twenty-five. today. not much to say about it, a few bad liquor recipes on my mind but at least one good one, outside of my tasty margarita: juice of one fresh squeezed orange, dash of dry vermouth, measure of Captain Morgan. yes, I say Captain Morgan: it was a birthday present and in making the best of it I think I've managed to make it taste pretty good. Might be the orange juice.
Little Brother is living in New York for five more weeks so we visited him today, he's in Chelsea; tiny digs, but the Mainline is pretty damn cool and he's within sight of that, so he's in good.
Feeling in a weird place. Somebody died in my dream last night but now I don't remember who, might have been Little Brother. Had deja vu today--always nice, a sweet note in the symphony of life--but it wasn't anything remarkable, for what it's worth. Ran into Kansas on the trolley this morning and my free-fare got expensive: I'm not sure Verano thought her trip with me entirely worth it, and I've been reeling all day. For the last two days, maybe. I feel twenty-five, If my instincts are correct. I've never been twenty-five before so it's hard to tell, but I feel like I'm old enough that I don't have any excuses anymore, and I'm dead afraid that by answering to all of my mistakes I'm locked in to life for life. Resolutions: 1) dRINK as much as I want; 2) flirt more, but entirely lead on; 3) write, god dammit. ; 4) you have a family out there, somewhere. Be a positive influence on life. 5) Don't make excuses for yourself. Be who you think you are, say what you want. It's not going to get any simpler now, if you don't grow balls while you have the energy to it's never going to happen, and you don't want to be what you've seen.
Enough said. Sleep, Huevos de Benedict de Verano. A good day, indeed.
Friday
Monday
Mad Sex Orgy Lesbians Cock Cum Hot Nude
Eighteen people have been disappointed by clicking to a post entitled, "The Cunnilingus Pun"; why not add a few more to the list?
Or am I cheating by putting it all out there?
The ghost in my dream, the dream I alluded to a few posts back, was named Judith Myers. On a wall of the hotel in the dream hung two portraits; the portrait of Judith Myers--her name enscribed on the decorative frame--was empty while its ghost wandered about the hotel.
Deja Vu. This must be, as some say, a significant moment in my life. The dream wasn't Deja Vu, I'm having it while I sit here and write.
The second portrait was of the former keeper. I had to wake this portrait up by knocking on the wall; and when I did, that benevolent woman--I don't remember her name, although perhaps I should--managed to reign in the malevolent spirit that wandered the hotel.
But, for those who visit Something Else with base intentions, and have, despite today's title, stayed with it until now, I don't like to disappoint: There were three women in this dream that were staying in the hotel, and before they were terrorized by Judith Myers they were having sex with each other, and drinking the tequila.
My mind is a platform of contrived horror formula. I'm pretty sure the ghost wasn't named Judith, either, the name on the gilded wood started with an 'A'; but, Judith is the best I was able to retrieve from the recesses of my lumpy lump, before wake closed off the narrow passageways that allow the conscious to traverse in to the deep and unknown, and loot from that which is otherwise guarded and locked.
Or am I cheating by putting it all out there?
The ghost in my dream, the dream I alluded to a few posts back, was named Judith Myers. On a wall of the hotel in the dream hung two portraits; the portrait of Judith Myers--her name enscribed on the decorative frame--was empty while its ghost wandered about the hotel.
Deja Vu. This must be, as some say, a significant moment in my life. The dream wasn't Deja Vu, I'm having it while I sit here and write.
The second portrait was of the former keeper. I had to wake this portrait up by knocking on the wall; and when I did, that benevolent woman--I don't remember her name, although perhaps I should--managed to reign in the malevolent spirit that wandered the hotel.
But, for those who visit Something Else with base intentions, and have, despite today's title, stayed with it until now, I don't like to disappoint: There were three women in this dream that were staying in the hotel, and before they were terrorized by Judith Myers they were having sex with each other, and drinking the tequila.
My mind is a platform of contrived horror formula. I'm pretty sure the ghost wasn't named Judith, either, the name on the gilded wood started with an 'A'; but, Judith is the best I was able to retrieve from the recesses of my lumpy lump, before wake closed off the narrow passageways that allow the conscious to traverse in to the deep and unknown, and loot from that which is otherwise guarded and locked.
The Cunnilingus Pun, Prt. II
So, apparently, if you've titled your post, The Cunnilingus Pun, you invite at least one page view on a day like today. Sorry to disappoint whoever Googled Cunnilingus and got Something Else instead. Haha.
Some thoughts.
Firstly, I've just been introcuted to Tony Robbins. I'm sorry, I've just been introduced; I don't know what introcuted means. And, I've been introduced to Tom Robbins, not Tony Robbins. Tony Robbins is a motivational speaker. Tom Robbins is a brilliant writer. So perhaps I've been introcuted to Tony Robbins after all, since I wouldn't know exactly what that entails. Inanity aside, Jitterbug Perfume has hit me like a healthy beet to the head, and the lump that's swelling there is a welcome one.
That said, I had an unusual sex dream last night. "Leave it to dreams to do what our hands or partners have not." It started as a 64-bit Legend-of-Zelda style minigame of chicken, in which (young) Link has to collect more rupees than the Centipede. The rupees are all on a platform that is sinking. If he stays on it too long he gets sucked into a vortex, but you have to collect rupees until the very last second if you want to beat the Centipede. When you have enough you swim upwards, and win the game. It took me three tries.
After you win the Centipede gives you a majic mirror-lantern that releases a bright light. The mirror turned into striptease, which turned into a couple having sex. I had trouble going back to sleep after I woke up from this.
Part of the reason is because, when I did finally lay back down, Jim Carey was in the back of my brain, having a tantrum and trying to break his way out. When that subsided, I was left having a conversation with a disembodied Robin Williams, who sounded a bit like Robert DeNiro. This was broken up when a troupe of Russians sidled up to my brain, coming in from the cold, and asked for a drink. A Yuppie showed up and was annoyed because the bar didn't serve coffee. After last call I had to shepherd a herd of people out of my head, and when it was finally empty I was left in my restaurant, quiet and dark. I finally fell back asleep.
"Idiots are the ones who, while the ship is sinking, wait in line to use the bathroom."
Why did I abbreviate "Part II" as "Prt. II"? Just WHAT is the point of leaving out a single A? We my never know...
I think I'm going to start calling farm veterinarians Bull Mechanics.
I began to read Moby Dick again, which is a fantastic novel. However, whales have now begun to breach the surface of my tedium. Where they always there? In two weeks I have had unusual instances of whales, which I will lay down here, ハーマン·メルヴィルの書き込みと同じように。
(That's Japanese, which I don't even pretend to speak. But, if the translation is good, which I doubt, it's a suitable way to end the thought.)
1. Marcel LeFever of Jitterbug Perfume wears a whale mask.
2. There is a Spermaceti on the base of the North Coast PranQster tap handle at work.
3. I saw a tourism commercial that touted Whale Watching on the Pacific Coast on the big screen one evening at work. I have never seen this commercial before.
4. Er, there was a fourth but it got away.
Am I finally noticing whales that have been there all along, or I am I a-whale hunting as a member of the Pequod's crew? Ahab thinks of nothing but whales, and most significantly, the White Whale. I've been trying to compare myself to Starbuck, but I have to decide if my boss is Ahab, or if I am. I don't think I'm crazy enough, yet, and Robin Williams by way of Robert DeNiro agrees.
2010: Moby Dick, by the way, is an awful, awful, little bit of cinematography. No White Whale there. Metaphorically, or literally. The whale in the movie is black, which just goes to show that the harpooners taking aim at that film really missed their marks.
Some thoughts.
Firstly, I've just been introcuted to Tony Robbins. I'm sorry, I've just been introduced; I don't know what introcuted means. And, I've been introduced to Tom Robbins, not Tony Robbins. Tony Robbins is a motivational speaker. Tom Robbins is a brilliant writer. So perhaps I've been introcuted to Tony Robbins after all, since I wouldn't know exactly what that entails. Inanity aside, Jitterbug Perfume has hit me like a healthy beet to the head, and the lump that's swelling there is a welcome one.
That said, I had an unusual sex dream last night. "Leave it to dreams to do what our hands or partners have not." It started as a 64-bit Legend-of-Zelda style minigame of chicken, in which (young) Link has to collect more rupees than the Centipede. The rupees are all on a platform that is sinking. If he stays on it too long he gets sucked into a vortex, but you have to collect rupees until the very last second if you want to beat the Centipede. When you have enough you swim upwards, and win the game. It took me three tries.
After you win the Centipede gives you a majic mirror-lantern that releases a bright light. The mirror turned into striptease, which turned into a couple having sex. I had trouble going back to sleep after I woke up from this.
Part of the reason is because, when I did finally lay back down, Jim Carey was in the back of my brain, having a tantrum and trying to break his way out. When that subsided, I was left having a conversation with a disembodied Robin Williams, who sounded a bit like Robert DeNiro. This was broken up when a troupe of Russians sidled up to my brain, coming in from the cold, and asked for a drink. A Yuppie showed up and was annoyed because the bar didn't serve coffee. After last call I had to shepherd a herd of people out of my head, and when it was finally empty I was left in my restaurant, quiet and dark. I finally fell back asleep.
"Idiots are the ones who, while the ship is sinking, wait in line to use the bathroom."
Why did I abbreviate "Part II" as "Prt. II"? Just WHAT is the point of leaving out a single A? We my never know...
I think I'm going to start calling farm veterinarians Bull Mechanics.
I began to read Moby Dick again, which is a fantastic novel. However, whales have now begun to breach the surface of my tedium. Where they always there? In two weeks I have had unusual instances of whales, which I will lay down here, ハーマン·メルヴィルの書き込みと同じように。
(That's Japanese, which I don't even pretend to speak. But, if the translation is good, which I doubt, it's a suitable way to end the thought.)
1. Marcel LeFever of Jitterbug Perfume wears a whale mask.
2. There is a Spermaceti on the base of the North Coast PranQster tap handle at work.
3. I saw a tourism commercial that touted Whale Watching on the Pacific Coast on the big screen one evening at work. I have never seen this commercial before.
4. Er, there was a fourth but it got away.
Am I finally noticing whales that have been there all along, or I am I a-whale hunting as a member of the Pequod's crew? Ahab thinks of nothing but whales, and most significantly, the White Whale. I've been trying to compare myself to Starbuck, but I have to decide if my boss is Ahab, or if I am. I don't think I'm crazy enough, yet, and Robin Williams by way of Robert DeNiro agrees.
2010: Moby Dick, by the way, is an awful, awful, little bit of cinematography. No White Whale there. Metaphorically, or literally. The whale in the movie is black, which just goes to show that the harpooners taking aim at that film really missed their marks.
Friday
Judith Myers. Ruth Myers. A. Myers.
Judith Myers. Ruth Myers. A. Myers. I'll fill in the details after tonight.
I'm with Chekov, people and their unfulfilled dreams are starting to annoy me. The people, that is, who are passive aggressive about realizing those dreams. I'm not sure which side of the dream fence I sleep on.
More ghosties last night. Intense. Judith Myers. Ruth Myers. A. Myers. Lasting image from my Tito's & soda dreamfest: a shot glass on its side, still full of an amber liquor. Tequila or whiskey. The ghost had chucked it from across the room, and when it landed on its side, the liquor didn't spill out. Then the ghost crushed the glass.
I'm with Chekov, people and their unfulfilled dreams are starting to annoy me. The people, that is, who are passive aggressive about realizing those dreams. I'm not sure which side of the dream fence I sleep on.
More ghosties last night. Intense. Judith Myers. Ruth Myers. A. Myers. Lasting image from my Tito's & soda dreamfest: a shot glass on its side, still full of an amber liquor. Tequila or whiskey. The ghost had chucked it from across the room, and when it landed on its side, the liquor didn't spill out. Then the ghost crushed the glass.
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