Friday, January 24, 2003
"Let me tell you something, sweetheart: when you come back from lunch and you find that your precious Chicago Manual of Style smells like urine, yeah, it's mine."
Typical conversation between me and my dog when he misbehaves in some way:
A: You are so stupid! Your life is so simple, and yet you still manage to fuck it up!
B: ...
A: Aw, you're so cute! Who's Daddy's precious little man?! It's you! You're the precious little man! Rub the belly!
Typical conversation between me and my dog when he misbehaves in some way:
A: You are so stupid! Your life is so simple, and yet you still manage to fuck it up!
B: ...
A: Aw, you're so cute! Who's Daddy's precious little man?! It's you! You're the precious little man! Rub the belly!
Thursday, January 23, 2003
I'm writing a new self-help weight loss book called Shame Yourself Thin, featuring insightful chapters like "You Weigh How Much?!," "Look at Yourself. You're Disgusting.," and "Keep Eating Like That, and No One Will Ever Love You. Is That What You Want?"
Tuesday, January 21, 2003
I am so unimpressed with your boyfriend.
Monday, January 20, 2003
the rice cooker knows me better than anyone else...
Sunday, January 19, 2003
Nice guy + silly name = beautiful poem
"passersby"
by Big Poppa E
i am the one on the bus you shoulder past every morning on your way to work, the one who's reading your favorite book.
i am the one walking in the rain as you drive past and think to yourself how glad you are to be in a car instead of outside in the rain.
i am the waitress with the sniffly nose you didn't tip because you thought i took too long getting the lemon for your herb tea even though i apologized and didn't charge you for the tea because i thought you were cute.
i am the voice of the telemarketer who called at dinner time, the one you hung up on in mid-sentence, the one who had more things in common with you than anyone you have ever met or will ever meet, the one who you'll never come in contact with again for as long as you live.
i am the temp who closes her eyes and breathes the scent of your hair conditioner as you pass her in the hallway at work.
i am the 76-year-old woman who drove so slowly in front of you on the freeway that you cursed at her and honked at her and drove angrily past her, the one you would've fallen madly and deeply in love with had you met her when she was 17 when she was a dancer and a poet.
i am the small woman with pale blue eyes who purchased a carton of orange juice and a bagel every weekday morning at your cafe on her way to work for a year who got another job and moved away one day, the one you thought of as "the oj girl," the one you saw again years later while walking through a crowded airport in lexington, kentucky, but didn't recognize, the one who saw you and thought, "oh, the bagel guy."
i am the man who lived in the apartment next to yours for three years, the one who slept with his head inches from your own every night separated by a hand's breadth of drywall, wood, and space, the one you never met because he got off work thirty minutes before you did, the one whose newspaper you borrowed every morning, read over breakfast, then carefully placed back in the plastic sack and returned to his front door as you left for work, the one with the cd collection nearly identical to your own.
i am your third grade sweetheart gazing out a bus window at an airplane passing thousands of feet overhead, the one who wonders whatever became of that little boy who would chase her around the jungle gym, the one who sighs deeply and turns back to her magazine as you gaze out the window of an airplane at the white roof of a bus stuck in traffic thousands of feet below and think about what airline meal to order, the chicken or the beef.
i am the cable guy, the pizza guy, your mom's next door neighbor, the landlord, the counter girl, the mechanic, the cop, the paperboy, the exotic dancer at the all-nude strip club, everyone you've ever stood behind in lines, cut off in traffic, spoken with over the phone, dated, loved and lost, sat next to in a movie theatre, walked past on the sidewalk, taken a piss next to in subway bathrooms, purchased lattes from, whose lawns you mowed when you were a kid, who filled your tank, who rang you up, who changed your tire, who gave you a flier while walking on sixth street.
we pass within inches of you every single day.
we have so many stories to tell.
and you will never know any of them.
"passersby"
by Big Poppa E
i am the one on the bus you shoulder past every morning on your way to work, the one who's reading your favorite book.
i am the one walking in the rain as you drive past and think to yourself how glad you are to be in a car instead of outside in the rain.
i am the waitress with the sniffly nose you didn't tip because you thought i took too long getting the lemon for your herb tea even though i apologized and didn't charge you for the tea because i thought you were cute.
i am the voice of the telemarketer who called at dinner time, the one you hung up on in mid-sentence, the one who had more things in common with you than anyone you have ever met or will ever meet, the one who you'll never come in contact with again for as long as you live.
i am the temp who closes her eyes and breathes the scent of your hair conditioner as you pass her in the hallway at work.
i am the 76-year-old woman who drove so slowly in front of you on the freeway that you cursed at her and honked at her and drove angrily past her, the one you would've fallen madly and deeply in love with had you met her when she was 17 when she was a dancer and a poet.
i am the small woman with pale blue eyes who purchased a carton of orange juice and a bagel every weekday morning at your cafe on her way to work for a year who got another job and moved away one day, the one you thought of as "the oj girl," the one you saw again years later while walking through a crowded airport in lexington, kentucky, but didn't recognize, the one who saw you and thought, "oh, the bagel guy."
i am the man who lived in the apartment next to yours for three years, the one who slept with his head inches from your own every night separated by a hand's breadth of drywall, wood, and space, the one you never met because he got off work thirty minutes before you did, the one whose newspaper you borrowed every morning, read over breakfast, then carefully placed back in the plastic sack and returned to his front door as you left for work, the one with the cd collection nearly identical to your own.
i am your third grade sweetheart gazing out a bus window at an airplane passing thousands of feet overhead, the one who wonders whatever became of that little boy who would chase her around the jungle gym, the one who sighs deeply and turns back to her magazine as you gaze out the window of an airplane at the white roof of a bus stuck in traffic thousands of feet below and think about what airline meal to order, the chicken or the beef.
i am the cable guy, the pizza guy, your mom's next door neighbor, the landlord, the counter girl, the mechanic, the cop, the paperboy, the exotic dancer at the all-nude strip club, everyone you've ever stood behind in lines, cut off in traffic, spoken with over the phone, dated, loved and lost, sat next to in a movie theatre, walked past on the sidewalk, taken a piss next to in subway bathrooms, purchased lattes from, whose lawns you mowed when you were a kid, who filled your tank, who rang you up, who changed your tire, who gave you a flier while walking on sixth street.
we pass within inches of you every single day.
we have so many stories to tell.
and you will never know any of them.
Labels: Poems I Like
Why does "blithe" sound like a disease?
Sometimes when I'm frustrated with my job, or my finances, or my social life, or just life in general, I like to play a fun little game with my dog to help me feel better. It's called "Kick the Pug in the Face."
And now a reading from The Blog of Pain!:
"I didn't go in straight away, I stood lurking outside with my collar turned up, hiding to get a better view. I thought, If she calls the police, it's only what I deserve. But she wouldn't call the police, she'd take her pearl-handled revolver from the glass decanter and shoot me through the heart. At the post-mortem they'll find an enlarged heart and no guts."
- Jeanette Winterson, Written on the Body
Sometimes when I'm frustrated with my job, or my finances, or my social life, or just life in general, I like to play a fun little game with my dog to help me feel better. It's called "Kick the Pug in the Face."
And now a reading from The Blog of Pain!:
"I didn't go in straight away, I stood lurking outside with my collar turned up, hiding to get a better view. I thought, If she calls the police, it's only what I deserve. But she wouldn't call the police, she'd take her pearl-handled revolver from the glass decanter and shoot me through the heart. At the post-mortem they'll find an enlarged heart and no guts."
- Jeanette Winterson, Written on the Body
Labels: The Blog of Pain
