Corpus Christi Juice

The most startling about change is how effortless it is when it happens. One day you're admiring the view from the 46 floor of a Massive Bank and the next day on the other side of the Bay you're ordering sushi and admiring the City from a distance as if it were nothing at all. And all of those weeks spent in a fever were for a tremendous not.

It's like a break up, when in one day life without the Other seems a chasm of despair, and the waking up without the Other remote. And then from one day to the next the beloved has had a change of heart and you're waking up on your own and two years later you feel like you've been waking up alone since time immemorial, but aren't we always rousted from our independent dreams alone.

And doesn't Jeff Buckley put one into that kind of contemplative mood?

Change is a sidle and a slide, fraught with implication, but in execution just the gasp of an afterthought.

And I am so glad that I did it, I think that I will be happy where I am, and since I don't want to be fired, I'll simply say that I am on the buy side now, and as a perk they have given me membership to a ridiculously posh gym in Marin. Where I sandwich my shiny black (and brand fucking spanking new) practical Hyundai between the Porches and the Rovers and hold my breath. Marin is fucking weird. Oodles of money and a decidely draconian leftward bent.

This evening the posse went to see the "Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy" starring two men that are on my list of men I'd like to get busy with if presented the opportunity, Sam Rockwell, because, lord knows, I have loved me some crazy fuckers, and Mos Def because the man is lovely and can sing and the man can dance (and the man can do comedy)

best line ever: (back story: Ford (Mos) has put a thinking cap topped by a juicer on the President of the Galaxy's head (Sam) and juices a lemon, "that should give him some zest". Forking Brilliant.

Alas and Alack, I am not likely to get busy with either, so this is the point when I petition the internets for the resitution of my virginity, where I draw up the contract in numbing legalese, wherein I the undersigned does solemnly swear etcetera, etcetera... Do humbly promise that due to egregious neglect, my hymen has reconstituted itself and needs a trimming like a verge, etcetera, etcetera, ad infinitum, what, what.

Well, there I go again, running my thoughts, running topics like gamuts, ruinning the tropics like game mutts, uh oh, I'd best quit now before I decide to run the word association game.... Pruning the GOPniks like shame nuts, grooming the shop hicks like game chicks, dooming (too late, too late) the cop licks like blame sicks.....