Tuesday, October 27, 2009

what i hate

is a draft.

not like a draft of a paper, those are kind of a nuisance, but a draft of cold air.
the kind of draft that slinks in under your window
in the dark dark uncozy night or in the unfriendly morning,
the draft that seeks out your tiny pre-osteoperosis-old-lady-bones
and makes you shiver. with. an unholy. sense of your mortality. i exaggerate.

exhibit a.

storm window! go down! go fuck yourself!

exhibit b:

you can't read it because the dial machine is a failure on almost all counts. i will translate it says: "laura, touch me. mmmmm, do it. push my dial up past 65, or hey, 70, doesn't 70 feel soooooooooo good? mmmmm?" (laura touches dial machine.) dial machine goes:"70! you just spent 70 dollars HAHAHAHAHA!" (laura doesn't think it's funny.)

exhibit c:

my only friend. (it's a space heater)

until my encounter with.....


dear draft,
i now like you because in you i have found a semi-legitimate excuse to live out my dream of dressing like an anime character, dressing like a yeti-monster, in my own home.

YETI SAY: BI-BI!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

YETI GO BI-BI!!!!!!!

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