1. Thursday, December 30, 2004

    two years ago today 

    i was still in hell

    there are no days off in hell. no holidays. no personal days. no vacations but the kids like to keep a nice sense of humor so on mondays people stand around the coffee maker and ask each other how their weekends were.

    banged a cheerleader by the tire fire.

    sure she was a woman?

    i dont ask, they dont tell.

    everything ends up nightmarish anyway, so if you open your eyes and that playmate is really a mountain goat, it wouldnt suprise me. i dont want to say im jaded, i guess ive just grown used to the horrific hallucination that is this hellish afterlife.

    grits turn into maggots. beer turns into light beer. a vote for gore turns into a vote for bush.

    a lot of time if youre trying to eat a steak it’ll get right off the table and run back onto the carcass of the dead beast.

    and people really dont know how to cook anything medium-well here. it’s either rare or burnt.

    Heaven has all the best chefs.

    thanks to the xbi, on earth i never dreamed that much. here i dream all the time. its how they torture me. i’ll be in a meadow having a picnic with a french girl. the sun will be shining, the blanket will be spread out. the wicker basket is buldging with goodies. i uncork the wine without even a corkscrew. the wind is blowing out to left gently. no ants anywhere. no bees. no crows.

    shes naked.

    her girlfriend appears over the dale with an armful of freshly picked wildflowers. nude, except for her big floppy sunhat and a wet tshirt that says busblog.

    a string quartet comfortably sitting under a weeping willow goes through several of aerosmiths greatest hits, their melodies drifting away in the breeze.

    a mexican icecream man pushes his cart and rings his sleighbells and calls out in spanish that he has some sort of frozen treats.

    a lion lays down with a lamb

    and they rot in fast motion

    the mexican icecream man scoops up the mess and puts it into his cart, it freezes and he sells it to the children for seventy five cents.

    the french girl’s friend seems to be skipping closer to us but she never makes it over the dale.

    the quartet is playing Incubus.

    theres no food in the basket.

    the wine is non alcoholic.

    my breasts have developed.

    amy + zulieka + bloggers without borders + boz