“Do you think there’s something you missed out on in life because you were holding a door?” 

“Maybe not but when you ask the question I feel like it’s true.” 

After spending the better part of a day in bed with a fever watching Twin Peaks, all I want right now is this,

This,

And probably this.  

Is it so much to ask? 

“There Are Some Suspenseful Scenes”: You will hear some ominous music in this movie. 

“I Didn’t Get It”: I didn’t like it. 

“Lots Of Sex”: Probably not as much sex as the phrase ‘lots of sex’ would lead you to think.  

“Moving”: People cry in this movie. 

“Entertaining”: Slapsticky.

“Enchanting”: Cheesy. 

“Beautiful”: Brightly colored.

“Riveting”: AUUUGGGGHHH.

“Culturally Relevant”: Racist!

“Weird, intellectual and artsy”: Probably awesome. 

“Action packed, edge-of your seat”: Things will totally explode for the next two hours. 

“Couldn’t Finish It”: Shouldn’t have written about it. 

“One of the best comedies ever! Nathan Lane, Hank Azaria and Robin Williams are hilarious! Watch if you want to have a better day/week/life!”: This is totally true. 

Aint nothing sadder than a six O clock diner by yourself. After Some Strange Night of more hard, dumb, loud partying and these people showed up all healthy for the marathon outside. Blurs of cardiovascular activity in four way stretch breathing deeply past the window; I’m wondering if a bacon omelette is a good idea or will just make the situation worse. The waiter just called me ma’am. There’s cold clay in all my joints and touching the coffee cup sends a shock of warm through my arm, up into my chest. Oh, oh, oh, how proud would my Fight Club loving high school self be of me right now? So dearly romanticizing the dark circles and scratched out pores of too much fun for too cheap. Except that at sixteen the only drunk I had ever been was on love and those hangovers don’t usually happen until years later. 

People who wake up this early have a special kind of god in them. 

Meanwhile, cretins like yours truly are stuffed in the corner by the manager who hopes we wont ooze all over the floor, gripping the vinyl seat on a cellular level and trying to remain upright. Maybe it’ll be like the movies, I’ll get thrown on my ear into the steaming alley- “Beat it!”

But this is San Diego and our alleys don’t steam. There’s two men in the booth across the way, not talking. Eating. Eating and watching a re-broadcast of basketball on the flatscreen over my head. They’re having mimosas and I’m holding it down over here at table B3. I wonder what would happen if I just walked over there and sat down, nothing to say. I mean, they aint saying damn shit anyway. 

What the hell happened last night? How am I short forty dollars and why do I feel guilty?

The somewhat balding bartender from the pub across the street- right. Man, it was like flirting with a billy club. One of these days I’ll be bludgeoned to death by illicit intentions, but hey at least I died young and somewhat pretty and wont have to worry about slipping into silent years of soft skin and thin hair. Oh, anything but that. 

To all the small gods that inhabit marathon runners: Yea, let me grow not old but let my  body desiccate. Put me in a bath of margarita salt and marijuana smoke and seal me up in a Camaro with all my rings and pendants and cute terrariums, a fire-engine red chariot to eternal glory. 

IS A POWERHOUSE. 

Josh: It looked like tasty treats but it’s actually just a bag of dry bread. 

Me: You’re shopping at 99 Ranch now, BITCH!

I am a vegetarian, except for bacon. 

#it’smylifeidowhatiwant