Tuesday, November 25, 2003


last week, on . . .

so. one vicodin and one scotch down, one episode of six feet under to go.

let no one say that the move to new york has made me a hermit. i'm just saying, who needs to go out? look what i got:

the monkey is making me popcorn, telling me how the sixty-nine cent bag of JollyPop loves him, and told him so in a few certain words he quoted, and strangely, the popcorn is from Liverpool.

downstairs, crazy Racist Dixie is getting high. i know because the entire building smells like bud. it did yesterday, too. RD has not previously gotten high that i could smell, so i'm wondering what's going on. i listened at the door for a full minute on my way back with the vegetables, and it seemed a party was going on and they were listening to that police show, Cops. i wonder if they're celebrating/mourning that KKK guy accidently shooting someone in the head in what must be the stupidest act of violence to be the fault of someone with such terrible faults in at least a week.

ssshh. the episode is starting. talk to you later.


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