written on Saturday, May. 03, 2003 at 7:57 a.m.
Did you know that someone passed out in your floor, barely responding to intense stimuli, is a major buzz kill? It is.
Punky and Id girl came over last night as planned. I had gotten a good bit of cleaning done, fortunately. {Not only was I excited, but evidently I'm SO excited that I have to share that with you. Sad.}
After they got here, we broke out the daquiris and had one each while we waited for Baby Momma and Baby Daddy to come over and join us.
We ended up whipping out the bowl and passing it around a bit. Half an hour later, all of us except BD were feeling real good. He didn't smoke any. Dork.
Anyway... Punky, BM & IG have this notebook they carry around for writing stoned poetry. It's really quite touching. IG started writing some, and the next thing we knew, she's sitting there with her eyes closed, still writing. Looked like she was channeling someone.
Here are some fab excerpts of her creation [The following is absolutely Copywright by Id Girl. No hanky panky.]:
"Unbalanced I came into these deep reaches of space, with a wet boob and dirty leg, the dust buster is my only solace. I channeled from beyond, trying to understand a world I was so blind to. So many ghosts came from beyond, smacking me with pop cans to get my attention. The world didn�t understand me, they only wanted to drink, vomiting all over the place. And so cruel they are, humping your teddy bear and stealing your tricks. The next morning we all have to go to work, wrappers in our cleavage and broken cameras behind. We did it to each other, smashing pop cans on our heads and sumo wrestling, discussing why there are no girl �jack asses.�"
� The only want to have sex, coming to the call of naked. Boobs flopping wide, they pour each others drinks, demonstrating their best areola."
"Lighting their cigarettes and chatting about ragu spaghetti, �Riga-boo-boo� they chant about their chef Boyardee. Do a line of spaghetti- Cooked or uncooked? Sugar cut with crack, the salt burns their nose. The pain is no lesson to pepper in their nose"
Sometime after those post-modern lines were penned, IG fell off the futon and on to the floor. We didn't pay any attention until BD pointed out she was kind of twitching. BM went back to check on her, and found her hands were blue and ice cold.
Um, freak out? Why, yes. I think I will.
BD & BM hoisted her onto the couch, tickled, tormented and sprayed her. She responded slightly, which I chose to interpret as her being okay. Just passed out.
Apparently that was the case. An hour or so later, we managed to wake her up and she was fully coherent again.
Who would've ever thought not having a dead body in your apartment would be such a relief?
Just to demonstrate that the night wasn't all a freak-out, buzz-kill, half dead girl on the floor, here's a lovely pic of Punky & BM. Punky would be the one on the top.
There used to be a pic here, but I pulled in down in case Punky & BM or their friends should find this journal.
Around 3 am they all left. Three fucking a. m. GAH! I had to be up in 3 1/2 hours. I ended up getting 2 1/2 hours of sleep.
I swear, I should be locked in an institution where they come and inject you with sleep aids and turn your light off for you.
It is not good to get barely more than 25% of the hours you have to work the next day in sleep. {That was a really weird sentence. Take your time deciphering if necessary.}
You know what we need? Normal jobs with normal hours so we'll have normal weekends. If we were normal, things would be rosey right now.
Love,
Cat
