better things to do

5/31/99

Slept most of today. I did venture out, between rainstorms, to Barnes and Noble, where I behaved as though books are food and I have been starving for weeks. It was so much easier (and cheaper) when John worked there.

Yesterday was also uneventful. Didn’t write an entry because of eric. It was all his fault. We talked until it was far too late for me to write an entry.

“I guess you’ve got better things, better things to do....” --BNL

Last night it was hot-hot-hot in my house, but mosquito-y outside, so I lay on the couch flipping through my six channels in sweltering frustration. Finally I settled on the Christian channel, featuring Tammy Faye reading you-know-who-loves-you scripture in a wondrous, sappy voice. A large man who obviously had a little too much of The Lord in him sang a blessed song of some sort. I flipped off the sound and turned on the stereo...located my Bare Naked Ladies CD in the changer and giggled as this sweating, bulbous man sang irreverent love songs.

The most intriguing was “Straw Hat and Dirty Old Hank.” I felt absolutely devilish, creating such mayhem. The tune’s about a famous person who’s adored/stalked by a farmer. From the point of view of the farmer. Totally bizarre. Made sense for a while: “You say you love me / Is that the truth? / Although they've heard the songs, my friends need living proof....” But then, “I know your address / I ring the bell / I’ll bring you flowers and a 22 with shells.” He he he. The camera cut to a devout audience member, hands clasped, eyes rolled back, swaying in his seat, just as this lyric appeared: “You sign your pictures / With an O and X / I’ll bet you don’t write love each time you sign your checks.” Things just got really surreal, really fast.

I’m going straight to Hell for this blasphemy.

Later

Just spent an hour poking around Macon, GA websites—colleges and universities, mostly—looking for a job. No freaking luck. I’m going to work in the gourmet Kroger, I just know it. I should get my Master’s in kissing-asses-of-snobbish-fuckers. A Master’s in the Repressive Arts.