michele

my brother has a debut (de… boo!) album out. which really is more of a promotional cd to hand out to get more paying gigs. but if anyone else wants a copy, i could make one and give it to you. it’s free even. it’s like non-useful promotion being done on my part. he also wanted everyone who was involved in the pre-stylus-booth-at-coachella-being-a-fiasco to know that he was grateful for the support.

jacob and dianna’s new pad is the shiznitch. plus i’m quite fond of deadwood now. plus corn-pone (sp?) is the tastiest thing ever. plus i can’t believe i went from the party to my house and directly started writing on here. shit. that’s just lame.

but really i came to write because i realized something while i was parking and had to share. so. much like my random issues with things like the CH counter. i also have issues with having to park on the street in front of my house instead of in the driveway. once, for example, i did my brother’s algebra homework in order to have the driveway space for a whole month. i’m a freak. and i admit that. HOWEVER i think there might be a reason for this madness. see, here at my house we have some of the NOSIEST neighbors alive. and the thing is that they don’t DO ANYthing. they would just sit in their garage with the garage door open all day long and watch the street. once, they told jason after he had driven all the way from vegas that no one was at my house and he sat in his car for like half an hour even though i was inside the whole time. and the thing was that they did this, not on the basis of knowledge of whether anyone was home or not, but because they’d never seen jason before. therefore they just assumed that he was probably up to no good in the neighborhood and that our house and thier house and everybody’s houses needed to be protected from this unassuming, but potentially dangerous, jew. i have a point here. which is. if you park in the driveway you’re out in the open for less time where they can see you and talk to you and beckon you over than when you have to walk all the way down to the street to get in your car. then you’re practically across the street already and in thier clutches. i live my life trying to evade these people. currently, the TR-3, which remains un-saleable and broken, takes up the driveway space which could be mine full-time. i fucking hate that car at this point. and nothing is being done about it. which i also hate. why the fuck does it get the prime location when it’s never even used? why can’t it be on the street? i live in mortal dread of going out to my car. which, yes, is pathetic. but still.

summer of love & baseball 2002 has been uploaded to eloise. go check it out.

you should also make sure to enjoy the visual pleasure which is jacob’s bork pictures. which he put up and then failed to tell anyone about. i like to KNOW these things to be AWARE of them going on. =)

taken from this webpage

so the inflatable supermodels are playing next week and i want to go because being supportive is fun and i miss being a groupie. although i shudder to think what kind of ripping good time groupies the IS have already. but supportive you know. like a miracle bra. well, maybe not that supportive. those things make no sense, you know? ok maybe they do for small chested people, but drowning my face in my own cleavage hardly seems appealing to me. in fact it is possibly bad trailer trash taste. (why do we give trailer trash such a hard time?) besides, the myopic eye-opener of big-breasted-bouncing-babies in miracle bras there’s the cyst element to consider. because, ouchie. although at the same time that one cyst i had freshmen year in my elbow was the fucking coolest thing i’ve ever seen growing out of my own skin. it was the size of a golfball! and squishy! oh disgusting. plus it involved one of the most horrific doctor’s phrases of all (my) time, “well, about this, we can stick and suck it. that involves sticking it with a big needle and sucking out the pus.” although the procedure was tempting i decided that giving up the fascination of watching golfball-sized ligament issues was too great. it went away on its own anyway.

i’m kind of gross deep down you know. not even all that deep really (skin-deep. ho ho ho. ba-dum-ching.) i was actually kind of bitter in high school when scott harshman won the gutter-mind prize at that senior brunch thing. i could be so much dirtier than him.

P.S. sean- i know what you said about the rectum and everything. but then i was just kind of blurting things out this morning and…, yeah.

yesterday i went to get my hair cut. big deal, right? well when your hairdresser uses the phrase, “one of those long wet kisses that lasts you for a week.” haircutting suddenly gets a lot more exciting. certainly more risque.

her: so how’s erica?

me: good! she came over after she got her hair cut last to see my new couch!

her: you got a new couch? tell me everything!

me: (describes the couch and how much i love it.)

her: you know what couches are best for? you need to get yourself a boyfriend and bring him home to the couch to make out.

me: (kind of horrified by this turn in the conversation.) um, yeah.

her: you know what i mean, back when you’re young and just started dating and you can just make out on the couch for hours….

her eyes go a little fuzzy as she reminisces.

me: yeah. and then after a while you just stop making out because once you’ve had sex a lot and the honeymoon period is kind of over you reach that point in the relationship where making out doesn’t hold the same kind of allure as a quickie before bed.

her: doesn’t that just SUCK?

me: yeah.

her: those make outs were some of the best what with those long wet kisses that last you a whole week. and remember how it made your heart feel?

me: sigh. yeah.

the doll’s eyes were always following me. i thought that if i snipped them off–they were just buttons–that then i could gain a small measure of peace. but somehow she got ahold of the needle and thread and sewed her button eyes to the palms of her hands. She was then constantly walking up to me, arms thrust forward, offering up the eyes like a gift.

but they were a gift for which i had no desire, so i managed myself to ignore her. but then she started keening, and it was so high-pitched and overall loud* that my indifference to her predicament was worn down like a fucking mudslide.

desperate times and all that. while she was till berating the air like a banshee i picked out all the stitching in her side and pulled out the stuffing. the hole looked so lonely than, that i felt compelled to put a brick in and throw her in the river.

* sidenote: (fyi i was in class when i wrote this last night. drawing pictures seemed like an idle pastime exactly designed to stave off falling asleep.) sensei just said too(+) in a really ooki(#) voice and wrote it on the board. twice. he then proclaimed that we would all have nightmares. i don’t doubt it for a second.

+ too: (pronounced toe with a drawn out o) the counter for 10 for some small objects. there is a fucking million ways to count things in japanese and this only works for some things. like pieces of candy would be an example. it would not work for thin flat things like paper (counter = #+ mai) or cyclindrical things like coke cans (counter = # + hon/bon/pon depending on what the number is).

# ooki: (pronounced oooooh-key) BIG.