When I created my blog, I predicted I would be constantly updating but it turns out that thoughts escape me faster than I can make my way to a keyboard. I also envisioned this romantic process of melodic musings dripping out my fingers and into the porous modem but… here I am with fingers wrung dry.
To simply recap, I met this guy on the bus today with the gnarliest beard and we talked about Freud (not because we’re pretentious bitches, but because that is what I happened to be reading) and he starts talking about this weird dream he’s been having where he’s in some underground robot sweatshop and everything is lined in aluminum foil and when he looks into the mirror, he has crabs for eyes?? (I drifted in and out) He asked me what I think and I wanted to tell him that I think dream interpretation is bullshit and that he's not going to lure any hos with that beard but I'm not as forward as I'd like to think.
I might also just be bitter because that dream actually sounds freaken awesome and the only dreams I ever have are of me doing laundry and all that does is fool me into thinking I already did laundry… sucks. At least there's always drugs.
About Freud though, turns out he is an enormous prick who got too preoccupied in convincing young girls that everything they touch or put in their mouths reflects what they'd like to do to all inches of daddy to assess why he himself was sucking so hard and so insatiably on fat cigars (20 a day). He had some points though... Everytime I undress a man old enough to be my father with my eyes, I grimace, throw my fist in the air and spit “curse you, Freud!” and he is floating around somewhere, mouth plugged with a chunky ghost Cuban, guffawing “gotcha, bitch! Now who's your daddy?"
Another battle with the sheets tonight. Lately I've been having insane bouts of insomnia and I feel it taking a toll below my eyes like rings of a tree.
