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Wed, Nov. 7th, 2007 | 03:54 pm  slavezombie


cough cough
slavezombie
I don't know what kind of bug or toad I have living inside my chest, but it finally got it's way. I'm home bound from work and swore I would sit myself down at my desk to write the great American screenplay. It seems, however, I am living in a toxic dump and I had to clean up a bit before I started to vanquish any glowing I might secrete at night. So here I am. Behind my desk, very cluttered with miscellaneous papers, bills, things to do, empty coffee cups, dust, strewn pens and pencils, bottles of ink, notes, etc.

Everything where it's supposed to be, I see. I update the yahoo membership profile. I dunno why. It just seemed so, so lame. I wanted to change the picture for my profile to this illustration of hands, but yahoo responded to my attempts with "Sorry. We don't do pictures (anymore)". So here I am. At my desk, sitting. Waiting for that awe inspiring vision to enlighten me so that I might open THE FILE. The file that has ramblings of gripes about my youth, anecdotes of my adolescents, morals to a story that could only be enjoyed by its teller.

While I kick myself over and over again for not noticing if the model who posed for these illustration had been wearing a wedding band, the clock ticks. The sun has disappeared behind the gloomiest of LA smog. I can't help myself. Why hasn`t somebody invented a grease–less popcorn to eat while enjoying the creation process of a hollywood romantic comedy? I lift myself up off the chair, trancelike, and head for the bathroom to wash my hands that smell like In & out hamburger.


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