Sunday, December 26, 2010

Killing time before killing time

A street car rumbles behind me. Its ghost glides by as a reflection across my computer screen and my coffee trembles in its glass. A disruptively beautiful woman sits at a table beside me. She was making love eyes at me until my male roommate walked into the coffee shop on his way to work and, with a saboteur’s grin, made suggestively homosexual remarks about my day’s activities.

It’s better that way. I can focus on writing. Oh yeah, and job hunting.

Horrific money woes aside, being unemployed in San Francisco is pretty cool. At some point, I’m going to walk from east to west across the peninsula or whatever. Seven miles, so I’m told, so I tell you, making it truth. I’ve even grown accustomed to sleeping like murder on a hardwood floor, face down and calamitous. It’s quite comfortable, in fact. I toss and turn a lot but no more than I would on a king bed and my back feels great. I’ve never had back problems but apparently there was something out of order ‘cause I don’t need to arch out my slouch so much anymore and as testament, every morning I jump kick out of my nest in order to demonstrate my newfound dexterity to the phantoms of this Victorian place. But yeah, I need a bed, I guess. I really don’t want one. I’m only getting one because of you people and your judgmental nostrils and stinking expectations. Maybe I’ll make a tatami bed. Yeah. That’d be just fine.

What else.

It’s cold here. It’s cold and the hills make me want to puke but not for any aesthetic reason; it’s because the valves of my heart are actually miniature vaginas that constrict and flatulate when the rest of me is uncomfortable. They haven’t acclimated to the suddenly wide corridors of blood that the vertical hills of San Francisco have required of my arteries either and on more than one occasion, I’ve felt compelled to lay down and die at the top of a mountainous hill with the city landscape a beautiful death shroud. That’s not to suggest that vaginas should in any way be associated with weakness. Make no mistake: they’re disproportionately stronger then their counterparts. They’re so powerful in fact that I’ve done many . . . questionable things for them. I like vaginas and not even as friends. I love them. Whatever. All I’m saying is that a man shouldn’t have vaginas in his heart when he’s accidentally found himself on Taylor Street because salt-dried shrimp sounded like a really tasty additive to pasta and the only place he knew to get some was at a fly infested market in Chinatown. Happy Holidays.



4 comments:

JennAventures said...

Dude, you have no email linky link. Jenna (dot) v (dot) gray @ gmail (dot) com- I am curious about your suggestion.

Please dont kill me now that you know my real name.

I know what you mean about the bed...my judgement from people is coming from the fact that I have no rugs in my apartment. Alledgedly this is a grave sin.

Julie Buz. said...

"... so I'm told, so I tell you, making it truth." Fantastic.

carma said...

I say you just prance on down to the Target and get one of those inflatable air mattresses. My husband swears they are as good as a real mattress. Big happenings since I last visited with your move to San Fran. Your roommate sounds like a lot of fun. Not as fun though as you, of course.

Bash said...

I was hoping for an illustration of a heart with vagina chambers... I mean you got nothing but time right? What the hell? NYE plans?

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