(throwing small tantrum) Tomorrow I have to take my computer�s motherboard(?) down to the shop. She is broken. The lens in her CD-Rom drive is all cloudy and she can�t see any of the music I put into to her. Music is very important� so as I unplug her tomorrow I will apologize (because the both of us hate doctors) and remind her that I�m doing this for her as much as I am doing it for me. I believe that she will be in good hands as she goes under the screwdriver� I spoke to the surgeon, Stan, on the phone a number of times in the past few days and he assures me that she�ll be all better by tomorrow night. (sighs) What will I do without her? I guess that I�ll just have to be strong for the both of us. I do not like rejection letters. I got one today from the Hampstead Players telling me that they appreciate my efforts but� yahda-yahda-yahda. I�d already surmised from the lack of a call-back that I was not to be cast for this season. But today the postal service treated me to a big fat �YOU SUCK!� in all its 14 point, Times New Roman, letter-headed glory. Yet tomorrow I will still smile at my mailman because, well� one of my life rules is: NEVER piss off your mail man. I did have a rather promising dream last night. (twirls dread) Okay so I had two promising dreams last night. I will, however, only tell you of one. I dreamt that I went on an audition and in the next frame (it was a montage dream) I was amidst a scene in the show and in the last frame I was happily submitting to seduction by my director/cast-member. It was a good dream. I�m hoping that it was a prophetic dream. Oh! And I�ve figured out what I want to do on the 1st: strip club. I think it�d be funny as hell. Hmm� �funny as hell.� The fact that angels don�t have a sense of humor is more proof that Heaven isn�t for me. Who ever says �funny as Heaven�?!? I�ve got this image stuck in my head: Come now, drift up the dark, come up the drifting sea-dark street now in the dark night seesawing like the sea, to the bible-black airless attic over Jack Black the cobbler�s shop where alone and savagely Jack Black sleeps in a nightshirt tied to his ankles with elastic and dreams of chasing the naughty couples down the grassgreen gooseberried double bed of the wood, flogging the tosspots in the spit-and-sawdust, driving out the bare bold girls from the sixpenny hops of his nightmares. I do not remember what stories my mother used to read to me as a child, but I certainly wish that she�d read me this. Young imaginations needn�t do much work to makes these images dream-tangible. And what dreams they would have. . How Rude! - Wednesday, Sept. 22, 2004 - 12:16 PM One small step but no giant leap. - Tuesday, Sept. 30, 2003 - 11:17 AM Where's George? - Thursday, Sept. 25, 2003 - 12:48 PM |
a Nifty design
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