black dog
Sunday 2 May 2010 | I like a cookie
I think mine is different from Churchill’s; it’s certainly different from Robert Plant’s. For one thing, it has a lot more to do with PMS/PMDD (is this what the whole next decade is going to be like, before menopause? in which case, should I set up a Paypal button so you can all chip in for the gorram hysterectomy?)—
but in any case it’s partly relieved by a) swigs of Essential Woman chocolate raspberry swirl (which I all but chug straight from the bottle, à la Lucky Jim), b) Al-Anon meetings, c) doubled-up therapy (twice a week! at the Therapist’s suggestion! because she likes me so much, I am sure that’s why), d) Klonopin, and e) knowing that I TEACH MY LAST FUCKING RHETORIC CLASS TOMORROW. And not just last one of the semester, but last one ever, if I have anything to say about it. Which I seldom do.
Our favorite Thai place closed, with a paper sign taped to the door saying “We are now no longer able to serve you, our loyal customers.” Also an eviction notice. “Time to move,” says the Brujo phlegmatically. All my friends prepare to pack up and start over elsewhere. Endings, beginnings, yet tonight I am too depressed for words, thus I send you out with Zep. Is Robert not still, after all this time, teh sex? It’s the way he flaunts that lickable little hairless puer potbelly of his (cf. 2:30, also around 3:00). Also his girly blonde tresses. He may have been my model for Jesus, come to think of it, in the nearly finished Cherry-emily. Rizzle, bless her thoughtfulness, shared with me her heavy expensive paper; must print thesis out and take to bookstore for binding by May 7.
all I ask for, all I pray
steady rolling woman gonna come my way
need a woman gonna hold my hand
won’t tell me no lies make me a happy man
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