And safety comes first.

Thursday, April 21

Let God be the judge of this!

My mailbox has nearly exceeded capacity, what with all your heavy complaints about my new "favorites" line of posts. Lame? Lame, rather, are your benumbed senses! Do you fail to see poetry when it appears before you, naked and proud, urging you to awaken from the spoiled language of superfluity? You live in a world of black and white. I have chosen to color my world with tan.

Starchy Brain Material

Peanuts and corn chowder. I have nothing to say. Flea spray and doorknobs. Nothing is coming to me. Earthen creatures with quivering eyes have poured too much liquid fabric softener into the final rinse cycle, but I won't yell at them because they are just my brother's clothes. Besides, they do a lot around the house, like refinish the parquet floors and pick up the fluff from our shedding dog. I've come to appreciate these topsoil creatures whom I at first merely tolerated. Most people think I live with dirty men, but I tell you, they are surprisingly wholesome.

Wednesday, April 20

This is my absolute favorite:

I like to dance.

This is my favorite person:

A tan person.

Jesus shops for greeting cards at Walgreens. I saw him.

I used to be Buddhist, but now I'm a clerk at Walgreens, and this week the played-out hits of the 70s are only $7.99 on CD, $3.99 on tape. I've been stealing yogurt drinks from aisle 9, and I've been getting away with it. I mean, shit, if you're going to schedule me for fucking 6 o'clock in the morning, a sister's gotta get some breakfast, know what I'm sayin'? I ditched Buddhist school when my friend hooked me up here at Walgreens. Forget that wack Buddhism stuff, man, I didn't know what they were talking about--acceptance this, acceptance that. Man, that's all bullshit. What I couldn't accept was I couldn't accept my stomach being all growly and then being denied a breakfast burrito. Man, I owe my entire fucking life to Walgreens.

Monday, April 18

Sunny days and sunny nights.

I started with the ears, and then Sunny began to express reservation.

Sunday, April 17

Different Strokes

I've not recovered from being called an ego maniac--that is, I'm still blushing from the flattery. Other such fitting titles are welcomed. And yes, please stop me on the streets and ask for my autograph. I always have time for the groundlings--regardless of what they look like. They're usually the ones who ask if they could sit in my white limo, and that's when the tinted window separates me from them--as if I really need a window to do that.

Saturday, April 16

You don't bring me flowers anymore.

All this time I've known you...thanks...thanks for not telling me you had it. All the times we've been together. Just yesterday we drank out of the same extreme can of Mountain Dew. No wonder you're so obsessive about washing your hands up to the elbows. We experienced some pretty contagious laughs, you know (pardon the pun--how insensitive of me). I thought we were close. I thought we could talk about anything, but I was so wrong. I know I gave it to you, but we could have been more open about it. You have made a fool of me. Why? Why didn't you tell me that you knew that I knew that you knew I gave you the creeps?

It's "sweeet," not "sweet."

I saw you with your two friends walking to Brit's Pub downtown on Friday. You were tanned, well-groomed, wearing jeans and a light blue shirt, untucked, cuffs rolled up for that casual "going out" look. You were so L.A. (where I'm from if you ever want to come home with me for a drive up the PCH)--your sandals pulled the entire outfit together. Dude, I totally dig you.

You probably say "sweet" a lot. "Sweet!" when the guy at the gas station tells you to make a right turn on 46th to get back on the freeway. "Sweet!" when the grocery store clerk informs you of the new hours. "Sweet!" when I take one of your sandals and bop you over the head with it, you fratboy fool, you. You probably rave about Chipotle too: "That shit is goooood." But God has not forgotten you, and you will marry someone very special one day.

Saturday, April 2

For Pete's sake, pick up the fork.

You see, Pete's Chinese, and he doesn't care whether you, inept chopsticks user, use chopsticks at Chinese restaurants. Please, urges Pete, don't use the chopsticks for his sake. He won't judge you for using a fork, but he will judge you for having your chopsticks stick out of your bowl as you would a spoon while you converse animatedly with your hands. Instead, rest your chopsticks on the table or on the rim of your bowl, your chopsticks, a sort of bridge leading to a harmonious multicultural society, where no one is kicked out of restaurants by insulted chefs who witnessed you douse your food with soy sauce.