It's Da First Of Tha Month 08.01.03

Wake up wake up.

These are hot and heady times. Not in the world. By that I mean that I won’t talk about Liberia or the Iraqi occupation or the shadiness of file-swapping lawsuits. I won’t talk about my headache. I won’t talk about being single. I won’t talk about all the people I haven’t seen in months.

It’s pouring outside, and the thunder is smacking like a dominatrix from my perspective off of Lafayette Street. I’ll go back, though, to retrieve medical aids. And then I will do something silly. Go right back out. Hit a bar in silly ass “hip” Williamsburg. Maybe join the kids at the Ace bar. Get into semi-arguments and semi-flirts lounging on the back chairs. Unless, of course, I do not.

After moping about for a few days, curling up in bed, listening to maudlin music, mournfuil jazz, country, and for God’s sake, the Sea and Cake (what’s wrong with me? Is there medicine for that?) there is nothing like letting the monkey out. Preferably with someone who has engendered a certain level of disrespect. Someone who inspires your sarcasm, your wry smile, your raised eyebrow. Then you can insult them subtly and it becomes a game.

The fact that this is the activity that lifts my spirits like a boob job should not make you think any less of me. I mean, come on! I love you! Mostly because you’re reading me.