In the predictably uninspired words of Scott Weiland, I am “feeling uninspired, think I’ll start a fire.” Not that each moment made dull by haphazard planning, torpid disposition, or neural pathways failing to connect (she wanted kids, he didn’t) results in pyromania. Not most in fact. Even on this occasion I have limited my arsonous endeavors to the paraffin hollow of a candle or fifteen, and the rebelliously long wick which resides therein. Caution be damned, ¼ inch is not enough for this dare devil!
I haven’t abetted these waxy pillars in fulfilling their torrid destinies at the urging of some latent longing bent on decimation. I only wanted a little ambiance. Some flickering amber light on the walls, ceiling, tabletop to infuse my surroundings with an excessive vanilla aroma and an amorous glow. Romance baby! I’m spending the evening with Curry, and I really want it to be special. So I’m having some wine, some smooth jams playing in the back ground (and foreground, and side ground…we have surround sound), she’s asleep in her kennel, and I’m writing this. Nothing sets Cupid’s arrow to firing and Aphrodite’s cup to overflowing quite like spending a candlelit dusk with my dog. Not even raw oysters, as sexy as they feel in my mouth.
Before this takes a disturbingly bestialitous turn, I will claim facetiousness, and a rare condition where in my brain completely ceases to function in a creative capacity when I am exposed to florescent lighting, even if I close my eyes, it infuses my skin like radiation (think Wal-Mart), and crippling loneliness which has lead to the personification of my dog, but really only in a conversational manner, and also idea bankruptcy because truthfully, and sadfully, this is all I have to say. Just you wait, I’ll pull a Stella. And get my groove back? You know, the movie? Jeezus, keep up with the times. Every one’s heard of that box office smash.
So Curry is sleeping off the day’s Bull Creek travails and I’m classily slurping my way through a chilled glass of Franzia Chardonnay (excellent vintage) and the candles are ON FIYAH! All is right in the world assuming the word consists solely of those three things.
Here are things that are happening right now that should not be: there is a dictionary open on the table to the left of my computer in which I look up nearly every word that I write (that doesn’t even make sense), I am giving text message relationship advice to the Tiffers (I have no business, but we shan’t get into that), and I am seriously mentally eyeballing that goat cheese cranberry walnut dressing mixture in the fridge, but I am not hungry.
What it all simmers down to is a cool, calm and collected state of arid, surface fissured August in Arizona of the mind. “You don’t use it you lose it.” I think it was Jesus who said that. And he was right, as usual. So I haven’t used it in a while, and I can’t, for the life of me, seem to find it. I’ll check in the couch cushions, you look in the fridge. If you find it in the fridge, do me a favor and take the milk out of the pantry. I always do that!
A bit ago, I took a steamy, candle-surrounded bath of modest bubble population in preparation for this most specialest of nights, and it was so hot, that when I got out of the tub, the water actually rose. Think about that…
Now, I’ve always been an oily entity, much like an olive. I’ve struggled for years with massive pores and city of scorching hot and excessively humid summers. As a result I’ve always had to wash my hair every other day, every day if I want to wear it down. That is, until I discovered the Beehive! This versatile hair style is perfect for any situation, from kneeling in a pew to cleaning up poo, from a five star meal to a parking lot deal, from giving head to being dead. You will never feel inappropriately coiffured in this dazzlingly altitudinal cranial sculpture. It is truly a work of art! Now you can stand proudly, head high (not that you have a choice) amongst your peers. No, not those neighborhood busy bodies who already eye you with malicious envy; I mean Michelangelo, DaVinci, VanGogh, and the rest of the great artists of the world, for your hair will be a magnum opus! And that’s not even the best part! With the Beehive, you will have to wash your hair but once a… no not day, not week, but once a month! Yes, you heard correctly, just once a month! Those days of tedious daily hygiene are over! Order now and we will include Eau de Dirty Head, a $3.00 value, at no cost to you. Simply send $10.00 plus $59.99 S&H to 123 Major Digression Blvd. Austin, Texas 78717.
Wow, I really got off track there, but it was flowin’ and well, I ain’t no dam. Only the first three sentences of that actually applied to me.
So yeah, I was oily, yadda yadda yadda, and now my skin feels all dry and you could sand a Depression-era armoire with my hands, though I’m sure that afterward it would be appraised for less at Antiques Road Show. Maybe it’s the Franzia. No no no, it’s just too high quality. Must be something else.
Wow I have been writing for like two hours, including the goat cheese concoction break! This is awesome! And it only felt like three!
Just kidding. This is, in all honestly the most, purest, sincere fun I’ve had in a while. As cliché as it is to say this, I feel alive. Not entirely, but like some part of me that’s essentially, uniquely me was resuscitated from the brink of death, saw the light at the end of the tunnel, saw the divine and came back to life with renewed meaning and faith in god and an interminable optimism that annoys and inspires all of its friends. I exaggerate. But you get what I mean.