Water...
After looking over last night's drunken ramblings, I have decided that a follow-up post is necessary for all of our sanities. It is currently 1:12pm in the afternoon, but it feels like late morning. I did not get much sleep last night because I spent most of it waiting for the one who said she wanted me. She certainly did want me and I awoke this morning next to a sleeping creature that, during the night, tore all my sheets asunder. I sit here now and look at the wreck that is my bed, and wonder how such a thing is possible even though I didn't actually get any. It is nice, though, to have somebody warm next to you, every so often. It's funny sometimes. When I have someone possess my bed, I long for the opportunity to sleep by myself. I have a twin bed, see, and sharing it has a tendency to drain the quality of any kind of sleep. I never awaken feeling refreshed. But, after awhile, I begin to miss the feeling of someone nice against me and attempt to lure various people in with me. Success is happiness, provided that the bedmate refrains from tweaking my nipples at three in the morning, which has happened before.
Last night's drunken revelation was found in the dingy-mopped floors of some second rate gas station. A bit after midnight, I turned to a frat brother and told him that I was hungry. I immediately left and stumbled into the night in search of food. My larders have been empty these past weeks and my eating is starting to resemble the self-imposed poverty famines of late last summer. I guess that is fine, considering I ought to finish all my bread products before next week, but it has gotten to the point where the only food I have left is hamburger meat, a package of ramen, and some bread crumbs which I found good in one of those cheap, boxed chicken soup mixes. I have some imitation crab legs, which apparently can be unrolled and stuffed with various things. I am wondering what will happen if I stuff a crab leg with Carl Budding meats.
Speaking of Carl Budding meats, a favorite memory of mine from last summer involved a few packages of Carl Budding, some cheese, a half empty bottle of port, some lucky strike cigarettes (non-filter, of course), Rosencratz, and a drunken viewing of one of my heady movies. A true sign of poverty is the ability to take cheap meats and create a platter that resembles a store bought art-meat party platter. Granted, the quality of meat was questionable, as well as the status of the meat, but the spirit of the platter as well as the aesthetic potential of it cannot be denied.
In any case, I was in a gas station looking for food. On the way to the gas station, I had determined that the way to salvation was in the ultimate processed meat product. I wanted something that would harden my arteries and give me slim chances of making it home without a coronary. I wanted a roller hot dog. The gas station didn't have any. I told the beleaguered cook that heaven was a processed meat product and because he didn't have any, he was denying me any chance of redeeming my soul and in the process, was condemning me to a healthy hell. He gave me a funny look. I stumbled back out into the night like a vampire fleeing crosses, or stinky breath. I wonder what the clerk thought of me, coming into the gas station about one in the morning demanding hot dogs for redemption. I should like to be a clerk, one day, just to see people like me and acquire pretty nifty stories. I bet I'm passed around like a cheap hooker, or a joint at a rasta party. Suddenly I feel used.
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Tonight is the SigEp Barn Dance. I am to dress like a hick. I lack hick clothes. I lack anything that resembles hick. That means I need to head to Goodwill to buy something flannel and hick-like. I asked my date, Ashley (Of gorgeous drunken post fame), if dressing hick means playing the part. She questioned what I meant by that. I told her that playing hick meant buckteeth, moonshine, bad country music, chaw, and fucking relations. Ashley told me that all of the above was acceptable, however, if I chose to fuck familial relations, we would have issues and I'd lose dancing rights. I don't think I'll be quite that hick. Besides, I don’t think hicks show with bottles of Muscatel, unless the label reads Boone's and Farm (Ah, this is a quality Boone's Farm vintage, of the '03 year. I think the grapes are a shitty variety and the wine was pressed at the Hormel Meats plant...)
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Hate to cut this short, baby, but I need to jump on the day. I think I’ll nap later, after putting my bed right.
Last night's drunken revelation was found in the dingy-mopped floors of some second rate gas station. A bit after midnight, I turned to a frat brother and told him that I was hungry. I immediately left and stumbled into the night in search of food. My larders have been empty these past weeks and my eating is starting to resemble the self-imposed poverty famines of late last summer. I guess that is fine, considering I ought to finish all my bread products before next week, but it has gotten to the point where the only food I have left is hamburger meat, a package of ramen, and some bread crumbs which I found good in one of those cheap, boxed chicken soup mixes. I have some imitation crab legs, which apparently can be unrolled and stuffed with various things. I am wondering what will happen if I stuff a crab leg with Carl Budding meats.
Speaking of Carl Budding meats, a favorite memory of mine from last summer involved a few packages of Carl Budding, some cheese, a half empty bottle of port, some lucky strike cigarettes (non-filter, of course), Rosencratz, and a drunken viewing of one of my heady movies. A true sign of poverty is the ability to take cheap meats and create a platter that resembles a store bought art-meat party platter. Granted, the quality of meat was questionable, as well as the status of the meat, but the spirit of the platter as well as the aesthetic potential of it cannot be denied.
In any case, I was in a gas station looking for food. On the way to the gas station, I had determined that the way to salvation was in the ultimate processed meat product. I wanted something that would harden my arteries and give me slim chances of making it home without a coronary. I wanted a roller hot dog. The gas station didn't have any. I told the beleaguered cook that heaven was a processed meat product and because he didn't have any, he was denying me any chance of redeeming my soul and in the process, was condemning me to a healthy hell. He gave me a funny look. I stumbled back out into the night like a vampire fleeing crosses, or stinky breath. I wonder what the clerk thought of me, coming into the gas station about one in the morning demanding hot dogs for redemption. I should like to be a clerk, one day, just to see people like me and acquire pretty nifty stories. I bet I'm passed around like a cheap hooker, or a joint at a rasta party. Suddenly I feel used.
------
Tonight is the SigEp Barn Dance. I am to dress like a hick. I lack hick clothes. I lack anything that resembles hick. That means I need to head to Goodwill to buy something flannel and hick-like. I asked my date, Ashley (Of gorgeous drunken post fame), if dressing hick means playing the part. She questioned what I meant by that. I told her that playing hick meant buckteeth, moonshine, bad country music, chaw, and fucking relations. Ashley told me that all of the above was acceptable, however, if I chose to fuck familial relations, we would have issues and I'd lose dancing rights. I don't think I'll be quite that hick. Besides, I don’t think hicks show with bottles of Muscatel, unless the label reads Boone's and Farm (Ah, this is a quality Boone's Farm vintage, of the '03 year. I think the grapes are a shitty variety and the wine was pressed at the Hormel Meats plant...)
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Hate to cut this short, baby, but I need to jump on the day. I think I’ll nap later, after putting my bed right.
posted by Jon at 11:12 AM
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