I would like to say I'm writing this under duress caused by an exotic experience or a great drug stolen by an herbalist veterinarian that does surgeries on priceless dairy cows. But sadly, none of that is true. The booze is generic, the drugs are readily available and mundane, and the only thing I can look forward to tonight is another rant from Larry.
I wanted to sit back and read. I wanted to pull out of my copy of Fear and Loathing: On the Campaign Trail in '72 because I wanted to re-read the passage where Thompson gives a sermon in a hotel in the middle of the night. It's classic and the sermon still holds true.
But no, I can't. Some mangy pigfucker of a human being, a semi-literate piece of shit in Freeport, stole two boxes of books from me. Freeport--the wormy, festering bunghole of Illinois. Freeport is why I cheer for tornado warnings. Freeport is why I still light a candle in hopes of a nuclear exchange with Mother Russia. Or the Chinese.
Freeport is full of people who steal things they don't need or understand. And nobody would have understood the Complete Collection of Vladamir Nabokov short stories in one of those boxes.
The list of stolen titles makes me sick to recount. All of my Calvin & Hobbes, my poetry books heavy with notes and annotations, my Russell Edson anthology. It goes on and on.
Had it not been for a text message from my herbalist veterinarian friend saying she was coming over with more goodies for me, I would not even have the courage to write this. I feel queasy just thinking about it...
And Larry is busting my balls again. He won't shut up.
Spring is always when my houseplant Larry gets weird. I call it the plant version of Der Wanderlust.
Last spring I wrote about him just so he'd leave me alone. And once again he's pestering me day and night about all kinds of weird shit. It's times like these that make me regret stealing him from work.
"Kid," he says. "You need a girlfriend."
"Aw, Geez! Not this shit again?" He's been on me about this for a while.
"You stay in this apartment too much," he says. "You never go out."
"I know I'm going to regret this," I said. "But what do you have in mind?"
"You should call Her." He said it flatly, with authority.
"Nope!" I started to walk away but in a tiny apartment there isn't anywhere to go. "You and I have been over this. I'm not calling Her."
"You need to, kid."
"Well, somebody is coming over tonight anyways, so chill."
"Drug dealers don't count, kid."
"She's an herbalist. And not even the good kind, at that."
We were interrupted by a knock on the door. She's here! Now!
I wanted to sit back and read. I wanted to pull out of my copy of Fear and Loathing: On the Campaign Trail in '72 because I wanted to re-read the passage where Thompson gives a sermon in a hotel in the middle of the night. It's classic and the sermon still holds true.
But no, I can't. Some mangy pigfucker of a human being, a semi-literate piece of shit in Freeport, stole two boxes of books from me. Freeport--the wormy, festering bunghole of Illinois. Freeport is why I cheer for tornado warnings. Freeport is why I still light a candle in hopes of a nuclear exchange with Mother Russia. Or the Chinese.
Freeport is full of people who steal things they don't need or understand. And nobody would have understood the Complete Collection of Vladamir Nabokov short stories in one of those boxes.
The list of stolen titles makes me sick to recount. All of my Calvin & Hobbes, my poetry books heavy with notes and annotations, my Russell Edson anthology. It goes on and on.
Had it not been for a text message from my herbalist veterinarian friend saying she was coming over with more goodies for me, I would not even have the courage to write this. I feel queasy just thinking about it...
And Larry is busting my balls again. He won't shut up.
Spring is always when my houseplant Larry gets weird. I call it the plant version of Der Wanderlust.
Last spring I wrote about him just so he'd leave me alone. And once again he's pestering me day and night about all kinds of weird shit. It's times like these that make me regret stealing him from work.
"Kid," he says. "You need a girlfriend."
"Aw, Geez! Not this shit again?" He's been on me about this for a while.
"You stay in this apartment too much," he says. "You never go out."
"I know I'm going to regret this," I said. "But what do you have in mind?"
"You should call Her." He said it flatly, with authority.
"Nope!" I started to walk away but in a tiny apartment there isn't anywhere to go. "You and I have been over this. I'm not calling Her."
"You need to, kid."
"Well, somebody is coming over tonight anyways, so chill."
"Drug dealers don't count, kid."
"She's an herbalist. And not even the good kind, at that."
We were interrupted by a knock on the door. She's here! Now!
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