T.A.D.L.A.R.
You read this blog to be dazzled by the fecundity of our imaginations, right? How psyched are you, then, for…
PISTOL’S WEEK IN DREAMZZZ
??????????????????????????????????????????????????????????
Tuesday November 13th: Lindsay Lohan has a poem in the New Yorker. At first I am horrified but then I read it and it is indistinguishable from all the other poems in the New Yorker.
Wednesday November 14th: Sweet sex dream! I’m at a costume party but I’m not in costume. This lad rilly fancies me. He talks me into an empty room and I agree to make out with him for ONE MINUTE. Then, whoops!
Dreamboy is a chatty one.
I know what you are! he says breathlessly. You’re a schoolgirl!
I do happen to be wearing kneesocks.
Okay, you’re a nurse! A candy striper! A milkmaid! You’re one of Santa’s helpers! [Ick.–ed.]
WHAT ARE YOU?
I won’t answer him.
Thursday November 15th: No dreams, which is like being dead.
Friday November 16th: I am reading Al Gore’s blog. It says, When Tipper and I were travelling in India, we really got into reading Foucault. That’s it: no links, no picture of Foucault, no nothing. Dude, our blog is way better than Al Gore’s, thinks my dreamself.
Saturday November 17th: I am rubbing bacon all over my face. It is confusing how disgusting that is. I thought I liked bacon? Wake up with serious drool situation.
Sunday November 18th: See Thursday.
Monday November 19th: My mom is dead. WOOF. Probably an unconsious expression of my guilt at selling her out to Ross’s Cracked blog for laffs, i.e. metaphorically killing her because I so desperately wanted fifteen seconds of attention. Sigh.
Click that link, though! That’s me!
Leave a Reply