It's only in moments like these, when I've blown another amazing life opportunity by being a spaz and looking too jewish, that I remember what I did two weeks ago to make a stranger think that I am a complete twat. Sorry to use the blog for how much I would murder myself if I could only pull myself out of my own anus, (where I'm trying to hide my face from the casting execs who literally did not understand why I even exist), but I was walking along flower alley today and remembered that, two weeks ago, at a high schol reunion that was NOT EVEN MINE I got hammered off of a cap full of clos du bois white wine and told some girl that "I pray by reading poetry", and then proceded to ask her, "where are all of the jocks?" She gave me a look that felt like a light kick to the vagina. Well, here's the"prayer" of the day, brought to you, once again, by a certain genius named Georges Bataille.
"The Washing"
My asshole is the altar
and the altarcloth is the toilet.
lets pray some more, actually.
"Laughing"
To laugh and laugh
at the sun
at the nettles
at the pebbles
at the ducks
in the rain
at the pope's pee
at mommy
and a coffin full of shit.
great. just great. amen. but seriously, where are the jock? i need a donkey punch BAD, right about now. love, jenny
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