I am sooo over yesterday. You ever had the experience where you wake up the next day, and it's not that you are somebody else ... it's, what makes you think a person is one single point of view. Hell, no. The art is to get bigger than all of it, you little hydra you, and like the membrane of a balloon, contain it. Affectionately. I am an asshole—now and then—and besides, I was dealing with a lawyer all day. A middle-aged white male lawyer.
Someone sent me a cartoon: a couple in a car, the wife is driving, and she says, “Oh, dear, I think I ran over a lawyer!” Husband says: “Well if you're not sure, dear, back up and do it again.”
Nothing personal, if you are a lawyer (and reading this blog? why?) but as far as I can see, these people are paid great sums of money to lie. And after a while, the lies kinda slip into the category of normal, and if that isn't morally compromising. How the hell do you keep track of right and wrong?
So about 3 a.m. I started at the beginning of Mystic Bourgeoisie, and right off, saw that the title means something! All these clever blog monikers. Honey, we are the mystic bourgeoisie and of course I am never going there again. Tomorrow morning, first thing: torch all those self-help books left over from Eighties. Marianne Williamson? Up in smoke. I bought that stuff whilst involved in a romance that should never have happened, which will make you grasp at any manner of crappy straws.
From October 2005:
What a pity. Finding the man you want to marry at my age, when I want to marry like I want to cut off my foot with the butter knife. It's a sentiment, but no less sincere. The way to a woman's heart is through her eyes and ears. What? No, never met him. That matters? Through their writing ye shall know them, and it was good.“Forgive me if I've already told you this, but I have a plan to claim the local Target store for the Queen of Spain. I figure if I can get an outlaw biker gang to back me up with stolen heavy construction equipment, I might be able to hold onto it long enough to make CNN. I'll spend the rest of my life in the slammer, sure, but imagine the cred ... ‘What's he in for?’ ‘Who, that guy? Him and a bunch of berserker biker dudes claimed a Target store for the Queen of Spain.’ ‘Whoa! Far fuckin out.'“
No, it was Far Fuckin' Out.
6 comments
Isn't it usually the boy that does the proposing? And God the disposing? You'll get me all mixed up. In what sweet hell would a body answer: can I get back to you on that? But I want to say: hold onto your hat, your foot, your butter knives, your dreams. I mean, what if Jesus really does come back? We'll need all the ammo we can put our hands on.
Used to be, used to be. Now you got these shameless women running loose-I feel for you guys. (Even as I hold your hands to the fire.)
Ya know, if we were young and cute and this was real, omg, omg, the first blog proposal. Can I wear white?
I don't theeenk so.
What a couple of brazen hussies.
:-)
Frank,
I know what! You can read the ceremony in LOLcat! When you get finished tranlating the Bible. (Actually, we just need a Psalm or two.)
p.s. hussies is women.
Kat,
Jesus comes back, we invite Him to the party. Maybe have him say Grace, I don't see a problem. I'm sure he knows one by heart.
Jesus come back an say grace? - hell he's say "why are you all confusing me with them so called Christians who say they speak for me - hell you are Grace and that's all you need to know" - then he'd ask if you have enough wine for the party ;)
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