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from where i now sit, here in CyberCentral of the New Hillbilly Workshop, i'm thinking the scenery no longer looks like ass.
though it still galls me to expend major effort on somebody else's investment (while i continue to drag my feet on building my own lair), environment certainly dictates unconscious cues to my well-being. this makes sense when you consider the wallpaper that previously shrouded the boudoir (the aqua part) was as charming as the decor in the nursery in the original the Haunting... that delightful combination of pink and curliques that make you want to climb the spiral staircase and jump 'til you dangle. a little more trim work, warming this up, and i can start fretting over how crap the furniture looks. this is the real reason why there are so many home-improvement networks, nowadays... change one aspect of your living area, nothing comes close to harmonizing, and you gotta re-buy everything. stimulates the economy, y'know. well, i am still using the same dresser my brother and i use to share, before i grew pubes. so, it's a good thing to shake up perceptions here in the house, since i'm going to be intimate with these walls until it warms up again. after the howling of yesterday, with the wind blowing an atonal melody in E flat, changes need to be made. i need to get intimate with the contents of this, the Pandora's Box of possessions, to find out what the hell i've done with my birth certificate... so i can finish my passport application. for the life of me, i have no idea of my father's birthdate. no surprise, since i'd only met him four times in my life, and the last time, he was in an urn. i need one less excuse to delay my need to see more of the world... the land of Python, and Cortina parts and Arsenal matches being one destination, and the birthplace of my reggae show RedStripe and jerk chicken being the other. more drastic changes of scene. y'know, before i wind up in the urn, too. Miss Jane is all abubble over her daughter's recent news... yet another child incubating out of wedlock. gawd, this girl is fertile... her womb a veritable flagella magnet. this sounds cold and cruel, i know, to my shame... but i guess she's found her purpose. too bad it has nothing to do with her schooling. makes me want to start writing sixties-era country songs. changing the subject... i think i have finally created a hot sauce so intense that my own body cannot tolerate it. judging from the noxious emissions and the stomach churning, it has gone, as they say, "beyond the pale." in fact, it's hard to sit down, right about now. for some reason that only my twisted grey matter knows, i'm reminded of the scene in BrideOfFrankenstein (the one where his vocal chords work), right after his pre-fab grrrlfriend screeches at him in smoky black-and-white. he's about to bring down the hizzouse on his assembly crew when he turns to the good Doctor and says, "You! Live!" turning to the bad one, and being dissed and hissed by Miss Stripey he growls... "We. Belong. Dead." well, i'm not pulling the plug on my homemade condiment... but i'm gonna go light, from now on. thank the gods for the healing qualities of beer. damn, this became about "ass," again. |
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