behold... problems!:
you know those pictures of you, yes you do, the ones where you're young and runny-nosed and naked, holding a broom? the ones that you hope no one will ever, ever see? if pictures were purely personal then they wouldn't be so unfortunate; unfortunately, your pictures are meant for everyone else. and so are mine, except for the ones I can't throw away, the ones where I'm rolling around on the floor drunk. gosh, but those should be the pictures that you see. and oh boy, there are some bad ones. I am proud of: my mom was a swimming instructress for years and years, so I was swimming when I was about one, I am embarrassed of: the pictures of me swimming naked. and oh my goodness, I was hideous when I was thirteen. and hopelessly inept. and I was mean! I think I slapped my sisters a few times and I was always telling them that they were brats. but... but. it's four in the morning, I never sleep anymore, I leap out of bed after a few hours of sleep with unparalleled zest, or at least agitation. there's so much I need to do: write, write, evaluate magical bones re: my future, move to another country, finish school, settle down, simmer down. and I'm looking for a new job! or I could put some girls on the streets? you decide! my life is actually a choose your own adventure novel! the world is yours!
it's summertime, the gay grassy green expanse of my backyard, the trees wilting over my barn, my beautiful, bowing barn. There used to be homeless anarchists living in there, seven of them, and although I found the matresses where they slept, no one has helped me figure out where they relieved themselves. it remains a maddening mystery, a delicately distasteful thought. but how they expressed themselves, those fanciful scamps! the anarchy symbols prompted more than a few phone calls to our exceptionally eccentric landlady, who begs and pleads with me to attend church with her everytime I am forced to talk to her. uggh. I would not mind offending my neighbors if they were banal, but my neighbors are just so gosh darn cool. Jeff and Ginger have records lining the fence between us, and so sometimes I will play aphex twin very loudly, if they are listening to elliott smith really loudly, and we make music together, it's this game we play, I think. or maybe they hate me?
fade to mysterious dream sequence
"I hate listening to aphex twin at four o' clock in the morning! and that dog is always trying to eat elliott, oh poor baby, come here you poor thing..." Jeff roles his eyes in agreement as Elliott pounces on Ginger and buries his head in her neck. "there's always people over there and they always talk to us forever. and they always invite the mailman inside and they talk really loud. it's driving me insane. let's move in with my mother." Ginger loves this idea, as she is sweet and spunky and gets along even with the most crotchety of Jeff's inlaws.
yes, it is nice at Jeff and Ginger's, but you can't stay, you must listen to more inane banner, and I must trot off to my respective Charles Dickens novel.
it's my allergy medication that's doing this to me, I swear. it's all of that psuedoephadrin that effects me like speed. speaking of which, I overheard the most fascinating conversation earlier blah blah blah, blah blah...
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