So it's Memorial Day and we've got a wading pool set up on the back deck and the burgers are on the grill and we're in onesies and swimsuits and short-shorts and oh my fuckin' God, it's finally summer, finally! There was a massive thunderstorm yesterday that was basically like winter in the old country and that sucked ten different kinds of balls, especially taking the bus. But today was a public holiday and we moved all the junk from the Old Studio to the New Studio...it didn't take nearly as long as we thought it would, for some reason. Maybe because we had eleventy-one volunteers. Repetitive manual labor totally suited the mood that I was in today. Sweeping out the small space all by myself while listening to That Music You Liked in High School (aka the local alternative station) was pretty much just what I needed. There is a certain sense of accomplishment in looking at the place that was previously covered in multiple layers of crud and is now shiny-shiny clean with no allergy risk whatsoever.
I ate a burger patty raw while scoping music for Wednesday's act. Lounge music blows dogs for quarters, I will tell you that for free. What does not suck is raw hamburger. Squishy and delicious. I am going to carnivore hell.
I got a smarty-pants phone. It's a lot easier to send boys pictures of myself doing questionable things, but a lot harder to text-message for some reason. I also like being able to get directions on the fly. Anyone who knows me will tell you that my sense of direction is shoddy, at best. I blame the bumps to my head as a child. I don't know how I feel about being part of this whole technological revolution doo-hickey, but it's nice pretending to be Penny from Inspector Gadget when I need to know what that one place that serves sushi at four am is called.
Sunshine just called me on eating the raw burger patty. He asked if I was worried about e coli at all, and was slightly scandalized to learn that I like the texture of raw meat. He said he wouldn't have expected it. I have no idea what people expect of me. I tend to assume "epic failure" is the standard setting for people's ideas about the outcomes of my endeavors, but that's probably just me projecting. Whatev.
God, I'm going to miss Sunshine and Roses. They've been staying with us for almost a month now and they're going back to the magical land of Canadia tomorrow. I don't want them to leave. Roses is better at everything than me, ever, except I don't hate her for it, and I'm not sure why. I wish she lived here. I think hanging out with her would probably be good for me. Sunshine is...well, he got his nickname for a reason. He is an honest-to-God, mother-fucking, no-punches-pulled, jen-yoo-ein, ray of sparkly, sparkly sunshine. The guy says "Shut the front door!" when he questions the validity of whatever it is you're saying, for crying out loud. He cooks dinner and does dishes and fixes drinks with style and flair and panache. He gives you constructive criticism that makes you feel better than any compliment ever could. And he makes a lot of dick jokes. Le sigh. Why do all the cool people live somewhere that I'm not?
I miss Legs. She's back in the homeland, kicking proverbial ass and taking all kinds of names. She was such a good level of of comparison for everyone, from jeans to dance shoes to boys to box wine. Miss you, you mingy mingah-rangah. Binty fuck-shake!
Jesus, you can develop some decidedly confusing linguistics with people you're in frequent contact with. Senorita Fregoso would love that shit.
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