five

so, tonight i'm a skosh on edge. (yes, i typed 'skosh'. i like it. it's my word. deal. embrace.whatever.) tonight i don't like football. tonight i don't like the fact that all i can do is read about mescaline instead of being on mescaline. (ok, i don't really want to be on mescaline; i just don't like the fact that i don't have the option of dosing mescaline if i want.) i don't like that it's 21 degrees outside. i don't like that part of my buttermilk pie is more like buttermilk cake. i don't like that my concentrated packets of evil, otherwise known as beale and bourbon, fucking insist on fouling the litterbox 8 seconds after i've cleaned it (especially beale; goddamn instigator.) i don't like my alcohol withdrawals. i don't like dusting. i don't like it when cc's is too fucking packed and i can't read my book, forcing me to go to goddamn starbucks, because starbucks has that annoying ass girl in there that treats every drive in order as an audition for broadway. "goooooood evening..... welllllcome to starrrrrbucks. what can we start you OFF with toniiiiggghhhtt?" that's every.single.time, same tune, same inflection, same everything. just kill me. you know the 'throw a brick at her head' theory? i created it for people like her.

what should i do about it? first, let me move bourbon from my chest so i can actually type without eating tufts of cat hair. well, i could just stop bitching and seek the river, but the river's a little shallow tonight. beer wouldn't work, and i'm weaning myself off that stuff anyway. sleep is out b/c hell, it's only 8:11, and seriously, i'm not going to bed at 8:11. or 8:12, as it is now.

i could put my lists on paper, i suppose, but shouldn't i wait for one of those inspired moments? i could write- wait, that's what i'm doing now. moron. music? eh, it would end up with morrison, and you don't want to mix morrison with unsettled b/c that leads to vodka.

so just chalk it up to me being a malcontent. in a good way though-- not in one of those moods where i suck the life out of everything and trees die when i pass (sort of like that tree outside my office window). tonight i'd probably be funny to be around because i'm riffing on everything rather than sitting in a darkened room like some freakish goth kid. just don't come by, b/c i hate the pop-in. so what i'm saying is that if i didn't happen to be completely neurotic, you could drop by and my angst wouldn't kill you, just make you glad you were you. and that's a public service, kids.