Friday, March 03, 2006

Hot Monkey Love: The Dream, the Reality, The Cure

I had a supremely erotic dream last night about John Hurt.
Specifically, John Hurt as he was in Midnight Express. I am such a nerd I usually only have dreams about my actual husband, except for when I am having erotic dreams about Jack Black. Last night it was the full Monty with John Hurt, tho. But first I shaved his face with a straight razor. I guess I wasn’t into the whole “catfish” look, but I was into the whole cat-loving-dope addict-British accent-gig. Lemme just say, who knew John Hurt had such a package!

Anyhoodle, there was absolute flat-out, over-the-top, drooling, vibrating, insane, lord of the rings CHAOS going on at the hacienda this morning. All generated by this little super hero.
Looks angelic, doesn’t he? The li’l bow-shaped mouth, the white-blond locks. But lurking under that padded musculature is a little gremlin/sprite/king of naughtiness. He caused mommy to LOSE IT in stereophonic Technicolor Panavision. Like, I am a little hoarse. From screaming WASH YOUR HANDS! GO DOWNSTAIRS! But mostly, IIIIIIIAAAAAAAAAAANNNNNNN STOP IT!!!!!!!!!!!!!

MZA was in the living room looking, honestly, like a man who had just been thrown from his horse on a medieval battlefield, confused, dazed, holding one shoe, while Nick kept on a steady monologue about how our fish, Bob Dylan, reminds him of a shark when he eats his food because… his fish food smells like other fish, you know why mommy? Mommy? Because he wants to attack other fish so they make his food smell like other fish…MZA was looking for Daisy's other shoe while Ian was set on perma-whine.

I surveyed the scene, as I felt my sanity start to slip out the side door, like, You’re not keeping me in here anymore, bitch, I am OUTTA HERE.

My sanity has left the building.

I said, “Excuse me while I run SCREAMING out the door. Thanks family for making me LOOK FORWARD to work!”

I walked out of the house and I felt like Frances Farmer sort of mid-electroshock therapy—half in, half out. Carrying my #@!&% porcelain coffee cup because I left my metallic one at work. DRAMA!!!!!!!!!!

And really, I don’t think I have written QUITE ENOUGH about how much I hate casual Friday. My whole bed was STREWN with unsuitable detritus: a black blazer, two unwearable black turtlenecks (due to stains), a button-down shirt that does a peek-a-boo thing right at the boobs, a weird stupid “ballet neck” shirt I bought when I was high on crack from Eddie Bauer, and other myriad unwearable tragedies. I finally settled on…hmmm…WHAT I WEAR EVERY CASUAL FRIDAY. Some puce green button-down shirt that I can’t find a matching necklace for.

Changed jeans, give or take, 8 trillion times because all the $#$@@! Jeans from Old Navy cut you right at the ever-so-attractive point of your tummy—right at the BAGEL AND CREAM CHEESE level—causing a dollop of flesh to seductively heave over the side—flab overboard! That is seen beneath the button down, so I have to dig deep—go for the gold—the strrrrrrrrrrretch Gap jeans that are a little more forgiving on this post-spaghetti morn.

It’s a sunny day. It’s Friday. I finally came to a realization that while I have been mentally ill most of my life, it was nothing a consistent diet of hot monkey love couldn’t cure!

Put that in your crack pipe and smoke it.


Cynicism is another word for reality

Email me, you derelict wastrel

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