Don't fuck when you have chest pains, doesn't end well. Life advise. In between my first coffee and two solid hours of boredom a thought came to mind: Warhol's art, especially the cans, has been so assimilated into current culture that it no longer carries any meaning. Which is so ironic I could die. It's weird. Very weird. Random Art Advise. The weather turned warm. The day's sluggish, going by like slowly unstuck syrup. All day walkin' like there was nothing flashing behind the eyes; my mouth stayed open, yawnin'. And every slack shuffle towards my destinations was tinted with flashback to when I lost my virginity. While I read, while I ate lunch, while I tried to watch tv, jut kept having bits and bobs of that nightmare tip back into my everyday thought. It's decrepit to remember. Whatever cortex spiral of regret that holds memory in the brain stinks like grave yard fumes, like the house of commons shitter, like wards for the insane that've been abandoned since forever. Or that town in Connecticut that's got a gateway to hell. What's that place called? Thorn? Hill something? Herd? something with an H. The story today, "A Touch of the Flu", was brief, breifer than the last three (it's roughly about one page front-&-back). It's about a woman who, obsessed with having a kid, leaves her husband and uses some unnamed guy to conceive one; she has it, lives at her family's beach house for a week or two three four, and for one, she falls to depression/Post-Natal Depression and she has it for like a week then get's over it; and her and her mother never speak of it again. Apparently. The post-natal is some thing I've projected onto to it, she'd just laid up in bed and rejects her kid when offered it and she sees herself in the child and loathes it for that fact but only for a week and the mother says that it was a touch of the flue then they never speak of it again. So I just project depression on that cos fuckit. Either Oates is having depression/cope/loss the theme(s) of the book or I cant stop reading that into the words because Im all fucking smiles over here. Just kept having flashbacks. While I tried to read while I -- I kept coming up with hindsight quips to toss at the guy: 'Push that ass out' If you'd stop fucking me so rough, I might not try to escape. Geez. I'd be sitting there trying to watch SVU and that fuck's face would pop up in my head -- I'd never seen an episode of Law & Order, in my entire life, before today; that show goes fucking hard. What started off as a possible kidnapping of a UN Agents kid turned into an episode on just sort of dropping off your adopted kid to some random people and somehow that was actually magically legal and then it turned into a manhunt for child pornographers where one of them was some asshole who faked being crippled and is in some band, I swear to god he's in some band or other. Fucking weird. I missed most of it due to the fact I was rubbing on out up stairs. I would like to point out I was rubbing one out up stairs because I had to take a shit, and I dont shit in the downstairs bathroom, and I became horribly bored so I just jacked it to some video of a guy getting fucked so hard I felt slightly bad for him yet I kept wanting hims to scream more and more which made me feel slightly worser and hornier which made things worserer. So, um. Yeah.
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