We’re all selfish. That’s the bottom line.

hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha!

today i die

i am leaving.  Whoops!  I’m back.  Shit, that was fast.  Did I already write this?

this is confusing.  there’s no joy to be had in time.  we must run from it.  if we adapt our bodies to night/day, light/dark chaos it could possibly save the species.  we must adapt our enjoyments or risk losing enjoyment as a motivator.  human creativity is suffocating itself to death, we must fight soon.  time is a motherfucker not to be trifled with, but, how did it get this power?  i smell an oppressor.  i’ll be first and zealous in the slaying of the defenders of time.   defenders of quantity and measurement.  they are the evilest, vilest and most sinister lot, those, while they undo our creative instinct, molding it with time.

fight this bullshit oppressor however you can.  write fiction on office time.  have everyone on your block get night jobs and have bar b-ques after work at 7am.  get a tivo.  sell your tivo.  make your own bread.  spazz out about nothing in the most loving way you can and then hide in the bathroom.  find peace in rejecting zen.  make samyama on the mundane.

Most important, give yourself a chance.

back to school

Don’t read this if you’re not a voyeur, it’s going to be very uninteresting and journal-ish.  I may just be documenting this for my own decompression’s sake.

Mondays are going to be very tough for the next 13 weeks.  I learned that today.  I (should) get up at 6:45, work until 2:30, go to classes from 3-8:30, and then brave the bus or take the not-so-scenic 40 minute walk home.  I chose walking.  Now I am finally relaxed in my ‘fort’ with a glass of wine and some herbal platitude feeling the desire to write but not necessarily have to think about it.  I figured imnotme was the place to do just that.

So, this semester I am taking Intro To Writing Fiction and Asian Philosophy.  Both conceptual walks in the park, though I have been additionally blessed by two extroardinarily competent instructors who are also both gifted facilitators and lectors.  This, of course, translates into more challenging work, and more challenging work.  Not what I had hoped from the course titles.  I figured I could doodle my way to a 4.0 for the term.

Oh well.  A. and I have been living in the aforementioned ‘fort’, which is our office turned snuggle-pen via streaming netflix movies on my computer aimed at the bed that was not always in the middle of our office.  It’s a cramped, but cozy place.  So cozy we even watched 2 seasons of Family Ties.  And liked it.  This is also the only room in our ginormous apartment that has air-conditioning, which neither of us are huge proponents of, though it’s aided the desperate-crack-addict appetite we’ve had for fits of snuggling and various other pillow-and-blanket oriented tasks.

Getting high does improve both my writing, and my reading.  I’m sure of it.  Hehe.

I’m going to abandoned this now and go let my friend in the house.

ah, the pain of being wrong

It’s like taking a nice long bath in your own bile.

A: yeah, it’s a little messed up how opposite your stories are

Because one of you would have to be fabricating something

me: I’m not staunch on my version

it’s like I said

A: That’s that part that bugs me

me: flashes that got put together

A: Cuz it sure sounded like you were, when we talked about it

10:55 AM me: well that’s what I believed

truly

A: Yeah, I know all that. Either way you should just talk to her

it’ll be all good

me: I feel like it needs to be in person

over the phone I can’t tell if I’m being manipulated

A: well then so be it

call her and set something up

10:56 AM get it over with

everyone will be happy

me: we don’t have an open relationship btw

10:57 AM A: uh, I know that

thanks for… reminding me?

assface

me: I thought you were trying to get back at me last night because I was making it known out loud to you that I did not commission you to molest the hell out of my friend and that if I thought it would be hot I’d let you know

you totally ignored me

A: I don’t even know how to explain that away, because I was tanked.

me: well….

A: which isn’t an excuse, I know

10:58 AM me: right

we’re on the same page then?

A: I won’t even try to deny that I probably was feeling like I needed to “get back at you.” It wouldn’t have happened otherwise, or even crossed my mind

yes, we’re on the same page

me: k

10:59 AM I’m sorry for getting drunk and having sex with your friend. this is a new apology and I mean it. It was unacceptable.

A: Thank you.

I need a nap before I go to work. I’ll be back later.

11:00 AM And, I’m sorry for molesting your friend.

me: thank you

have a good nap baby

You see, it turns out my memory of the indiscretion was not only fallible but possibly not at all correct. I had blacked out drunk at least two hours before it happened, however, and honestly trusted the few ‘flashes’ of memory I had and my interpretation of them to be correct. Also, knowing myself and the other girl involved, it seemed entirely plausible, possibly expected, that she would initiate such activity. Well, her memory contradicts mine, which leaves me helpless but to plead the drunkth. As was discussed in the above chat.

lunches from my sweetheart the drunk

So, as previously mentioned, my girlfriend got blitzed and made food at 3am in a frenzy of culinary performance art.  I finally had the chance to taste the meal for which our kitchen was destroyed.

I must admit, I expected it to be terrible… a labor of love, if you will.  Somehow, in her innebriated glory, A. managed to pull off a tasty meal; I will now try to guess how it was made and from what.

I believe this meal was prepared in three pans.  One in which peeled potatos sat sizzling in butter, another where cauliflower was sauteed (Also, I presume, in butter as it was as rich as the potatos), and a third where rice, after cooking in the rice cooker, was presumably oiled, semi-fried and seasoned.  Either that, or the rice was simply added to another pan when it was time for mixing.  The seasonings to me seemed to be something along the lines of Basil and “Cajun” mixed.  The flecks of orange were originally thought to be our oft used and beloved cayenne, but alas, with as much orange as was visible, it was not spicy enough to be.  This will probably be my first error.  It had the slightest hint of indian food which made me think curry, but if it was used it was slight.

Over all it was a very satisfying mix of three things I like prepared by a loving drunk woman.  I would eat it again, with a little salt or hot sauce, perhaps.  Soy maybe?

Thanks A.  I will try to have the dishes done before you get home 😉

the drunks strike again

A. and I had taken a short hiatus from playing Risk, one of our favorite pastimes.  Since the move we have played twice.  The first time we just gave up half way through with no clear winner.  The second time I won by concession.  I had a long day yesterday so the beer consumed while playing Risk not only made me drunk, but rather tired.  I went to bed, apparently unannounced, much to A.’s dismay.

When I awoke this morning it was raining, which was quite pleasant.  I laid in bed for another half hour enjoying the calm and cool.  Finally it was time to head to the shower.  I knew she had made lunches for us, so I figured there would be some dishes to do.  But…

When I passed into the kitchen I beheld every dish, spatula, pot and pan we owned piled Burton-esquely in the sink.  I noticed out of the corner of my eye that the floor looked a shade darker than normal.  Had there been an oregano fight?  Was A. secretly cleaning and packing weed whilst I slept?  In order to cross the kitchen to the bathroom I first needed to sweep the floor.  To my bare feet it felt like walking on mulched leaves.

I was, at this point, rather curious about what the result of this havoc would be.  It sits calling my name in the break-room fridge as I type.  I will add another post later after it has been critiqued.