First thing, any writer who uses the terms “pretty” and “nice” needs to be shot in the forehead with a slaw burger. Nice? Nice? I just swallowed my third lung and called the housekeeper. I kneecap that prose. I fling. I hurl (all meanings). Who writes that?
I write like Carrot Top comedians (wow a noun into a verb! What’s next I say that I bulldozed my way through the nacho buffet?)–ah, the sadness, gimmicks, a bit of hype, a Dominoes Pizza costume, but basically he sucks like me.
Whao! I don’t think he’s just shooting up carrot juice! And what is the advantage of being buff when a shitty comedian? Maybe hecklers in the alley will hesitate to beat your ass? I don’t think it’s just narcissism. Hollywood eats and excretes narcissism all up in 6 months. To attract women? A third rate comedian and a really buff guy get exactly the same level of women. He’s being redundant.
Well, fuck Carrot Top. Can you imagine his face when his agent suggested that moniker? Like when Mellencamp sat there on a black leather couch and was told his name was now cougar. Cougar?
And fuck qualifiers, adverbs, people who don’t know how to tip bartenders or roulette dealers, people who drink Corona in the winter, people who do not turn right on red, people who give toys or apples or Christian fliers during Halloween. People who skip class then show up later and ask, “Did we do anything?”
No, naturally, no we did not. We sat here for a hour without you and meditated to Enya.
I am about to ignite a rant, but feel too tired.
But I digress.
The FAM is in a NICE hotel tonight , kids. I drove too late, on too much caffeine, just obsessed to “put in miles,” to scurry back home, to press things as they say, and found myself and all my responsibilities up way too late, too lost, in a fog of ashy darkness, caffeine withdrawal, adult weight. I was crashing. I yelled out, “We are stopping! This is America!”
We are in Pennsylvania, between a coal plant and a bail bondsman. Birds cough outside our window. The air has chunks in it, like poorly smashed potatoes. When I asked if a room was available, the man behind the glass cage (wires embedded) said, “One hour or two?”
Several “Ladies of the Night” are in the lobby, just slouching there. They look uglily beautiful and bored and hungry at the same time, like maybe one of those deranged lions at the zoo, sans pacing. One of them has hair the hue of bile and is the size of the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man, same Whip-It nitrous oxide grin.
If traveling alone, I might say hi to her and then somersault away.
But probably not.
Here is the bathroom door handle. Think anyone locked themselves inside recently to avoid a meat cleaver?
Here is the blood stain on the floor.
Here is my life, 2night, a Saturday, named after Saturn, god of agriculture, of domesticated growth. It must be my life. I see beer, infant formula, a laptop, the Star of Bethlehem radiating from my engorged aorta.
I love 14!!!!!!
Thank you Katrina Kymberly NGUYEN
Loves u all. Some day I’ll be back in Indiana. So. I’ll be back, in Indiana. So. So. So.