Shit fire and save on the matches...
This is my 140th post. I need to find something to do. You know, that doesn't involve computers or Sam Waterston.
Le sigh.
So I'm at home. Well, actually, I am currently without home, as I gave up my apt., so now I am at this place in Sweva that used to be my home, but that is something else entirely now. Yes, Thomas Wolfe, your oft repeated maxim is correct. You can never go home again. Although your most famous work is not read that much now and you've kind of faded into genius oblivion, you hit that nail square on the head. Congratulations.
But alas, I am trying to ready myself for the big CA, and by "ready myself" I mean seeing family and drinking inordinate amounts of sweet tea. It is actually very fun to drive around here, if not a bit Faulkneresque. I keep getting these weird feelings where I feel like I'd do anything short of axe murder in order to stay here, but then I shake my head a few good times and talk myself out of it. Of course I want to go to a place that I have been to once and have gained most of my knowledge about from The Graduate and Kerouac. Of course!
So it's an odd time for me. I am trying to cure myself and my errant thoughts by listening to loads of Green Day (which is probably the most depressing thing of all) and imagining my first meeting with Billie Joe, the one where our eyes lock over an English cucumber at the Berkeley Bowl and in which we bite our lips and read each other's minds, knowing that we are both married and cannot have each other...but, oh fuck it, this is a fantasy...of course I will have that bottle of port with you tonight Billie Joe. You bring the eyeliner, I'll bring the chocolate-hazelnut fondue.
Ho hum. I miss the Burg in a strange way that has more to do with the people there than the actual Burg, and by people, I mean about five people. I esp. miss Bob, whom I haven't seen in ages and can only hope the best for. And I miss stalking short people with Katie, as she indulges me in my weakness, and laughs at all my jokes, no matter how lame.
I should go. My mom is sitting right behind me--she probably thinks that it is odd that I am typing on her computer in my jammies and laughing at the words "English cucumber."
Le sigh.
So I'm at home. Well, actually, I am currently without home, as I gave up my apt., so now I am at this place in Sweva that used to be my home, but that is something else entirely now. Yes, Thomas Wolfe, your oft repeated maxim is correct. You can never go home again. Although your most famous work is not read that much now and you've kind of faded into genius oblivion, you hit that nail square on the head. Congratulations.
But alas, I am trying to ready myself for the big CA, and by "ready myself" I mean seeing family and drinking inordinate amounts of sweet tea. It is actually very fun to drive around here, if not a bit Faulkneresque. I keep getting these weird feelings where I feel like I'd do anything short of axe murder in order to stay here, but then I shake my head a few good times and talk myself out of it. Of course I want to go to a place that I have been to once and have gained most of my knowledge about from The Graduate and Kerouac. Of course!
So it's an odd time for me. I am trying to cure myself and my errant thoughts by listening to loads of Green Day (which is probably the most depressing thing of all) and imagining my first meeting with Billie Joe, the one where our eyes lock over an English cucumber at the Berkeley Bowl and in which we bite our lips and read each other's minds, knowing that we are both married and cannot have each other...but, oh fuck it, this is a fantasy...of course I will have that bottle of port with you tonight Billie Joe. You bring the eyeliner, I'll bring the chocolate-hazelnut fondue.
Ho hum. I miss the Burg in a strange way that has more to do with the people there than the actual Burg, and by people, I mean about five people. I esp. miss Bob, whom I haven't seen in ages and can only hope the best for. And I miss stalking short people with Katie, as she indulges me in my weakness, and laughs at all my jokes, no matter how lame.
I should go. My mom is sitting right behind me--she probably thinks that it is odd that I am typing on her computer in my jammies and laughing at the words "English cucumber."
posted by Southern Belle at 10:24 PM
3 Comments:
Oh Morgan, how I love thee so. Haha, I will induldge your stalkerness any day. I told a certain short man you said hello/goodbye the other day. He was like "WHOA" when I informed him of your new journey to Cali. It was highly amusing. Peter came in, he has a black eye, it made me chuckle. I may have a thing for a strange boy who has a girlfriend (alas). Oh, and my number is 757.784.7801. And I adore you!
-Katie
What do you mean "like WHOA"?
I am forever interested in the doings of this short man. And that, my little silver dollar pancake, is disturbing.
Morg
i really thought I was the only one with the "crack like addiction" to Morgan's blog. I check it before my e-mail. It rocks my socks. Oh and the short man was like suprised and seemed happy for you. It was just amusing.
-Katie
Post a Comment
<< Home