Saturday, November 29, 2003

I don't want to say this but ... Laura's deadjournal ... shames my blog. Even coffee mugs sound more interesting in her hands. I mean, she actually makes me think, "Boy, I want that undescriptive mug she forces herself to clean every morning." And it's good that she finds inspiration everywhere. On her wall. On her table. On her feet. Why? Why in Jehovah's name can't I be more like her?

Okay ... so I see Scottie, the terrier beanie baby, perched up on my computer screen. It's ... black. Quilted. Beady eyes made of ... beads. Okay, I got nothin'.

I was in theory class yesterday. Well, not exactly "theory" since it's just memorising the whole freakin' history of European music! We're at Giovanni Da Palestrina now (or Pierluigi, for those of you in the "know"). Bah, that must be the last time the Italians contributed anything to the world:

"Ooh, look at me. I'm Italian. Listen to me speak Italianese. I love Monica Bellucci and olive oil."

Okay, so there was Puccini and Scarletti and Verdi and Vivaldi after him. But I hate going to that class (even though I need it to make a living for myself, and in essence, avoid having to wake up from a park bench to play my nose flute every afternoon). So there.

I just went to the fridge to find me some breakfast. Yeah, I know it's 3 o'clock. You wanna fight? Found an unopened can of Coke in there. Drank that. I should've replaced it since it belonged to someone else but ... what the hey, I don't care. Found some ground beef patties and shoved them in the toaster oven. That motherfucker always burns me. Sears my flesh. Brands me as his bitch. But not this time, son. I used a fork. I opened the freezer and scoured for a fudgesicle. I found them hidden inside a tin tray, beneath the ribs and pork roast. I suspect they were supposed to be in hiding ... from me. Is my family so dense that they don't realise I can even find fudgesicles in a casket? And knowing me, I'd probably take it from the deceased without a second thought.

Man, I should start learning to eat better. Not like traditional Guangzhou cooking isn't already healthy. But like carrot cake with cream cheese icing. Can never get enough of that.

I's a-out. Gon' bust a cap in someone's ass. My playas been bitchin' at me for holdin' up the crew. Sheet. This, of course, means I have to go and rescue my ground beef patties from their parched prison.

Until next time. Keep fit and have fun. Or so what Hal Johnson and Joanna McLeod used to say, back in the day. How I yearned for them to admit to their interracial romance and stop bothering the rest of us with their tricep-cercises and salad tosses, designed to feel each other up. Fuck and get it over with, ya tracksuit-wearing lovebirds!

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