Good afternoon, little things. It is I, Yola. Friday is…obviously the day following Thursday. I must have celebrated the Chavez rather too much last night. I'm still not quite sure what happened. There was a place, there was a guy, there was some green stuff in a tiny bitty little glass..and then whammo. No memory until I woke up in Casa City of Portland this morning. The girl on the bench next to mine says I have a big ol' slut stamp on my wherever those things go, but honestly I just can't see it.
Toaster is playing my woman, Diamanda Galas, See That My Grave Is Kept Clean. And I really mean it. Please see the groundskeepers fill in the dead patches in the lawn after the leaves fall. That could be any minute, the way my head feels. Whoo.
Anyways, waiting for my lawyer like this puts me in mind of the old word game. What's your favorite book to read when you are A) sick; B) hung-over? And when are you (and by you I mean me) ever going to get back to writing? Answers cannot be accepted collect, people.