Wednesday, February 01, 2006

surreal estate vs. anthropromorphic universal fizzics

IT was maybe on the 2nd attempt of trying to push my head through my T-shirt's sleeve when I started to worry about the sub-standard processes involved in the fashion industry these days. OF course, it didn't register that I'd successfully operated the shirt multiple times before, and as complicated as it may've seemed this morning, it had always been pretty straight-forward. POSSIBLE cognitive inaptitude had yet to strike me as an option. AS I blearily bumble my way through this wednesday morning, this sad state of affairs is steadily cementing itself as Reality... WITH all apparent purposefulness, but unrelated to anything I was doing at the time, I poked myself in the eye while asking for my morning coffee. I am now afraid to ask for another. MY hair looks like a hybrid of Christopher Lloyd after a pie-eating competition and a pheasant carcass (I can't even spell here, I first wrote something closer resembling 'peasant circus'). Also, I just received the integral clue to a missing person case I've been working on for a few weeks called Who-Disappeared-Zayna? HER happy e-mail says she's on a beach in Thailand. PROBABLY keeping her coconut rum drink cool beneath the shade of the real Maltese Falcon. AND I'm tired. Very, VERY tired. PAYING rent this morning felt as alarming as pushing my fondest, but disembodied, kidney through my land-lady's door. STARK, outstripped Reality has chosen today to reaffirm itself, and it's got a bit of an unhealthy twinge to it. WELL, I say fuck you Reality, let's take this outside, Reality, whence I will kick you into the absurdist shape I most prefer. FROM now on I put on my T-shirt one foot at a time. IT's up to you if you want to be friends after I publicly humiliate you.

@ @ @
Reality: 1
Tom: 0
The showdown: The snowplough guy almost got me again. Next time I'm going to pull a Legolas: one-step his ploughblade, swing around his cabin-o'-invulnerability, pull the putz out by his ponytail through the broken windshield and give him a stern ticking off. Reality, you are a coward!! Your mother was a Greek! You make children cry! I declare vendetta.

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