Drop the phone

I don't know why I bother, but I guess I'm bored. So, here's the brainfart of the day, all of which point to me, because I'm an A-level narcissist that way. Woohoo. You won't be hearing anything about the goddamned ridiculous high-freakin'-prices of rice from me, nossirree, goddamned 40 bucks per goddamned kilo.

Brainfart:
I am still lazy, which scares me because I feel as if the summer's going to end before I know it, and I won't have time to be lazy anymore. And quite a bit disorientated -- I just love all the pretentious extra syllables in that word, don't you? I don't know what day it is really, and I have to look at the timestamp on this page repeatedly. I've got things to do, and yet I've gleefully chosen to lock myself in the nearest fall-out shelter to binge on trashy novels and McDonald's McNuggets McYeah. I've got stories to write, papers to submit, stuff to pack for my inevitable eviction but I've spent the past few weeks stewing with the heat, on my effin' ass. My dad's wondering what cliff his eldest daughter jumped off from, and my mother simply wants to make sure I'm not rotting away out of sheer unproductivity. My brothers are with that billiard table in Calatagan, and my dad's chickens are probably limping, because the weather's wonky. I've got more than my fair share of Jaid Black and I'm starting to ache with the surfeit of blue aliens making love on stone tablets. Stories of Divorce is just depressing me, so I often put it down and hunt for a hug. Sometimes, I think I need to read Nabokov again, because the last time I did, I couldn't finish it because the guy I was dating then was a self-confessed asshole. Haha, you know who you are. I'm wasting my time in front of this computer, and I haven't had breakfast. Been awake since three in the morning. I need to get a life. I have a lot of keys in my bag and they're making a lot of noise. John Torres is the shit. I can't seem to find my USB. I'm meeting my mother by the Plato Wraps at Taft. Miriam girls, I am picking my nose as I write this. I need to get a dress and some bronze sandals. I've got two hundred bucks in my pocket. Where the fuck are those McNuggets?

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"Metaphors are dangerous. Love begins with a metaphor. Which is to say, love begins at the point when a woman enters her first word into our poetic memory. "
- from Milan Kundera, The Unbearable Lightness of Being