09.11.03; Bloated on my Birthday; 17:24
Calories consumed: Writers don’t count. Alcohol guzzled: Writers don’t count. Kodak moments captured: 24 shots and 8 neoprints. This weekend’s eye candy: My alluring self. This weekend’s worst eye candy: The shattered, irreversible Jose Cuervo bottle. Texting power: Resurrected at long last. Buying power: Imaginary. Gifts received so far: A black thong from Topshop with the word FLIRT boldly imprinted on it. New look alike: Michelle from the TV show 24.
It is but normal for birthday celebrants to go overeat, over drink, overdress, overspend, overuse the phone and (ignore the rule of parallelism, this is what MS Word Spell Check insists) be oversexed. (Not that I enjoyed them all). To oversleep, by the way, is a mortal sin.
I spent the first hours of my 21st birthday nursing a drunken friend. I made her drink a cup of coffee that I ended up consuming myself. I instructed her never to bow her head and wrapped my arm on her shoulder to keep her from crashing skull first on the marbled floors then we solicited attention from colleagues. I listened to her gush and bash and I miraculously waited for my turn. Vflaire was such a character. It was effortless to recall my intoxicated moments as well. I’m a neophyte in this task but the role reversal convinced me that I’m definitely maturing.
Of course, I’m just kidding.
Sometimes I wonder if friends really communicate. Too many gadgets get in the way.
I wish I could afford myriads of bottles of Rejoice
I wish for that getaway with the hordes of golden boys
I wish there’s more Cuervo Gold and louder verbal conflicts
I wish my ScorpionSyrup would score more unique visits
I wish I could finally steal my desired road sign
I wish I could learn to leave my loathing for math behind
I wish I could spend more time and hone the skill behind cam
I wish for that alibi to grace the frugal kingdom
I wish John Hall were curious how he’d feel under my bust
Either that or I perish and roam as a succubus
I wish I could find the cure from Tame the Bad Ass Syndrome
I wish for the intellect alien to bitter chrome domes
I wish I could acquire the dick and balls of a loser
I wish for the competence so I won’t feel like a loser
I wish I could tell a joke that would make my pals’ cheeks crack
I wish I’d learn the science of giving a flying fuck
I wish I’d learn the fine art of a blatant, guilt-free, “HELL, NOOOO!”
I wish I have the patience to reload the good old sporto
I wish for my delayed turn to smash her pink-colored glass
I wish I were flexible so I could smooch my own ass
I wish for a live audience as I spit stones on their story
And I really wish I could learn how to write poetry