Superbowl Sunday has been a wash. I have eaten almost everything in my path, including the cuticle on my right pinkie and a stale brownie. This must be the seventh or eighth time I've seen "Irma Vep," but it never seems to get old. I'd rather be enacting the boredoom than watching meaty fellows smack each other around on a large, painted lawn.
On my mind are petty adventures: you know, the equivalent of spying on the guests at your parents' dinner party when you're supposed to be in bed. It gives you a tiny, illicit thrill, even though you're not actually doing anything wrong. I have had no such adventures lately. No trespassing, no getting kicked out of bars. I have spent so many years searching for security that I've forgotten how to look for trouble.
Security, however, is like the holy fucking grail. And my registration ran out in January. Maybe I'll get off my high horse and go for a little drive.
On my mind are petty adventures: you know, the equivalent of spying on the guests at your parents' dinner party when you're supposed to be in bed. It gives you a tiny, illicit thrill, even though you're not actually doing anything wrong. I have had no such adventures lately. No trespassing, no getting kicked out of bars. I have spent so many years searching for security that I've forgotten how to look for trouble.
Security, however, is like the holy fucking grail. And my registration ran out in January. Maybe I'll get off my high horse and go for a little drive.
tryst:
fantastic poem, my little non-smoking ad.