Sunday, February 1

I went in and got up against betty's warm ass.

"Don't go to Paris, they wouldn't like you!"
"Do you know what a hipster is?"
"Its like the Amsterdam of ....*"

"Have you ever been to Trailer Trash?"
"Well, your mother is a supermarket lady!"
"I'm going to go the sor-bon or the cor-told"
"Do you like my cool shoes, Charlie?"

Two sets of utterances by two different morons, none of it was ironic, tongue in cheek or perhaps even vaguely satirical. This is the grotesque face of reality, right here.

On end of the spectrum we have an Anglo-Parisian faux-bohemian who likes to talk too much and try too hard.
On the other, a sad, sad, sad example of what two people with better finances than parental skills can produce.

I don't know where these fuck-ups appear from but I'm always running in to them, its like...well I don't even know what its like! Its funny (the best we can do is to laugh at these things): guys like Max and girls like whatever the fuck that girl's name was are probably, at this very moment in time having more fun than I am. I'm in my room, alone, writing this and thinking of "clever" things to write in my facebook status.

Maybe its me. Maybe I'm the asshole.

Whatever, her friend had the cutest fucking accent in the world. She caught me staring at her as she spoke to her friend, glanced back, looked upwards, and rolled her eyes, then turned the other way. Then left.

One for the wank bank I guess. I should get an offshore tax haven the amount of deposits I've been making of late.

*some place in America, I stopped listening at this point

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

i'm not allowed to eat the pie till tomorrow. it has to set.
now i understand why so many pies in childrens books were stolen off windows.
the setting, and the waiting.

when we make our pie, there ain't gonna be no waiting and setting.