PFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFT.David and I have started doing this stupid thing, where if we run out of things to say, or if we're just sitting in silence, we make fart noises back and forth at each other. It's not really a competition as to who can make the best fart noise, but almost like some odd form of communication. Like a really low far noise means I'm exhausted, and a very high-pitched, wet-sounding fart noises means I'm bored, yet playful. He farts back, and I agree with his fartnoise, so I nod and fartnoise.
Unfortunately, it has become very difficult to not do this at work, as I am often exhausted and even more often bored, and when I'm wearing my headphones and listening to Elvis on Pandora I don't hear the noises I make. I definitely know I once burped out loud. And I sigh out loud all of the time--it's just that I don't hear it so I only think I'm doing it in my head. When, in fact, all of my coworkers can hear me go
uggghhh! when the phone queue rings on my end. [smile, adjust tone] Registrar's Office! This is JEEEEEEEEEAN! What can I do for you today?
*****
I feel as though I owe to the that of you to explain what's been going on in my living room for the last 15 minutes. Quite simply to put it: I'm hallucinating. I realize that hallucinating is a term most saved for schizos or meth addicts, but I swear to you right how in practicallity that I can, that I am absolutely hallucinating. First of all, my gutair is all propped up next to me, taking occasional bows (I'm NOT speaking in metaphor here! This is what I really beleive I am seeing. He seems though he wants to disagree with something I said eariler. And it's been really difficult to type on my computer scree, because it seems as though the back ground in marshallows. My comoputer screen is made of marshmallows, and when I poke it, the poof-poof makes the words swim around page while still in lines. Sometimes a line of prose twangs like a guitar chord and then vibrates for a minute and then sometimes the words seem to race each other to undisclosed destinations. Especially the words on the coffee table. They're sick of their page and they are just getting up and walking off.
While I was listening to one of the summer CD songs, the white plastic pillow thought it was a turtle. The end of the pointed out like a turtle who'd just come out of his shell, and he beckoned me with his nostril. The other poeint of the pilliow slides back and forth like a tial providing meter for a very slow Frost poem.
The lights on the lamp know what I like. When I'm not peeking back at whatever is going on in kitchen with my coats, who keep nodding at me, or beckoning that I come in to their side of the party because this side is lame--the little lamp is turning into an amazingly vivid tulip. I stare at the bulb for a second, and as the music plays that bulb shrinks in its little shell. (It is almost like a hand being held by the floor light. It's the one used for reading that hangs over.) So, the floor lamp presents it to me when I look up, and it's all open, pink-purple and inviting.The lightbulb just stuck out its tongue at me! It shrinks itself within the ceramic casing. It blinks green and white light, all the while looking bubbly and holding control of its mass. It can split into two. Also there are two little men with tiny directing arms inside each bulb. I don't know if they control the bulb or the bulb controls them, though, and I'm afraid to ask. I'm afraid if I ask I won't be invited to these parties anymore.
That lightbulb is a sock pupper. It has a mouth that opens when the songs get upbeat and it looks like the whole sock is gonna climb out of the setting. The lightbulb has turned into a marshmallow and he's eating himself, and now he's a jellyfish. A purple pink transparent jelly fish blobbing around like he's just gonna float around my room. As a jellyfish, he looks oddly squirrel like, as though he's nibbling on something to prep for winter. And when I take of my glasses, it looks just like a tulip and then it transforms into a giant knowing eye with a glass center that probably wants to predict the future or something.
****
Okay. Okay okay okay okay. I know that shit up there doesn't make any sense, and the fact that my movies are trying to climb out of their baskets doesn't either. What the hell just happened to me on this couch? It's be awesome if I could tell you I was stoned right now, or that I'd found some blue pills in the purse of a crazy women on the bus, but I haven't taken anything that hasn't been prescribed to me. Granted this is the first time I am taking a full dose of the Ambien (after a rough night's sleep last night, I deserve it) but that makes you sleep, it doesn't make you think your curtains are conspiriting to your chair slip cover about your insanity. What if my computer's even in on it! He has all of my information and right now he's making the words are swirly and seem bolden when they're not bolded at all. And now the backgrounds all shaken up and gray. Damnit.
So goes for the awesome post I was gonna write about my distaste for downtonwn/business/MBA people. This post here can confirm that I have no authority to write about the issue, however. That's what I's irrational thinking.
But I better stop typing because it makes everything tripper. And although I want this feeling to last as long as possibe because it so absolutely illogical. I don't do a lot of drugs--maybe this is exactly what hallucinating is. Maybe it's totally normal. Yeah! Normal from my track jacket to keep peeking at me from the kitchen! It's none of your business what's going on in this room! Jeesh.
I forgot what I was talking about. Sometime soon I will write the post of what this was supposed to be, which is mainly a list of things I don't like about MBAs, and most importantly, why I feel I have to make the list. As I am so dissappointed into my ability to understand MBAs and suits and what have you. It's nothing rational, and it's nothing against people who have MBAs. I just understand why in the hell you would want one and what you do with your life once you do. MBAs I just don't fucking get you. I would like to, but I imagine we are so different I might walk away from you and go get a fat fucking beer.
PFFFFFFFFFT. That's right, guitar case.
PFFFFT indeed.
Bear lawnmower. You are so old school. And you charge too much and leave dead-grass piss circles on the lawn. You are one bear who does not poop in the woods. "Just fertilizin'," you say. "Can a bear get some privacy? Yeesh!"
