A confession: I often talk to myself and make little notes if I’ve been drinking and am now winding down the night alone. Sometimes I do this with pen and paper, which is always fun, as in the morning I woke up and I had on my nightstand next to me a note on the back of a receipt, which said merely two words: “METRIC HOUR.”
Not my most genius moment, I suspect.
Anyway, I found the following file saved on my computer last night. I had apparently written it Saturday night, when I had done some soul-cleansing and rebaptized myself in the name of Pacifico (for which I paid dearly through the first half of Sunday). I guess I must have been thinking about eggs. I cleaned up the typos, and here is what I think of eggs when I’ve been drinking:
qualities of eggshellness cross applied
the protectiveness of it, the containment, like being a baby in a stomach, weird.
but so illusory
only purpose is to keep safe the object within
the way you can stick your thumb through one
the way they are so fragile, it is the only word, fragile
not sure i can eat them anymore
remember the manicurist and the dentist, the quadripedal machines which predated the chiefly handheld (besides cars which also date from this older and first era of design where people walked and ran and kicked more) tech devices which dominate the present landscape, sewing machines are of course another example!!! need to think about this.
The sad part is I actually know what most of that meant. In fact, that last paragraph is something I’ve been kicking around awhile and will eventually write about. I hope you’re thrilled to be in on the ground level of this.
Oh, and just in case you were thinking that my opinions are all well and good but there’s nothing about breasts or anything particularly cute and oldtimey in this entry, why is that?, here:
Need: met!
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