Sunday, January 10, 2010


Five and Dime (cont.), smelling like piss. Sure enough, there's this large wet spot on her backside. It'd make you cry, but not me, I just save it up to use as something to talk about; something to joke about later on.
She's buying milk. Poor people always buy milk. I don't even question whether she'll use stamps.
I start to panic for no reason and shift my groceries from one hand to another. They feeel heavy as hell and I worry about dropping something like a drunk.
I look at the cooking hotdogs and promise to buy one sometime, even though I never will. Fucking food always sounds good, but never really is.

I keep getting these horrible songs stuck in my head when I wake up. they're the queerest shit you can think of.
This morning I had that song where the chorus goes "when he plays piano in the dark" stuck in my head until I got into my car and the CD player started.
I think that if I went to hell, that's going to be the soundtrack.

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