la di da di.

i can actually hear the forty ounce of old english sitting in my fridge, buzzering like a secret guitar string that only my poor sober heart and certain alcoholic dogs can hear. shut up already, you delicious whore! remind me not that the good lord made you the perfect combination of malt and liquor, brimming with golden condensation and mocking me: "i, perfect, malt and liquor. you, evan, girlchested tetrajew, bespectacled and scared of vegetables. you are but a squiggly little inchworm in the shadow of my magnificent, gothically-scripted superlove. drink me and be the power! sicken me no more with you earthly cowardice! come. come!"

hold on a second. i have to go to the kitchen.

ahhh. there you are, sweet bravery. somewhere in your foggy, pearshaped figure lie two ounces of pure alcohol. only twentyfive badtasting minutes to go. only twentyfive badtasting minutes to go.

last night i tried papi's medicine. it was all i had hoped for and/or. in my pumpkin-carriage of upsidedownness, motion became my bitter enemy, stringcheese my friend. pillows and pillows of pillows! i slept like twin fetuses. and today i awoke to insane amounts of work to do, which, for the first time in my laughable life, i did with secret glee. everything i do with glee i do with secret glee. is that spelled correctly? it looks weird. fuck it.

normally i would go back and spellcheck at this point. but i don't think this entry is something i can afford to relive. and: a lesson i had forgotten from my teenage years: dryhumping destroys your pelvis!