A mouse just farted. It stinks.

This afternoon I woke up with a slight hangover and found these in my bed.

- 2 pairs of jeans. One clean, one dirty

- A button down shirt

- An iron PLUGGED INTO AN OUTLET. Holy motherfucking God. Fortunately this is one of those iron that turns off automatically if no one touches it for 30 minutes. Can you imagine what would’ve happened if it didn’t turn off? Holy crap. I would’ve turned into a Chinese suckling pig by now. Note to self: remember to give the bum a few quarters on my way to the pool later so he can go buy some weeds to repay karma.

- 2 coat hangers

- 5 pillows

- My comforter rolled into a giant ball of salami. Yes, my comforter can do that. Yes, I said a giant BALL of salami.

- Me. Naked. With the sheet strategically covering only ONE ball, exposing the other. Like you can sleep with your clothes on when it’s still 95 degree out at 3 in the morning.

I hate the heat. I hate fast swimmers. I hate stupid fortune cookies with dumb ass fortune. What the hell does “It’s hard for an empty bag to stand up right” got to do with anything? What the fuck does it even mean? Is it saying that I have no soul? That I’m empty inside? Fuck you, fortune cookie. And then there is “Ignorance never settles a question”. Shit. That means I should really check and “look deeply into myself” and make sure that I do indeed have soul. But I do have another fortune telling me “Quality counts and you’ve got it”. But I’m not sure if I should smile or cry because apparently I have only ONE quality. Nothing more, nothing less. Just ONE fucking quality. No fear though, as “Faith is the key to finding the answer you’re looking for”. I wonder what is the key to finding the question to the answer I’m looking for. Because even I don’t know that I have a question. Or that I’m looking for an answer. As a matter of fact, I do have a question:

Where have all the cowboys gone?

Oops. That was Paula Cole’s question. Where the hell is she by the way? She made two songs then disappear back into the fortress of disappearance? That last sentence doesn’t make any sense, you say? Well I don’t remember paying you to ask question. I don’t even remember paying you to read this, my non-existent readers. Actually I do have one reader. You know who you are. Thank you for wasting your time here. I really appreciate it.

So, back to my question.

Where have all the hot boys gone?? Where? Huh? Huh? Tell me! Tell me, you motherfucking fortune! TELL MEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!

And then there is this fortune “Live life not expecting, then even the small tings you will be grateful for!” What. The. Fuck. Does. That. Fucking. Means? I will be grateful for every single “light clear metallic sound as of a small bell” (courtesy of Onelook) if I live my life not expecting to hear a light clear metallic sound? So every time the ice cream truck goes by I should get all jingled up inside? I’m not even gonna dwell more into this. It’s exhausting.

I was reading The Hot Librarian’s archive yesterday, and she had this line somewhere in one of her entry that goes something like “something something lower self esteem, and God know that is forbidden in America”. I paused at this line for a long time. Because it is so true. Yet no one speaks of it. Because they are all pussies. And their walls are 2 miles high and 3 feet thick, completed with padded foam linings on the entire inside. So it’s all safe and sound in there for them. Hence no one wants to let it down, even just for a minute to do things they never did, or to meet people they’ve never met, or to see things they’ve never seen. Talk about living outside the box.

It may sounds like I collect fortunes. I do. It may also sounds like I stick those fortunes in very close vicinity of my computer, say on the computer desk. I do.

I might seem depressed and angry, that’s because I am. Waking up with the sun nicely baking your room to a toasty 400 degrees, ready for you to melt like cheese, and an empty house so silent I can hear the sound of the mouse farting in the garage just send me into the realm of what-cha-ma-call-it.

I love that word.