on my way home. nice to be going home, but what a mess awaits me. me thinks me life is in shambles, and i've really got no one else to blame but me. earache thinks i'm crazy. i finally got to talk to him today, really talk to him, first time in a long time. it's weird. something has happened, i'm not sure what. the way he said it, i don't like it. 'you ran off to hawaii by yourself and got a tattoo.' so i'm not very sneaky.
rob's coming to town next weekend, that should be fun. maybe he'll stay at the house and diffuse the situation. or as he would say, the fucking situation. once he senses the tension in the air, he'll take off, because he's an artist and it's not conduscive to his chi. i can hear it already.
seven hours and two minutes until dfw from the time we took off, and i don't know what that was because i'm not wearing my watch because it hurts to wear my watch. it hurts to wear my underwear. i just freaking hurt. i've screwed up my shoulder somehow and i thought i had tylenol pm and i don't and i'm pissed. there are worse things in life, i know, but i was really looking forward to a short-lived coma. ahh well.
the cutie from oz will be making an appearance in a few weeks. that'll be nice to look at while i'm doing nothing at mccroskey's, assuming i'm still employed at mccroskey's. mom told misty she doesn't think i'm in hawaii. she thinks i'm off whoring around somewhere, and i think she told eric that too. i think that's why he's been so weird lately. i think he's just a fuck lately. i think he sucks. i think i suck. so technically we should negate one another, but i don't think it works that way.
i don't know what show this is, with stockard channing and henry winkler, but it's freaking me out. it's like grease meets happy days, way after the fact and everyone's old and wrinkly and gray. it's just not right. i didn't even recognize that it was stockard channing, and i love her. 'look at me i'm sandra dee, lousy with virginity, won't go to bed til i'm legally wed, i can't - i'm sandra dee!' god, i love that movie. john travolta rocks. i rock. my new ink rocks. it's gorgeous. the guy that did it, his name was ken and every other word out of his mouth was bra, as in hey bra, yo bra, short for brotha, i assume. it was adorable. it wasn't too painful, my sunburn hurts me more. it ought to turn into a nice golden tan once all the skin falls off and my organs stop roasting. perhaps that's why my shoulder hurts, i've baked my sternum. is that even possible? and tonight's speciality is baked sternum with a nice hollandaise sauce service with sauteed mushrooms and pilaf. i'm ready to beat up the dude to my left for not shutting his fucking window. but i don't think violence is a good way to go. i wonder if i got any good mail at home. i love getting mail. the surprises never stop - will it be letters? bills? cards? magazines? money? money is my favorite, but that doesn't happen very often. only at holidays and birthdays and speaking of those, shit, it's craig's birthday and i spent birthday money on a tattoo. shit, shit, shit. it's okay, i'm italian. :) ask misty. my shoulder is killing me. i have my red physical therapy band of resistance, perhaps i should get it out and work it. perhaps not. don't want to draw attention to the already red girl in seat 10c. so much for having a row all to myself. an injured dude is sitting on the other end. it happens, i guess, but this was my damn row. i'm being possessive, because i'm allowed, damn it. i don't want to go home. i didn't even make it to lahaina. and there's a moose mcgillcuddy's right there in kihei now. i didn't even get a fucking maitai. damn you earache. damn you.
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