it's 10:46 pm, on February 09, 2005 - he drinks slowly like it's holy.
~
I don't know how I feel about this:
� Bryant is the one that you love.
� Mel is one you like but can't work out.
� You care most about Al.
� Shauna is the one who knows you very well.
� Paul is your lucky star.
� lust for life is the song that matches with Bryant.
� For Today is the song for Mel.
� hello city is the song that tells you most about YOUR mind.
� and god drinks at the sando is the song telling you how you feel about life
I'm not sure what to make of this, although I do like God Drinks at the Sando. let's not think about what this harbor town is waist deep and sinking fast says about me. The oddest part is definitely that Paul from work is my lucky star. Discuss.
--
The other quiz I took today, care of Alestar, told me that I'm the kind of hipster that wants to die and be reborn as Jack Kerouac. I really don't know what to think about that, since I think Kerouac is kind of a fraud.
Which reminds me - I bought the portable beat reader for fifteen dollars yesterday. It was the last of my money. I no longer have a way to eat lunch tomorrow, but I have exerpts from all the stars in Allen Ginsberg's sky, including Neal Cassidy. In all the years of profiling these men, I haven't read hardly anything fictional they've done, just their letters and personal journal entries. I too am a fraud.
What else can I tell you?
Last night I went out after work and I think I tried to explain how income tax was taken off our salaries to a German girl, lady really, after four pitchers. this was, as one might imagine, a bad idea, because all I know is that the magic cutoff number for the salaries I'm looking at is $35,000, and that my mother does the rest.
of course, the same night I discussed arctic air travel with the architect that used to live in Iqaluit, Nunavet. If you don't know where that is, I can help - it's Inuit for "hell froze over, and got worse".
--
there are these vague disquieted thoughts, but nothing corporeal. Nothing will come out and announce itself, as usual, so I'm left in the metaphorical and literal dark, sitting with my forehead frowning but not knowing why. it's all a conspiracy, I tell you, my brain is witholding evidence. They've got my thighs and muscles in on it, even - they've been aching like I pulled a tendon somehow, though lord knows how *that* might have happened.
I'll tell you how it happened - my brain put a lean on them, and those fuckers caved like the pieces of soft tissue they really are. Teach me to rely on my own body mass. Sinuses yesterday, tendons today, ribcage tomorrow. I'm just saying, when I have a stroke or develop a brain tumor, we'll all know why.
God drinks at the sando these days, he drinks slowly like it's holy from a glass that always looks half full.
~
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