AssWhoria Purgatory 03.09.03

I don’t love Queens to death. But to quote Funkdoobiest, “I got to live here.” Yeah, I know I don’t HAVE to live here, you sarcastic lamb fucker, I heard you in the back. Love it or not, this is home.

I have respect for Queens. And even though I don’t believe in astrology (yes, bartender, I am a Pisces), and though my vehicle doesn’t have running lights (or 20-inch rims or dice hanging like nuts from my rearview), and though I don’t listen to the Calling or Linkin Park (… regularly…), I won’t disrespect people who do to their faces. Or loudly. Or by looking at them in that voyeuristic it’s-so-quaint manner that we decry in educated white documentary filmmakers whose subject matter is a third-world ghetto.

Now, here is the thing. On top of that, I hate dinner. I’ve thought about that long and hard. Dinner is silly. I don’t much like it. Dinner at home is questionable enough; I like to eat by my lonely since even when I’m not talking I eat like a snail makes nookie. I like breakfast, I like sweets, but I hate wasting time eating. Just not something I do.

In comparison, going out to eat could be fun. Also could be hellish. Trapped at a table listening to someone yammer when you’d rather, I don’t know, watch television, read a book, leave. Talking usually means I end up the last one eating. Not to mention that there is nothing more depressing than being stuck on the end of the earth in a restaurant with unused karaoke (yet the videos are playing) and finding yourself get tired, tired…

Good, got that one out without getting really snippy, saying things I won’t mean another day. Such as how much I hate to hear able-bodied people bitch about walking when it was their choice. Then I could look back upon those statements and use them as evidence of the crabby future man-spinster I am becoming. Razzle-frazzit!