Tags: trapped in the closet


rhyming tesco with al fresco

things need done.

finished "abundance" yesterday, after making an obnoxious mess over the final chapter, entitled "the death of marie antoinette" (i.e. 'WTF HAPPENS? ZOMFG MARIE ANTOINETTE DIES? NO WAY. NO. WAY. GEE, WONDER HOW IT HAPPENS? STING RAY?").

i kinda feel like how i do when i get out of a really bad relationship, as in i want to write to the author (oh fucking DEAL, i don't recall her name right now) and ask her if she could possibly send me a check for the last four days of my life back.

i also found it really fucking amusing that, throughout the book, marie antoinette insists that her friends call her "toin". because i then think of the true superhuman with the same name, twan, from trapped in the closet, and wonder if maybe marie "toin" antoinette didn't survive the guillotine in a fashion similar to her namesake surviving being fucking SHOT and then turning the bullet into vital nutrients.

(ah, trapped in the closet. so good, so esoteric, so delightful, so delovely. totally gonna fucking make lucy watch that while she's here. god bless hip-hopera.)

Poll #839759 toin vs twan

which toin/twan is the TOIN/TWANEREST?

trapped in the closet twan
marie "toin" antoinette
don't give me that mack shit, please
dunno, but "toin" fuckin' KNOWS chuck and rufus.
cathy? i thought your name was mary. that's what you said at the party. this is gettin' scary. I'MA SHOOT SOMEBODY!

i also started reading the new cormack "my ex wife lived next to suzan perin eraslan, because if there's one thing SPE collects it's famous people's ex-es, (see also: whatsherfuck aka not kristin hersh)" mccarthy, "the road". which, thus far, is exactly what i've always wanted-an apocalyptic zombie novel without the stupid zombies.

(no offense meant to you zombie people out there.)

but it's bleak, stark, and empty, and other than the unfortunate fact that the cover font is the EXACT SAME AS THAT OF KEROUAC'S "ON THE ROAD" (meaning i will have to deal with neohippie bearded animal collective hackysackers saying shit like "man, that kerouac was somethin' else, man, elseman he wouldn't be a legend, man, 'specially when he wrote about the jazz man blowin'. it's like, you can actually HEAR that jazz man blow, man, he could blow man, blow, man, yeah, man, it's like he was a cool man, real cool man, yeah, cool,...man."), it's really almost too emotionally loaded for me to be all right. it's what people always claim hemingway did when he was writing about, you know, fishing, and father/son shit. i'm 30 pages in and kinda just want to die in between the pages.

anyway. i am re-arranging my room and need to continue with that.

greek-fest break-down immediately followed by post-greek fest breakdown. i am approaching being able to breathe.


imagine if there was a fat italian dude named Al Fredo.

no, that's all, really, just imagine it. he'd probably wear a stained white hanes under-shirt and smell of prosciutto and broken dreams of an america where there's no cats and the streets are paved with wait i am confusing italians with fievel again.