I was going to clean my awful messy house and/or be all good tonight and in fact I was kind of good in that I made a big pot of hippie lentils for everyone. Unfortunately, my kids all see hippie lentils coming and vacate the premises promptly. Which is dumb, because they are delicious - granted, in their own hippie lentilly way, which is to say with tamari and yeast, because that is the old hippie way and well, fuck, I'm in my own old hippie self right now. Also, I'm broke, and that pot of lentils will feed us all for like four days. Four gassy days, yeah, but four days.
However I am sick as shit of being good and thoughtful and nice and so fuck it, after I put the lentils on and failed utterly at getting the free dell printer to work I decided to drink vodka. Vodka is awesome. The hell with being Irish, I think I'll be Russian instead. Vodka beats Jamesons (I'm Catholic. We're not allowed to drink Bushmills, or at least we weren't back in the day.) hands down - it's clear, it comes in exciting nifty funky postmodern marketing department bottles and it (so far) doesn't give me a hangover. Also, you can mix it with juice. Not, though, with that $2 bottle of red stuff called Cosmopolitan mix that I unfortunately bought at Ingles last night. That stuff, mixed with vodka, turns into a kind of hideous imitation Cherry Nyquil, and if there was ever anything that didn't need a clone, it's cherry nyquil. I prefer the original dark green evil flavor myself.
In other news, I'm still discombobulated, which I'm medicating with alcohol (vodka rocks! I feel all depressed and wintery! I want to write short brutal poems about birch trees! I'm down with the post Soviet angst thing! All is bleak!) and my kids are running wild and oh, by the way, I am taking in a few new kids, or people, or whatever, and my house is messy and full and a bit chaotic - which is actually, if we're going to be all honest and shit, exactly the atmosphere on which I thrive.
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5 comments:
Welcome Home, Fliss.
Have I told you lately that I love your writing?
I love your writing.
"I want to write brutal poems about birch trees."
I love you too. That is, in addition, to Screwy loving you and your writing.
My boy refers to all post-Fall trees as "naked trees." Which could be a good poetic topic, too!
Aw, thanks y'all! I love you too!
Mmm. Vodka.
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