My dog, Javi, loves the sun. He has found a spot of it this morning on the carpet, in the living room, and he is languishing in it.
My blood sugar reading, upon rising, at 9am, this morning was 172. This is high. It shouldn't be higher than 140, at this point in the day. I woke up around 2am and fixed me a plate of chicken salad. I ate a whole breast doused heavily in mayonaise, and then I went outside and gourged on some peanuts; this is probably why it is high this early in the day.
The lawn work that I have been doing at Lovey Dovey's house has not only been making me very sore, but it has increased my hunger, also. I had basically given up middle of the night trips to the refrigerator, until last night. The chicken was one of those kind that you find under a heating lamp at the grocery store, all cooked and juicy, waiting for you to cut right into it, without having to pull plastic off of it, clean it, season it, and cook it. If I had had to do all that in order to make me some chicken salad, I probably would have gone back to bed instead.
I love the delis out here at the country grocery stores. Some days they server meatloaf, other days it is stuffed peppers and, yesterday, it was spaghetti with cheese toast. You can get you two or three vegetables with it, whichever you want to pay for.
Yesterday, I told the lady wearing the funny cap and plastic gloves, as she was serving up my spaghetti, that "this is my home cooking." She laughed.
"Yup," I said, my girlfriend cooked for the first two months of our relationship; now she don't cook no more." She laughed and said, "well, she was just trying to lure you in." I laughed.
Now let me state for the record, and before girlfriend reads this and gets all pissed off, that I don't mind eating out or having food delivered to the house; so my girlfriend is not a louse. Trust that I am well-fed, one way or another!
*****************
What time table are we really on, but the one that God sets for us? This thought came to mind, as I looked around and calculated what had to be done to complete this week of landscaping, that I have found myself in, here at my girlfriend's house.
Mainly, to close out the deal, I have piles of branches, leaves and dirt to pick up. I enjoyed creaint the pile more than I take to eliminating them. If love was here, I would try to take her into doing this part of the gig, like I was Huckleberry Finn, and her picking up the piles was some deal that we had made. Of course, I could just leave the piles and head back to the city, but that would make the job, and somehow, me also, incomplete.
Today, on the phone, I told my son what I had been doing all week, and how, at his age, I hated doing this kind of crap. My son said that he, too, at his age, didn't much care for it, so I know that I won't be able to talk him into making the hour and fifteen minute drive from city to country to come help me put these piles in lawn bags.
My dog Morisson is eating whole peanuts, today, shell and all. Gee, I wonder if I'm feeding him enough in the mornings. I throw the whole peanut to him, and he mostly catches them with his mouth, then sulks off to work on them. He seems to chew the whole peanut a bit, then spit it out, root through it for the peanut, and then go back and eat the shell. He won't eat strawberries, though. Javi will eat them though; whole strawberries with the green part cut off, half strawberries with the green part cut off, and he'll even eat the green part, if you toss it to him. Like I've said before, Javi is an eater!!
If I was doing this landscaping dog, errrr job, for money by the hour, somebody would have been on my ass, long ago, for going too slow, or because they were trying to figure out a way not to pay me at all.
The beauty of this gig, is that there is no cash involved; I'm doing this work because I love the woman who owns the house that all this landscaping is attached to. What if we break up? Well, I had this week didn't I, this beautiful week in the sun and in the shade doing something that I always thought that I would hate doing; and I have loved it! I cannot pay this woman back for this and I don't see us breaking up anytime soon. In a day less than two weeks, we will have been together for a year, and its been a long time, baby, since anyone has put up with me for that long.
Thursday, April 5, 2007
Wednesday, April 4, 2007
Scout puked in her grandmother's van, yesterday, in Florida, down by the beach, on Spring break, after eating shrimp that weren't fully cooked. Ah, the joys of Yahoo Instant Messenger; I learn things about my children, or at least this child, that would have escaped me otherwise.
------------
I just learned that my older dog, who will eat anything, will also eat peanut shells, which is rather convenient, don't you think, when I am eating peanuts? I can just throw the shells to the dog after I have gotten the yummy peanuts out from inside the nasty shell. The younger dog won't eat peanut shells and he won't eat peanuts that are still inside the shell, but he will eat the peanuts, themselves, once you have gone to the trouble of taking them out of the shell for him.
--------
I'm in the country, still. My still lingering, and not too subtley waiting to rise from not being fully dead, bad attitude and my perceptions of what her mother may be up to regarding me, haven't run me off of love's property yet. I almost split, but this lawnwork thing has somehow become addicting. It gives me kind of an artistic high to look back and see what I have done, how I have improved the property by raking, digging, cutting, planting and pulling. Did you hear that honey? I have improved the property. Smile.
The folks back home have nicknamed me "Lawnboy," in their emails, so I am "Lawnboy K," for the week.
Morisson, (the younger dog), woke me in the middle of the night. I swear that I heard voices coming from the kitchen, when he woke me up, but it turned out that it was thundering and lightening like a motherfucker outside. No wonder the dog was trembling and begging for me to wake and comfort him.
After I inspected the storm, I let the dog crawl into the bed with me. He was right; the storm was vicious. I would probably need the dog's comfort as much as he needed mine to get through this one.
A dog in my bed, or hers, these days, is an absolute no no. When I had the old mattress, thrown on the floor, that was already covered in holes, and dirt, my dog was welcome to lay down with me. That mattress is long gone and so, too, is my dog's permission to crash with me; except in this rare, rare exception. I mean the poor dog was up on his hind legs, digging his nose into my underarm to wake me last night. Poor thing. He doesn't much care for storms in the city, either.
NEXT IN THE DAILY K: Lawnboy K picks up more sticks than any man ever seen; and what has Graem Kinsella been up to in Florida on his spring break. The Daily K tries to get the normaly shut mouthed kid to talk.
------------
I just learned that my older dog, who will eat anything, will also eat peanut shells, which is rather convenient, don't you think, when I am eating peanuts? I can just throw the shells to the dog after I have gotten the yummy peanuts out from inside the nasty shell. The younger dog won't eat peanut shells and he won't eat peanuts that are still inside the shell, but he will eat the peanuts, themselves, once you have gone to the trouble of taking them out of the shell for him.
--------
I'm in the country, still. My still lingering, and not too subtley waiting to rise from not being fully dead, bad attitude and my perceptions of what her mother may be up to regarding me, haven't run me off of love's property yet. I almost split, but this lawnwork thing has somehow become addicting. It gives me kind of an artistic high to look back and see what I have done, how I have improved the property by raking, digging, cutting, planting and pulling. Did you hear that honey? I have improved the property. Smile.
The folks back home have nicknamed me "Lawnboy," in their emails, so I am "Lawnboy K," for the week.
Morisson, (the younger dog), woke me in the middle of the night. I swear that I heard voices coming from the kitchen, when he woke me up, but it turned out that it was thundering and lightening like a motherfucker outside. No wonder the dog was trembling and begging for me to wake and comfort him.
After I inspected the storm, I let the dog crawl into the bed with me. He was right; the storm was vicious. I would probably need the dog's comfort as much as he needed mine to get through this one.
A dog in my bed, or hers, these days, is an absolute no no. When I had the old mattress, thrown on the floor, that was already covered in holes, and dirt, my dog was welcome to lay down with me. That mattress is long gone and so, too, is my dog's permission to crash with me; except in this rare, rare exception. I mean the poor dog was up on his hind legs, digging his nose into my underarm to wake me last night. Poor thing. He doesn't much care for storms in the city, either.
NEXT IN THE DAILY K: Lawnboy K picks up more sticks than any man ever seen; and what has Graem Kinsella been up to in Florida on his spring break. The Daily K tries to get the normaly shut mouthed kid to talk.
Tuesday, April 3, 2007
I'm so glad; I got the flowers watered before it rained.
There are a great deal of branches scattered around the exterior of my lady's house, beneath bushes that I just trimmed with the clippers that I bought, last night. I feel like I do when I put in a good workout at the gym. My muscles ache, a bit, but there is this healthy glow to the feeling.
I hope that I have trimmed the bushes correctly; that is to the specific desires of my girlfriend. Honey Bunny is out of town for two weeks, so any imperfections that I imposed upon her bushes, while she is gone, should naturally work themselves out in that period of time. I figure that fucking up a bush is somewhat like cutting yourself shaving; the flaw on your face soon goes away, as it should with any imperfections that I have cast upon my love's landscaping.
I have got to get this package off in the mail, today, to the financial aid office at the art school that my son is considering attending in the fall. These people actually asked, on the form that they sent us, how my son and I live on such little money.
I laughed.
Doesn't the wealthy art school realize that there are still poor people out there; albeit some of them may be ones who have chosen to "starve" for their art"
In my letter to them, I told them that if their school was a four year holding ground for little rich kids, that if all they were after was money, that they should count my kid out; but that if they are looking for a raw artistic talent, in the form of a well-mannered young man, then they should find the means, i.e. the money, to allow my kid to go their school.
Seems simple enough to me.
----------------------------
Dear Love:
This was such a great day, until you just called, and said that your mommy said that I should put your car in the garage because it was going to hail, here in North Georgia, tonight. As I told you, before I hung up on you, your mommy doesn't run my life, as she all too often does yours. If it hails tonight, your vehicle and mine, will stand together, side by side, in the driveway taking whatever hard knocks that nature gives them, united like we should be, not listening to your mommy. How old are we now?
Thinking that your nosy old bitch of a mother is being driven by your house, by her caretaker, while you are out of town, so she can peek in on what is going on, while I am here playing your lawnboy, irritates me enough that I'll probably head out of here in the morning.
You are in California and she is still running your life, long distance. She won't run mine. I spent the day trimming your fucking bushes, raking your fucking flower beds, planting your fucking plants, changing your fucking lights in your fucking dimly lit garage and all I hear is that Mommy wants the car moved.
Fuck your mommy.
This is a lady who has three dogs in her house that shit inside and she doesn't pick it up herself. She lets her daughter pick it up. What a Queen.
There are a great deal of branches scattered around the exterior of my lady's house, beneath bushes that I just trimmed with the clippers that I bought, last night. I feel like I do when I put in a good workout at the gym. My muscles ache, a bit, but there is this healthy glow to the feeling.
I hope that I have trimmed the bushes correctly; that is to the specific desires of my girlfriend. Honey Bunny is out of town for two weeks, so any imperfections that I imposed upon her bushes, while she is gone, should naturally work themselves out in that period of time. I figure that fucking up a bush is somewhat like cutting yourself shaving; the flaw on your face soon goes away, as it should with any imperfections that I have cast upon my love's landscaping.
I have got to get this package off in the mail, today, to the financial aid office at the art school that my son is considering attending in the fall. These people actually asked, on the form that they sent us, how my son and I live on such little money.
I laughed.
Doesn't the wealthy art school realize that there are still poor people out there; albeit some of them may be ones who have chosen to "starve" for their art"
In my letter to them, I told them that if their school was a four year holding ground for little rich kids, that if all they were after was money, that they should count my kid out; but that if they are looking for a raw artistic talent, in the form of a well-mannered young man, then they should find the means, i.e. the money, to allow my kid to go their school.
Seems simple enough to me.
----------------------------
Dear Love:
This was such a great day, until you just called, and said that your mommy said that I should put your car in the garage because it was going to hail, here in North Georgia, tonight. As I told you, before I hung up on you, your mommy doesn't run my life, as she all too often does yours. If it hails tonight, your vehicle and mine, will stand together, side by side, in the driveway taking whatever hard knocks that nature gives them, united like we should be, not listening to your mommy. How old are we now?
Thinking that your nosy old bitch of a mother is being driven by your house, by her caretaker, while you are out of town, so she can peek in on what is going on, while I am here playing your lawnboy, irritates me enough that I'll probably head out of here in the morning.
You are in California and she is still running your life, long distance. She won't run mine. I spent the day trimming your fucking bushes, raking your fucking flower beds, planting your fucking plants, changing your fucking lights in your fucking dimly lit garage and all I hear is that Mommy wants the car moved.
Fuck your mommy.
This is a lady who has three dogs in her house that shit inside and she doesn't pick it up herself. She lets her daughter pick it up. What a Queen.
Monday, April 2, 2007
I pulled weeds for the first time in my life, a few minutes ago. Girlfriend is out taking it easy in California and she asked if I would mind watering her flowers while she was gone. She got a "yes" on this and then threw in "and if you could, would you pull the weeds on the patio and get the ant killer out of the garage and pour it on those ant hills that are out back?"
Funny, this is the kind of shit that I thought that I had avoided for life. (I'm 50 on June 20.)When I was a kid, I used to mow lawns, shovel snow from driveways and sidewalks, and rake lawns for a living; or rather for basketballs, tennis raquets, candy bars, cokes and Converse All Stars.
Pulling the weeds wasn't all that bad. I actually found it a bit meditative. Making sure that I got the whole root with each weed that I pulled was my goal. The dogs added another element to my weed pulling, bringing their tennis balls up to me, as I sat on the patio pulling, so that I could throw the balls for them.
Last week, I told girlfriend that, if she bought a lawn mower, I would cut her grass for her. I must be hallucinating. What can be next?
Perhaps, though, it is like Eddie Albert used to say on the tv show, "Green Acres," "Country living is the life for me."
I have lived in the city since 1982. Pulling a weed or two and mowing the lady's lawn certainly can't hurt me, now can it?
----------------------
My backup hard drive is making some weird noises right now. It is 10:30pm. I was sure that I had changed the time for the hard drive to do its daily backup to around 4am, when I most certainly would be sleeping and wouldn't hear any noises at all. When I'm at my apartment, I have three sources of white noise that I mostly use to drown out the sounds of the city. The fan in the wall unit air conditioner is never turned off. My c pap machine is turned on every night that I go to sleep; it makes quiet a comforting whir noise. My portable heater has a fan setting. It is quite raucous, so raucous that I turn it off the first thing upon waking. It helps me fall asleep at night, but would bother me if I left it running all day.
My girlfriend recently bought a blindfold. Before you get all excited, it is the kind that you use for eliminating sunshine and getting some daytime sleep, not the kind that you use for tieing her up and spanking her, though I guess they could be used for that. I was going to make the point that isn't it funny all the devices that I have at my disposal to drown out the sounds of my neighbors in the city, so I can get a good night's sleep, but now I've gotten sidetracked. Thank God one of the dogs is indicating that he has to go, so I need to go. Bye.
Funny, this is the kind of shit that I thought that I had avoided for life. (I'm 50 on June 20.)When I was a kid, I used to mow lawns, shovel snow from driveways and sidewalks, and rake lawns for a living; or rather for basketballs, tennis raquets, candy bars, cokes and Converse All Stars.
Pulling the weeds wasn't all that bad. I actually found it a bit meditative. Making sure that I got the whole root with each weed that I pulled was my goal. The dogs added another element to my weed pulling, bringing their tennis balls up to me, as I sat on the patio pulling, so that I could throw the balls for them.
Last week, I told girlfriend that, if she bought a lawn mower, I would cut her grass for her. I must be hallucinating. What can be next?
Perhaps, though, it is like Eddie Albert used to say on the tv show, "Green Acres," "Country living is the life for me."
I have lived in the city since 1982. Pulling a weed or two and mowing the lady's lawn certainly can't hurt me, now can it?
----------------------
My backup hard drive is making some weird noises right now. It is 10:30pm. I was sure that I had changed the time for the hard drive to do its daily backup to around 4am, when I most certainly would be sleeping and wouldn't hear any noises at all. When I'm at my apartment, I have three sources of white noise that I mostly use to drown out the sounds of the city. The fan in the wall unit air conditioner is never turned off. My c pap machine is turned on every night that I go to sleep; it makes quiet a comforting whir noise. My portable heater has a fan setting. It is quite raucous, so raucous that I turn it off the first thing upon waking. It helps me fall asleep at night, but would bother me if I left it running all day.
My girlfriend recently bought a blindfold. Before you get all excited, it is the kind that you use for eliminating sunshine and getting some daytime sleep, not the kind that you use for tieing her up and spanking her, though I guess they could be used for that. I was going to make the point that isn't it funny all the devices that I have at my disposal to drown out the sounds of my neighbors in the city, so I can get a good night's sleep, but now I've gotten sidetracked. Thank God one of the dogs is indicating that he has to go, so I need to go. Bye.
It's 10:38am. I'm on the road to Demorest. I've got the dirty laundry basket with me, my meds, my c pap machine, and the thing that I never forget, my laptop. The ride from Atlanta to Demorest, city to country, my apartment to girlfriend's house, is about an hour and fifteen minutes. My Ghetto PCS phone, as some nickname it, will work until I hit Gainseville, Ga. I often use this time, this stretch of highway to reach out and touch, via phone, friends who I don't often talk to while wound in the hustle and bustle of my ordinary day activities.
Nobody, I know will be available at 10:38; they will either be asleep or at work. Most of them will be asleep.
I pulled into the Caribou coffee house in Midtown before I hit the road. I needed beans and Java Lords was short on them, last night, when I stopped by there to score. I asked the guy behind the counter at Caribou which pound of coffee that he liked best; there were two choices, this morning. The young man said that he liked the Costa Rican, so I layed it on the counter, said thanks, and ordered a cappuccino. I like the Caribou cappuccinos; they put four shots of expreso in them. Starbucks only puts in two. Caribou has this system where you can get a card that attaches to your key chain and you can put money on it to use it for future coffee visits. Beyond that, you can set it up where, if you hit a certain level of cash on your card, they will automatically hit your credit card up and rejuvinate your coffee card. You can't put a tip on this card, though and I thought that I only had a twenty; the guy couldn't get into the register to break it, so that I could drop a one or two in the tip cup. He didn' have a key, so I routed through my wallet, found a five, and put it in the tip cup.
This earned me a big smile from the man who had just help me choose the coffee beans for my home, and from the guy working with him. The guy working with him said, "make his extra special!"
I don't relate this incident to you to share with you what a great man I am. I relate it to you to show you that tipped employees should be tipped well, if they do a good job, if they exhibit a good attitude. I used to bitch about all the big businesses that weren't paying their employees enough, while they raked in huge profits, and they expectes us, the customers, to pay their emmployees' salaries via tips. Have you ever know a poor restaurant owner? Why is it that they can't pay their waiters and waitresses a fair wage? Why must the server rely on the customer for their bread and butter.
Anyway, me bitching about how bad big corporations suck does absolutely no good for anyone. Putting an extra buck or two in the coffee cup at the coffee shop does.
------------------------
Nobody, I know will be available at 10:38; they will either be asleep or at work. Most of them will be asleep.
I pulled into the Caribou coffee house in Midtown before I hit the road. I needed beans and Java Lords was short on them, last night, when I stopped by there to score. I asked the guy behind the counter at Caribou which pound of coffee that he liked best; there were two choices, this morning. The young man said that he liked the Costa Rican, so I layed it on the counter, said thanks, and ordered a cappuccino. I like the Caribou cappuccinos; they put four shots of expreso in them. Starbucks only puts in two. Caribou has this system where you can get a card that attaches to your key chain and you can put money on it to use it for future coffee visits. Beyond that, you can set it up where, if you hit a certain level of cash on your card, they will automatically hit your credit card up and rejuvinate your coffee card. You can't put a tip on this card, though and I thought that I only had a twenty; the guy couldn't get into the register to break it, so that I could drop a one or two in the tip cup. He didn' have a key, so I routed through my wallet, found a five, and put it in the tip cup.
This earned me a big smile from the man who had just help me choose the coffee beans for my home, and from the guy working with him. The guy working with him said, "make his extra special!"
I don't relate this incident to you to share with you what a great man I am. I relate it to you to show you that tipped employees should be tipped well, if they do a good job, if they exhibit a good attitude. I used to bitch about all the big businesses that weren't paying their employees enough, while they raked in huge profits, and they expectes us, the customers, to pay their emmployees' salaries via tips. Have you ever know a poor restaurant owner? Why is it that they can't pay their waiters and waitresses a fair wage? Why must the server rely on the customer for their bread and butter.
Anyway, me bitching about how bad big corporations suck does absolutely no good for anyone. Putting an extra buck or two in the coffee cup at the coffee shop does.
------------------------
I think that it was the older dog who woke me, this morning. He often does, as he often has to take care of business, immediately, the first thing in the morning. As I walked across the living room to get his leash, I looked down our hallway, as I do, every morning, when I wake, and looked at the bottom of my son's closed bedroom door to see if the light was on yet. I immediately realized that the light would not be on, this morning and would not be on all week, as my son was in Florida with friends for spring break.
It is funny, the little things that give me comfort. Seeing that light on at the bottom of my boy's door in the morning gives me a great comfort; it lets me know that my son is alive and well and that my son is in that room getting ready to start his day. My boy is growing up so fast; I fully realize that someday, soon, he won't be turning on that light, in that room, at the end of that hallway; he will be turning a light on somewhere else; in a college dorm, in a house with roommates, in a home with a wife or girlfriend.
I need to fully enjoy each minute of each day that that light is turned on, that that young man is in that room, soon headed down the hallway to say "good morning," and "good bye," to his father, as he heads out the front door to his Senior year of high school.
-----------------------
I recieved a My Space message, this morning, that said, "I'm sorry that you hate God." Some people can't read. I don't hate God. I don't believe in organized religion and I don't trust Catholic priests, Christian ministers or zealot Muslims. I believe in live and let live and I don't like you shoving your God up my buttocks. I have my own special one on one relationship with my higher power; and I like it that way. I don't need guidance in my dialogue with the Lord. He or she and I get along just fine without the assistance of men who want you to put money in their basket for turning you onto their God.
I start every day by saying, "Thank you, Lord, for letting me see the air of a new day, breath the air of a new day. Guide me in thought, word and action, Lord, thy will be done not mine, thy will be done not mine. Please keep me off of drugs, alcohol and cigarettes." I then pray for every family member and anyone else who I can think of who might need a little prayer to get them through their day here on earth or get them through their day in heaven.
I don't pray prescribed prayers.
You can and I won't hate you for it.
To each their own, baby.
Dig?
It is funny, the little things that give me comfort. Seeing that light on at the bottom of my boy's door in the morning gives me a great comfort; it lets me know that my son is alive and well and that my son is in that room getting ready to start his day. My boy is growing up so fast; I fully realize that someday, soon, he won't be turning on that light, in that room, at the end of that hallway; he will be turning a light on somewhere else; in a college dorm, in a house with roommates, in a home with a wife or girlfriend.
I need to fully enjoy each minute of each day that that light is turned on, that that young man is in that room, soon headed down the hallway to say "good morning," and "good bye," to his father, as he heads out the front door to his Senior year of high school.
-----------------------
I recieved a My Space message, this morning, that said, "I'm sorry that you hate God." Some people can't read. I don't hate God. I don't believe in organized religion and I don't trust Catholic priests, Christian ministers or zealot Muslims. I believe in live and let live and I don't like you shoving your God up my buttocks. I have my own special one on one relationship with my higher power; and I like it that way. I don't need guidance in my dialogue with the Lord. He or she and I get along just fine without the assistance of men who want you to put money in their basket for turning you onto their God.
I start every day by saying, "Thank you, Lord, for letting me see the air of a new day, breath the air of a new day. Guide me in thought, word and action, Lord, thy will be done not mine, thy will be done not mine. Please keep me off of drugs, alcohol and cigarettes." I then pray for every family member and anyone else who I can think of who might need a little prayer to get them through their day here on earth or get them through their day in heaven.
I don't pray prescribed prayers.
You can and I won't hate you for it.
To each their own, baby.
Dig?
Sunday, April 1, 2007
I'm partying tonight. I'm on my second bottle of sugar-free black cherry soda. I've had my sushi and I've drank four or five glasses of spring water with lemon freshly squeezed into the cup at my own hands. I'm high; as high as I can get: happiness, for me, these days, doesn't come at the end of a bong, or from a bottle of bourbon or a line or twenty of speed and or coke. I'm clean and serene, and happy as hell about it. I won't black out tonight and wind up in the drunk tank, covered in blood and puke.
Praise the Lord. I give thanks to my higher power. You don't have to get drunk tonight, baby.
----------------
I'm alone tonight. Both of the younger kids are in Florida; the older kid is finishing his hip hop cd and girlfriend is in California for a few weeks. Of course, I still have the dogs and the cat. And Sylvia.
----------------
The Sylvia that I said, earlier, that I was sleeping with, tonight, because my girlfriend is out of town is the poet and writer, Sylvia Plath. I'm curled underneath the covers with her phenomenal book, "The Bell Jar." This book reads kind of like "The Catcher In The Rye," only the pace is faster, the author's vision is clearer; no small feat: I love "The Cathcher In The Rye."
I love you too, baby. You don't have to get drunk tonight.
Praise the Lord. I give thanks to my higher power. You don't have to get drunk tonight, baby.
----------------
I'm alone tonight. Both of the younger kids are in Florida; the older kid is finishing his hip hop cd and girlfriend is in California for a few weeks. Of course, I still have the dogs and the cat. And Sylvia.
----------------
The Sylvia that I said, earlier, that I was sleeping with, tonight, because my girlfriend is out of town is the poet and writer, Sylvia Plath. I'm curled underneath the covers with her phenomenal book, "The Bell Jar." This book reads kind of like "The Catcher In The Rye," only the pace is faster, the author's vision is clearer; no small feat: I love "The Cathcher In The Rye."
I love you too, baby. You don't have to get drunk tonight.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
