I’m working four ten-hour shifts this week and today is my day off. Yeah, it sucks that it’s in the middle of the week, but we take turns taking off on Friday, and for some reason, we’re not supposed to take Monday off, thus I took today off.
I had planned on going to the farmer’s market today (no, this is not a repeat of Saturday’s entry, I was going to a different one in a suburb today), but I was sleeping the sleep of living dead girls everywhere and could not be bothered with the lure of fresh veggies and ruby red strawberries. Of course, now I’m regretting that whole thing, because all I’ve got to show for it is a drool-covered pillow. Note to self: must change sheets today.
Esteban does not have a day off and in a rare coincidence, is working out of the house today, so I’m here all by myself. I’m at a loss of what to do. I’d like to lounge around and rewatch ‘Bring It On’ or something fun, but then I’d be cursing my laziness later tonight. I definitely want to catch up on the laundry and get all of the garbage out to the curb (as that is All That Is Not Kitchen and has fallen to my responsibility, but not going there today), but at the same time, I’d like to scurry around town, spending money like a wild woman. Ah, such decisions. The plus side is that Esteban took the truck today, so I’m back in my cute sporty little Monte with the awesome stereo. And cup holders. And the little thing on the keyring that unlocks the door for me. God, how I love to be a spoiled diva.
That’s right. Bring it ON!
I’m so pleased with this here diary thing. I had originally started keeping it because I’m supposed to be writing more. I had gone months, nay years, with only writing technical stuff for work OR replies on HissyFit. Yesterday, I wrote two more poems. Not that I’m a poet, I consider myself a fiction/short story person, but poems seem to come easy. They are kind of like masterbation’. Just for yourself when you feel like it, not much thought put into it. Fiction is like sex’ short stories being quickies with strangers in convenience store bathrooms and novels being hot long-term relationship sex, where you both know just how to press each other’s buttons. And by ‘buttons’, I mean ‘naughty bits’.
Esteban had been harping at me to ‘Just write, dammit!’, but I, if you have not already figured it out from this here thing, am extremely lazy and unmotivated. Thus, writing in this diary every day has been an exercise in discipline. And it seems to be helping, so I’m so thankful. And I’m especially thankful to those of you who are actually READING this here thing, because sometimes you are what keeps me on task.
You like me! You REALLY like me!!!!! sobbbbb!
Um, ok. I’ll stop now.
So since I’m feeling all ‘writerly’ today, I thought I’d share my favorite poem of all time.
It’s about poop.
This should surprise NO ONE!!!!
However, I went looking for the book that had ‘Poop’ in it (‘The Maverick Poets’ I believe it’s called’ it had a black cover) and now I can’t find it. I believe it to be in Computer Room #1 which is where all my stuff has been’well, stuffed, but I had no luck finding it.
I did however, just purchase an entire book of Gerald Locklin’s poems. It doesn’t have ‘Poop’ in it, though. But here’s a different poem that I like also. Not as much as ‘Poop’, because it doesn’t have any reference to poop. But it’s pretty good.
a tyrant for our times
it’s in his novel ham on rye now
but I remember bukowski telling
a long time ago
how his father used to beat him.
and when he’d turn to his mother for help.
she would intone, ‘the father is always right.’
I liked the way it sounded
And so, even though I don’t beat my kids
I do like to tell them
‘the father is always right.’
They tell me to get fucked.
By Gerald Locklin from the firebird poems
It’s no ‘Poop’ but I like it.
Esteban just called and wants to take me to lunch. I suppose I must go get dressed now.
Mwah!
Have you seen these?
The quest for poop
Lazy days and Sundays always make me sleepy
Will taking amoxicillin get rid of my clematis?
It’s not over until your brother counts the votes
Feral Girl raised by wolves desires Rouge Pulp lipstick and some hair gel
Nothing but a gimmick, baby, just a gimmick
Magic 8 Ball says: It is unclear
All I want is a room somewhere… wouldn’t it be luverly?
