Send Her to Hell
Well, isn't that a catchy title! Pure blatant manipulation in advertising, because this blog will have absolutely NOTHING to do with ghosts!
I'm here in our fancy-dancy public library, the kind that comes replete with hand sanitizers at the check-out counter and a variety of dazed yuppies running around in various stages of dismantling their laptops and blackberries (or, as the spawn of satan, i.e. my father would say, a "blueberry"). It's a sad world when the yuppies come (and, sure as shit, they always will), but the library itself is an enchanting place. I have long loved libraries, and find the vibrations here to be almost as relaxing as a good massage. Which I wish, unlike yuppies, I could afford more often.
Now that I've kicked the shit out of those greedy 80's creations (hellspawn! hellspawn!), or at least given them a good whack in the solar plexus, I must move on to other, more pressing topics, like my landlady. Ah, my faithful 1.9 or maybe even 2 readers, did you THINK I'd FORGET about HER?? That would be like trying to lance a boil alone, and Thee Must Help Me! (Thine?)
The latest Thing I Did Wrong, Because Sure as Shit I Always Do Something! (is there anything more sure than shit, really? taxes, maybe?), was to Wake Her Up. Waking her up is a huge no-no, of course, on par with maybe waiting until she's asleep in her bathtub, then boldly removing one of her kidneys with a shiny silver knife. Then, of course, you put the kidney on ice and sell it to a black market person (it's best if they're Russian, naturally, or at least someone with a thick accent of some kind) and then Flee the Country. Mexico, here we come!
Anyway, last night, because I have learned to Live Like The Fox, I thought I HAD INDEED violated a noise law according to the evil creature. I think I made the mistake of not muting the TV and/or closing the door when I left my room to pee (her bedroom, unfortunately, is down the hall from mine -- yes, I rent a room, not a basement apartment, alas). And thus woke her up! Gee, I'm so crushed, really! She said something about it in her usual nasty tone the next day, the tone that has become like a rallying cry to my soul that says, Sweetheart! Get The Fuck Out! (If Only I Could! That involves information best left for my therapist. This is a blog, not a one-way ticket to boredom).
According to The Harpy she thought that "someone was trying to break into the house." Yes, of course, dear! That's what I would assume when I live with two other people! Then again, she is old and paranoid, and I honestly think only sees me in a peripheral way, like I'm one of those weird pads of paper that you flip open that perform a little dance (does anyone know what I'm talking about?).
The upshot of it is that I'd rather live with a ghost than Cruella da Ville. OK, I lied! I worked ghosts in here somehow! In fact I have started to hum that song when The Harpy is about, although she is blissfully ignorant. I don't think the woman watches many Disney movies. Too bad -- they might be Delicious Splenda for Her Soul!
So that's the latest saga. In the meantime, I am continuing to mourn the Death of America and am convinced I need to move elsewhere, say Amsterdam or Canada. I was reading about Amsterdam's very permissive laws (we all know you can smoke pot legally and have sex with prostitutes there) and apparently Amsterdam is a Happy Haven For Misfits. AH! Another rallying cry, since I've been a Misfit, and certainly felt like one, for Eons Now! EONS!! I'm sure I have some friends out there in Blogland who concur! If not, you're probably a yuppie (just kidding).
So I may next be blogging straight from Holland. I could live on a farm with a windmill, and grow tulips in my garden. Date some hunky man with a tragically sexy accent who is bewitched by my strange American ways.
In the meantime, I dream of having my own apartment once again. Ah, those were the days, the days of being able to do WHATEVER YOU WANTED!! AH! AH! AH! It's practically an orgasm! Right there!
Send The Harpy to Hell. And may all your days be merry, and your spirits surely bright.
I'm here in our fancy-dancy public library, the kind that comes replete with hand sanitizers at the check-out counter and a variety of dazed yuppies running around in various stages of dismantling their laptops and blackberries (or, as the spawn of satan, i.e. my father would say, a "blueberry"). It's a sad world when the yuppies come (and, sure as shit, they always will), but the library itself is an enchanting place. I have long loved libraries, and find the vibrations here to be almost as relaxing as a good massage. Which I wish, unlike yuppies, I could afford more often.
Now that I've kicked the shit out of those greedy 80's creations (hellspawn! hellspawn!), or at least given them a good whack in the solar plexus, I must move on to other, more pressing topics, like my landlady. Ah, my faithful 1.9 or maybe even 2 readers, did you THINK I'd FORGET about HER?? That would be like trying to lance a boil alone, and Thee Must Help Me! (Thine?)
The latest Thing I Did Wrong, Because Sure as Shit I Always Do Something! (is there anything more sure than shit, really? taxes, maybe?), was to Wake Her Up. Waking her up is a huge no-no, of course, on par with maybe waiting until she's asleep in her bathtub, then boldly removing one of her kidneys with a shiny silver knife. Then, of course, you put the kidney on ice and sell it to a black market person (it's best if they're Russian, naturally, or at least someone with a thick accent of some kind) and then Flee the Country. Mexico, here we come!
Anyway, last night, because I have learned to Live Like The Fox, I thought I HAD INDEED violated a noise law according to the evil creature. I think I made the mistake of not muting the TV and/or closing the door when I left my room to pee (her bedroom, unfortunately, is down the hall from mine -- yes, I rent a room, not a basement apartment, alas). And thus woke her up! Gee, I'm so crushed, really! She said something about it in her usual nasty tone the next day, the tone that has become like a rallying cry to my soul that says, Sweetheart! Get The Fuck Out! (If Only I Could! That involves information best left for my therapist. This is a blog, not a one-way ticket to boredom).
According to The Harpy she thought that "someone was trying to break into the house." Yes, of course, dear! That's what I would assume when I live with two other people! Then again, she is old and paranoid, and I honestly think only sees me in a peripheral way, like I'm one of those weird pads of paper that you flip open that perform a little dance (does anyone know what I'm talking about?).
The upshot of it is that I'd rather live with a ghost than Cruella da Ville. OK, I lied! I worked ghosts in here somehow! In fact I have started to hum that song when The Harpy is about, although she is blissfully ignorant. I don't think the woman watches many Disney movies. Too bad -- they might be Delicious Splenda for Her Soul!
So that's the latest saga. In the meantime, I am continuing to mourn the Death of America and am convinced I need to move elsewhere, say Amsterdam or Canada. I was reading about Amsterdam's very permissive laws (we all know you can smoke pot legally and have sex with prostitutes there) and apparently Amsterdam is a Happy Haven For Misfits. AH! Another rallying cry, since I've been a Misfit, and certainly felt like one, for Eons Now! EONS!! I'm sure I have some friends out there in Blogland who concur! If not, you're probably a yuppie (just kidding).
So I may next be blogging straight from Holland. I could live on a farm with a windmill, and grow tulips in my garden. Date some hunky man with a tragically sexy accent who is bewitched by my strange American ways.
In the meantime, I dream of having my own apartment once again. Ah, those were the days, the days of being able to do WHATEVER YOU WANTED!! AH! AH! AH! It's practically an orgasm! Right there!
Send The Harpy to Hell. And may all your days be merry, and your spirits surely bright.
posted by lakeofthelongsun72 at 12:40 PM
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