i sleep, wake, eat, fuck, write. not in that order. oh yeah, and work: get on plane, de-plane, stand at baggage claim, order 10th pair of $2 complimentary headphones, say hello to pension-less bitter flight attendant, accept $3 complimentary snack box. snack box. what the fuck is a snack box. sounds dirty. plus you have to pay in exact change. no wonder i get these thoughts: they all want exact change. 1s. lots and lots of 1s rolled up in a greasy ball in my pocket, like i'm at a strip club. yes, i would love a snack box and (really?) a lap dance. but not from a gay guy. all those male strippers are gay which is a bitch. thanks.
but i love it. me make own schedule. me make phone call, do lunch, kiss on each cheek, bring in futuristic coffee-maker to work, tap tap on keyboard, go hi-yah! three days a week after work, and plan for future: one jet pack to stars, 21st century birth control, one big truck of expensive fireworks, 40 ounces of malt liquor, 7 yrs in tibet, and 2 months on lone beach in baja eating fish tacos. i used to send random plane tickets to lucky hotties for distant locales. you know who you are. if ya get one these days, enjoy the free hotel. i'll be on a beach far away gettin' burnt like a cwispy cwacker. which reminds me. i know i shouldn't look a gift horse in the mouth, but ya ever had a bad lap dance? bad kiss? bad sex? bad you know what? what do you say when it's happening? just sit there and blandly smile, putting more cheese on your snack box crackers?