Let me tell you about a few things I have ingested in unusual quantities while staying with my parents. For awhile it was buttered toast. Now, suddenly, it is hot and my dad seems not to have baked bread in awhile--or maybe it's just that he's turned his attention to the musical fruit. Burritos have become his primary cuisine lately, which I can totally endorse and relate to, because at many points in my life I have mused upon the burrito and how, without it, I might have no cuisine of my own. This was especially true in grad school. Then came the white flour/carb scare, which I totally bought, and my burrito consumption declined.
So my dad has been making his own beans lately, the refried kind. I almost took a picture of the bean bowl after the most recent batch, but then I realized you'd have no way of knowing HOW HUGE IT WAS. The sheer weight of frijoles refritos in the massive old-school tupperware bowl could almost throw your back out. Dad came home from the grocery store a few days ago and announced "I just spent $50 on beans and hot sauce." So yeah, I been eating a lot of damn burritos.
Another thing: Diet Sierra Mist. I know! Gross! I am not a drinker of sodas, generally. I basically drink water full-time, and I'm cool with that. But my folks keep Sierra Mist in the house and guess what? It's kind of light and refreshing. It tastes citrusy. For the first few cans I even labored under the mistaken assumption that there was no nutrasweet in it because it did not have that nutrasweet taste. I'm not saying I'm going to run out and buy my very own case. I'm just saying I've probably had ten cans of soda in the last 6 weeks and that, for me, is a lot.
Also, raisin bran.
All right, you're through caring about what I've eaten, so let me throw THIS at you. This Stereolabrat character seems to be hilariously bitter about a lot of things, and it makes excellent reading, I mean if you're into vulgarity. Which I am. I scrolled through the first page of entries this evening and was, like, crying. For example: "No, no we are all lonely sometimes, he says, we are all lonely, you must be lonely sometime. I'm like fine OK I am lonely sure and I'm thinking please someone stick a dick in this guy's facehole he is ruining my jam, and you know how hard I worked all night to get this jam, with the Jameson's and the wine and the whatnot?" Yeah. You should read it. Or maybe she'll offend you or be too one-note, but whatever, because: "Things are mischievously vegan here. I say this because I ordered this cake and it was so fucking good I almost cried and then I found out it was vegan and was like WTF and then I fed it to my friend who was like TOTES OMG WTF and then when I told him it was vegan it was as if I had ripped open his ballsac and butterflies and fairies had flown out."
I woke up at 4:30 this morning to pee and then, and then, it was all over. There was no more sleep to be had. You know why? Because I signed a lease on a place that HAS NO CLOSETS. I DON'T KNOW WHAT I WAS THINKING. And in the pearly light of dawn I could think of nothing else, what with the birds tweetling me ever more alert. Except maybe this: the place is on the third floor. This is fine if you're in some modern industrial apartment complex but I will be in a giant old divvied-up Victorian. Guess who is going to have awesome(r) quads? The stairs from the second floor up to my apartment are, bonus, extra steep. I am seriously contemplating adopting a design aesthetic based totally on beanbags because I can't fathom getting furniture up the stairs. I know it can be done because the filthy people who lived there before had rudimentary furniture (that is now next to the dumpster).
Naturally the first thing I did in the service of moving in was unroll my new rug and also slap some wall decals from IKEA all over a kitchen wall. I need to buy and do so many things it's stupid.
Meanwhile, I ran directly into the face of one of my doctoral committee members. I actually wondered if I was in a movie, because I was running late and I opened the door to the building and there she was! All in my face! And we exchanged surprised hurried pleasantries and I kept running. But now I am in the position of shit, she knows I'm still alive. Really, I know these people don't particularly care that I am delinquent on my thesis. They have other things to do. But you know when you've just been out of touch to an embarrassing degree, and you find it almost impossible to get in touch because then you'll have to justify the last 3 months or whatever? Yeah. I smell a confessional/apologetic email.
I got my shoes in the mail and they are almost as life-affirming as I'd hoped, but I think the Campers are destined for ebay. Damn you, tiny Euro-shoes.
Also, here is an open suggestion to price-sticker wielders at garage sales:
PRICE TO SELL, YOU JACKASS.
I'm not joking. No one wants to go to a garage sale that is in your garage and spend $75 on a chair that you think is an antique. I am also looking at you, holders of the price guns at Savers and Goodwill. Except sometimes you totally have my back, like today when I picked up yards and yards of mint condish gorgeous screenprinted linen from the 70s that is destined for my closetless walls for $3.
I've been up since 4:30, it's true. Time to bring this day to a close, even though my brother is due to roll in from Pittsburgh any minute.
Yeah, yeah, oh yeah.