your kicks. If you weren't a genius musician and didn't get the best coke in town I don't know what I'd do. I like your mom too. She's not crazy like my psycho hellbitch of a mom. Can we go now? Can we get sushi?"

"Raw fish sounds retarded right now, Natasia. Let's get some soup. I'm really in the mood for soup. Minestrone."

Yeaaah. That felt pretty good.

"Put your clothes on Natasia, get your handbag, let's go before some crazy gay rancher tries to kick our asses. Leave the sheep. Let's go."

We grabbed our shit and split. I lit a cigarette, Natasia pulled her imitation designer sunglasses out of her Fendi bag, tromping her sinewy arms, legs stuffed into some five dollar thrift store cowboy boots, hair sweeping in the cool breeze smelling of three day old juniper berried tobacco smoke and lanolin.

Later we would rob a bank and fuck on top of 80 grand in the same motel that I lost my virginity in when I was twelve years-old. Her name was Tabatha. She was 42, beautiful, always wore this expensive fur coat made out of chinchilla or minx or something.

I liked the fact that her name was the same as that witch on tv, the one that twitched her nose, and that freak Darren was always such a putz; both the Dicks, losers, but Tabatha, now she was class.

Wednesday, February 6, 2008


Sometimes I exercise, but not all the time.

Last night I did: 500 crunches, 150 stairs climbs (only counting verticle), 20 lunges, and 1 mile on the treadmill. This morning: 2.5 miles on the treadmill and 100 crunches.

This kind of extreme exercise is sporadic. I don't do it all the time, at all, or as part of some sort of fitness schedule. The way I do it is: Whenever I feel gross and not in perfect shape meaning my stomach feels bulbous or I see cellulite forming on my inner thigh area, I exercise pretty hard or a few days and then it's gone and I'm in good shape again. I'm 5'7, weigh 130lbs, and am mostly muscle.

I drink tons of water too, which makes a huge hell of difference as far as skin goes, face wise and all over, and try to lay off the alcoholic beverages, which also lets the brain have a break from scary feeling of neurotoxic nausia, impairing memory and processing speed--no fun.

Regardless, knowing how to listen to self-preserving semaphors waving around on the intuition boat is a talent to be reckoned with, it's called awareness. The same awareness cat owners have that keeps their house from smelling like a turd factory.

I was trying to do smaller portions of vegetable based foods too with little sugar, wheat, meat, and dairy, but then I had the flu for a couple days and needed the calories to avoid having my ass kicked by fever and my immune system needing energy to kill vicious health debilititating bacteria monkeys.

I had the flu when I woke up Monday morning, it's Wednesday and the said flu is gone. I'd like to say I willed it away, but that's probably only part of it considering the handfuls of vitamin C I was taking along with 12 hour sleep nights and a pretty healthy immune system overall due to the fact that I'm a stark mixed breed.

I like to think I have the ability to concentrate a cold, have it really terrible for like a day, and then fight it tired until it runs away screaming. My immune system's akin to the buff soldiers in 300 without the cod pieces and chisled abs. It's a tough sonofabitch when it needs to be, most of the time, luckily.

My temperature was 100.5 on acetaminophen soaking the sheets squeezing my head in a vice nasty too. Fevers have to be universally synonymous with damn torture by anyone's book.

Sometimes I get colds, but they don't last long.

Sunday, February 3, 2008

lick my 14

arts is
when on
the drink,
in aluminum

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