you know it has to be friday the 13th when it's sixty-some-odd degrees outside in august in south louisiana.
a teenage kid just walked into the office trying to sell raw shrimp. that's right - raw seafood, right off the street, and early. it was a stinky affair. he had this pathetic little i-can't-believe-it's-not-butter dish with three little raw shrimp in it (i can't believe it's not prawns) that looked very scuzzy, and now the office smells rank. and i'm the only one here so far, so if it lingers i'm guilty by association. fuck. who would buy shrimp from some kid going door-to-door? the stands on the side of the road are bad enough, but traveling seafood salesmen...children? and the kid looked really nappy, as if he'd just gotten off the boat (literally and figuratively).
religion by mail, seafood door-to-door, everyone is selling something.
i need constructive crafts to do with my free time. i should paint. it's also possible that i'll make a poetry blog (seperate from this one). i used to write all the time and i can't say why i stopped - maybe all the drinking and isolation, although the latter never stopped emily dickenson. of late i've been feeling creatively stifled and it really sticks in my craw.
and i would start practicing on my guitar again if a certain friend of mine who has a penchant for "fat chicks" would get it back from his disgruntled ex-roommate.
album du jour: hooverphonic blue wonder power milk