a breakfast for losers...

I feel absolutely marrrvelous, darling.

and that is all you need to know.


, arrivederci.

A Morning Concealed with a Dose of Opium

I duly noted that at 2:41 in the morning the entire world looks like a portrait of a painting.
I wanted to smudge it with my thumb.
Oh, and before I forget "Good morning house plants!"
On today's menu it will involve Irish gangsters and very bland scrambled eggs.
And I am only conscious of all things left, so please be so polite and direct me to my cup of tea.
By the way, have you noticed that the sky is paraded in UGLY,
and those people in the tightly buttoned suits mesh into the sticky grey matter beneath my shoe.
Oh, and did you know that I lost my mind in the sink the other night? It went right down the drain,
like a god damn sewer rat.
And my cat? Yes, my cat is chasing something in the pant leg of my favourite pair of jeans. What cats see
must go beyond our own reality.
But that is not the point; the point is that I was looking down at my feet today. The torn sandals, and the supposed cartoonish
big toe and the three brightly coloured painted toe nails. I thought to myself, Who the hell are controlling these hideous creatures
and where on earth are they taking me?
The supermarket.
Of course.
This is where I ended up at approximately 3:03 pm. Landed right in aisle eight surrounded by boxes of
cavity-causing, colonies of sugar slowly building up in your colon, increasing your chances of an heart attack by 50% breakfast cereals.
Price check on aisle four.
A man approached me. Directly standing on my toes, and I asked "Would you like to tango?"
But I could not help but notice the faint spot above his upper lip.
Partially hidden under a pubescent sort of peach fuzz; growing like a fungus most likely.
He should get that looked at.
And OH! how I have informed him many a times, but he informs me that my imagination has been tweaked and I'm only contemplating
the venomous destruction of his upper lip.
I was also informed two years ago by a teacher, whose clothes did not fit his upper body, that I am only filled with nonsensical spit.
I gush.
I spew.
And I blow your house down, but not before I help myself to a sandwich.
Preferably with lettuce and onions.
A slab of peanut butter on the side if I'm feeling up to such a disastrous decision.
Lord only knows I have enough on my plate.
Which reminds me,
I did attend church with my grandmother tightly wrapped around my arm.
A very nice arm ornament indeed.
It was like I was a child again,
sitting in the middle pew directly behind the man with the phlegm-like neck fat,
being spoon fed something I did not like
and regurgitating it back up, only to playfully mold it into a variety of shapes and sizes.
Gooey on the sides
with chunks of carrots to be found,
sprouting out like the random hairs on my grandmother's chin,
chin, chin,
chinny, chin,
choo.

fabu.

I watched a street light on Collingwood St. flick on and off. Usually with three minute intervals in between the on and off flickering. I plan on making a poem out of this incident and submit it for class on Friday. I was, or am having troubles with writing a poem for this friday submission. I thought perhaps I would rummage through old journals but I'd feel guilty and useless if I just pulled something from the faded pages and submit it as if I had just written it this week. It would almost seem like plagiarizing the past. Something is bound to scribble itself down onto pages, as it usually does in the early mornings of Fridays.

I also made note of the distinct smell of the street post. It reminded me of my deceased grandmother and her once happy home where my siblings and myself would play crokinole, even though we had no idea how to properly play, but flicking the small discs around was entertaining enough. I miss that house dearly. It had such character to it, and I have fond memories of eating the grass out on my grandmother's front lawn.

My mouth is finally reviving its taste buds.

Though, my voice in gone. Kuput! I remind myself of Harvey Pekar in the movie American Splendor. When he first loses his voice.

Do not call me on the telephone, because you will hear nothing on the other end, except for maybe the most whimsical wheezing sound out of my nose.

We are having Thanksgiving dinner tonight. Hopefully my taste buds will be in full force.

I promised to make a pile of leaves today. To jump in. But this morning I peaked out from under the Mexican blanket imitating a curtain on my window, and I realized not a lot of our trees have shed any leaves onto our exposed lawn. Except for maybe the one by my brother's window, but my mother says that one is diseased. So then I thought, maybe I'll go to the library and make a leaf pile, because its entire yard is covered in crunchy leaves. But then, my mother probably would not let me travel to the library because of my cold (?). Whatever it is. I thought the loss of my voice was a result of the other day. On my way home from school, I was continuously singing "The Devil made me do it. Put the bag on my head. He made me put the bag on my head" as I walked down the street, with of course a bag on my head.

It first started with headaches and sore legs, and ended in the destruction of my voice box.

It hasn't been a pleasant week.

Oh, the cruelty!

Being without taste buds, and the sense of smell is almost mind numbing. I think I'll start appreciating my taste buds more, because I have never missed them so much. My heart aches! My stomach aches! It is like a new eating disorder, because what is the point in eating when there is nothing to taste but the roof of your mouth, which doesn't even taste like anything, because you can't even taste. Gaaaah. It's absolutely ludicrous!

I don't feel like typing.

On another note:

My legs hurt. The back of my neck hurts. My throat is dry, and it is hard to swallow without cringing in pain. And I am feverishly tired. I cannot sleep though. I have a biography to type, even though I have receieved an extension on the assignment. Only an extra day. One cannot complain.

Oh, and our bikes were stolen.

Supposedly the story on my fictious character impressed my teacher (I am quite modest, and so I fear using the word "impressed"). She had informed me that this piece of writing is quite possibly worthy of publication. So she says that she will keep an eye out for any opportunity, and that I should be aware of any writing contests that are floating around. I did not want to make a big deal out of this, and I still haven't. I hide away in my shell when compliments are being thrown at me, especially from a dear friend whose writing I've always been fond of. Of course my mother, who is quite simple-minded in her way of living and is easily fascinated by things, was ecstatic upon me telling her the resulting mark of my story.

I see this as a one time thing though. My imagination has now dried up. Now I'm just going to create disappointing pieces of work from here on.

I'm optimistic.

...my mother keeps bringing up the incident where my grandmother's tea leaves were read and supposedly it indicated that her youngest granddaughter will be a musician and writer.

Although I find it quite funny that I have returned to the 'profession' that I first wanted to be when I was younger.

Well. It's not that funny.

I am too random to actually stick with some sort of career. Just let me travel. Let me travel to Scotland. Find myself a burly old scotsmen, and live a life of eating haggis and wearing kilts.

The End.