I had disturbing, disturbing dreams last night. And I hate to share them... ok, no I don't.
Over the past couple of days, my dreams are getting less and less Wink Martindale [sic] and more and more... domestically baffling. I suppose. That doesn't even begin to describe what the hell is going on, really. The dreams went from run-of-the-mill Marvin Gaye to puppies cut in half, and now they've turned into the awful, dreadful, just-showing preggers [sic] dreams. I don't know about you all, but I find it freaky and I'm wishing for the Wink dreams again. And now the big i is going to read this and get all wiggity-whack, which is going to be just dandy!!! to try to console him. It's not real, big i. It's just a dream.... (although I woke up peeing [sic] on myself in fright) Afterthought: after checking up on the dream diary - I discovered that dreaming about the ol' PG forecasts a "happy increase in material wealth." Woohoooooo! That's right!
Last night I went and rented The Thin Red Line - and this pertains to the endless quest for a New Year's resolution - one of my latest resolutions is to have the best war movie collection ever... which is never going to happen, by the way. But I keep seeing those Band of Brothers commercials and I sit pert [sic] & attentive at the end of the bed, especially at that part with all the parachutes! You smell what I'm steppin in? So... I went to rent the mothers, but you have to rent each one at a different time... yada yada yada ... there are 10 different ones. I'm never going to rent all ten. I know this already. So I start watching The Thin Red Line, and it's just not satisfying my lust for a war movie. It's just not - and sure I only got into the first half hour... sure I did. And sure I kept [sic] plucking my eyebrows and running downstairs - sure! And SURE I will have to start it all over again tonight, sure! Wait... where is this going?
DO NOT GO TO THE MALLS, THERE ARE CHILDREN THERE. AND THEY ALL HAVE RUNNY NOSES AND THEY [sic] THINK YOUR COAT IS A KLEENEX.
I wish it would snow. I wish there was a huge snowday. I got all gussied up today for work, not to mention, the gussying up included a big dent in my hair that won't go [sic] away until I wash it again. Anyway, I got all snazzy fancypants and sashayed my hollow bum into the bookstore only to discover that I did not have to work today, but since no one else showed up, thank God I came. Welllllll. Thank God. Because the place would have spontaneously combusted if I had not shown up. So - today begins another day in our BIG! COUNTDOWN! TO! CHRISTMAS! (Ahhhh my sarcasm delights me!) in which I eat only [sic] desserts all day long. It's like being on permanent vacation, like a Beach Boy. Do people of african-american descent listen to the Beach Boys? Do people who have not grown up with 2 parents listen to the Beach Boys? WHO is listening to the Beach Boys?
Tomorrow is feast-o moleast-o [sic] day with wining & dining & casual sex! Ha ha ahahhhaaa! Ok, so it's just dining. And then funneling whiskey down the bird beak, a tradition very well handled by Ms. Eliza and I. From the days of yore in which we would sneak into my bedroom at my parents' house and drink drink drink until Mlle. Muffin started trying on Wonderbras and scheming ways to score new sk8r bois (pffff). At that point, I think [sic] Ms. Eliza would be reading a magazine (drunk) and I would try to play Tetris (drunk). But the Wonderbra year was the year I was given a huge bottle of Absolut, so the whiskey was substituted for vodka, and the 24th celebration went like it was Hanukkah. Ah [sic]. Who knew.
As for retirement parties, thank God for booze, and may you ne'er seen the true beauty I'd seen that night, because men crying ain't the sight you want to see - so close to the holidays, and all.
Mmmm. Scrambled eggs.