I have been living in danger for the past week. There is no where for me to turn; there’s no escape. I can’t hide.
It’s the gnats. The gnats! They’re out for blood. The gnat sheriff is in town, and he has a warrant out for me, dead or alive. There is an army of rabid gnats stalking me like a ravenous lion after its prey. I can’t stand outside without being ravaged by clouds of these terrible, tiny flies. They fly directly into my eyes, get into my eyelashes, try to enter my skull through my ears, make a beeline for my nostrils, attempt to get into my mouth—-it’s alarming. I begin to panic. I look like a paranoid schizophrenic, flailing about, swatting my hands wildly about my face in an attempt to prevent the gnat army from getting into my orifices. It’s so awful. I don’t know why they’re after me. I smell like shit.
Actually, that’s a lie. I recently purchased DKNY “Golden Delicious.”
Actually, that’s a lie too. I went into Macy’s intending to purchase DKNY “Golden Delicious,” but left with Marc Jacobs “Oh, Lola” after spraying it on my wrist and liking it, and testing the DKNY fragrance and thinking it smelled like cat urine.
After this exchange, I went to the theater across the street and watched 30 Minutes or Less, during which the Marc Jacobs fragrance started to smell more and more like baby powder, and the DKNY evolved into sweet, delicious appley goodness. The movie ended, and I returned directly to Macy’s and exchanged the Marc Jacobs for the DKNY.
The point is, I smell yummy. That is why the gnats are after me.
Maybe they’re after my money, I don’t know. I don’t know what gnats are into.
I was watching Legends of the Fall recently, and started shaking my head at their mode of written communication. I do not understand how snail mail actually worked back in Western times. There was no USPS. You gave a young boy a letter addressed to a person who was out roaming around the mountainside on a horse, and somehow it got to that person. How did this ever work? How did some child ever successfully deliver a letter to someone with no address who was literally traipsing around the countryside? I don’t understand.
Thank god for gmail.
C: How was your day?
Better than yours for sure.
I think OJ Simpsons day was better than mine.
And he’s black.
…He has assloads of money.
And he got away with murder.
His day is better than everyones.