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Mon, Jul. 17th, 2006 | 11:44 pm  slavezombie


My ticket to hell
slavezombie
      Somebody sold me a ticket to Unholy Alliance. I was suppose to meet up with him today but he didn't show. Does he have second thoughts of breaking up a pair? I dunno. I have to say I live within walking distance and the stroll really made last night's dinner process completely. You know the feeling. Sitting at the throne, a plunk after strenous effort, then a quick peep into the toilet to see what the hell. Miraculously enough, nothing is there. It's like, since when did brown bears learn to swim… like polar bears? is it possible that white bears exist in toilets too, like white buffalo exist for Indians, white bulls for Mithras, white tigers for Siegfried and Roy, etc?
      Is this gross or what? So I open the window to ventilate my lavatory and knock over the plastic container of q-tips. Q-tips are strewn all over the floor and there's nothing I can do except get on my knees and pick them up one at a time. Being a lite smoker, I'm not one to hold my breath, so there I am, concerned about a Slayer tik, alone in my own stench, angry at the world and practically eating my own crap. OK, discusting play by play over, you can relax now.
      So I am worried about the ticket. I was a bit ticked at the saleperson for not telling me Monday is bad for a pick-up, but the poop ordeal really made me see things differently. Irritable bowel syndrome is not fun, I haven't been using the gym due to a stigmata on my left foot and my HMO doctor stuck his finger straight thru it. He prescribed something for me and drew a smile on my face.
      Meanwhile, men in white shirts, dark slacks walk in today, as these cliques have done in the past, but I cannot help but look at them with estranged eyes. However, seated at their table, I walk by and what do I hear but a conversation ensuing in unflawed Spanish. And yet, these gringo visitors look quite reserved from the rest of the customers, some of whom speak Spanish quite politely. Honest to God, these white collar dudes scare me. If they had on matching coats, they'd have a reason for being so distant to everybody, including me. They'd be splitting images of what I envision a federally, FBI, CIA agent resembles. Not long ago, one of the many variety of male white shirt wearers (in groups, usually of three or for, never less than two) seemed sympathetic to my estranged look and sought to described his group's perilous, matching dress code as a religious function for students at a nearby sanctum. I didn't ask for more explanation than what was given. I didn't ask for any. I guess he just saw my estranged look and wanted to acknowledge his own awareness of being dressed the same as his friend/partner/peer? Poor me. I'm confused. I'm so out of it.


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