a breakfast for losers...

The ass-breath was supposedly coming from her socks. She said, "Tell me whether my feet smell!" She had been wearing her shoes all day while making wine with blueberries and scotch. I just shrugged my shoulders, and timidly told her I did not smell a thing. With that I continued to wrap my fingers around the keys. I played to the languid melodies which were permeating from out of my sweat glands. She stopped my fingers to count out loud; sixteenth note on top of a quarter eighth note and end it with a dot which adds up to a 36 second release and FORTE!! My vision blurred at this moment as her browning fingers tapped the sheet and the dirt in between her fingernails landed on G sharp. I could not comprehend her mystical, logical, magical, philosophical, physical mathematical words. My fingers could only comprehend the sound that hovered over the sheet and constricted the air waves in the crevices of my brain, and my wrists dislocate with a twist. I stick my head into the piano to take a closer look at the shiny music that seemed to go ka boom, boom, ba, ba, da, di, do, clap. She yells, "Do not frown and play it without obligation!" There is a deep, sacrilegious defeat, and my fingers blush. I should not have frowned. We started again, and this time I held my breath. My fingers scaled the surface of the keys, tickling the possibility of a grandiose ending. The keys replied with, "Try again next time!" But I did it anyways. From adagio with slow, intimate sweeps of the fingertips, to andante where my heart skips, and jumps to allegro where my fingers are doing the tango, and PRESTO! ! ! And then my finger slips, and I hit the most excruciating B flat. There is a sympathetic vibration from her socks, and I faint from the nauseating smell of ass-breath.

True Story.

And now, a haiku. Who says you have to write about nature.

I am writing a story about a 19 year old female who is a keen believer of the "bathtub theory (previous post)". She becomes the object of a van's headlights. She is picked up by a transvestite, and a 75 year old man named Joe (because every 75 year old man is named Joe in my mind). They go on a trip. They tell her they are exterminators. Joe has no voice. The transvestite (who remains nameless at the moment, along with the 19 year old female) found him wandering in the desert. He survived by drinking his urine and eating the desert sand. A good way to ravage your voice box. Joe is continuously looking for his voice -- in garbage cans, and the stomachs of pigs. The transvestite (it seems so degrading to continue to call this character by "the transvestite." I must think of a name. Quick!) left arm often goes numb if too much pressure is applied. A result of a severed nerve during his breast implantation process. This will come into effect near the end of the story. The 19 year old meets a Chinese man who runs an acupuncture place. She fears he wants to poke her with sharp things, but instead he informs her to cut off her head and put her foot in it . . . this is where love awaits her. The three of them visit other places . . . yet to be discovered . . . coming soon. They visit a house. The 19 year old loses her panties, the transvestite tells her "your panties are in good hands." The 19 year old realizes they are actually drug dealers. Duh! The 19 year old is angered by this, but she doesn't know why . . . perhaps because she is wearing no panties ? The transvestite arms goes numb after a heroin injection. Joe has to drive the van. Joe drives the van off a bridge. This was an accident. They are submerged in water. The 19 year old can only think of the Chinese man. It ends with, "Where's my rubber ducky?"

the stop end stop

It's not as exciting as it sounds.

If you want to re-live your childhood, take a bath . . .

while wearing a bathing suit and a snorkeling mask.


on another note:

thanks to Richard for the books. they shall occupy my time with much enjoyment and distract me from final assignments.