nummy nummers

I like my chocolate like I like my sex - dark, decadent and excessive, with a heavy tinge of bitterness, and a deep feeling of shame/remorse that comes immediately after swallowing.

Inspired by my friend Tina's giggle-inducing blog entry, An Ordinary Day: Sex and/or Chocolate?

prayer against relapse

Oedipus, lend me yo mommawoman's brooches.

out of the mouths of . . .

Quoth my boyfriend, recently:
"So, are you the Mel to Great Big Sea's Flight of the Conchords?"

carpe quispiam

Whoever first espoused the philosophy of delayed gratification never factored in the possibility of sudden death.

a thought

If self-absorbed introspection is called "navel-gazing," would one call digging up one's own high school poetry "navel lint-picking"?

the last 24 hours

Bottles of Chateau Diana consumed: Uh, like 5? (Yeah, I know, pathetic, especially considering that it contains less alcohol by volume than tap water in some Eastern European countries.)

Cigarettes smoked: Eleventy hundred and four. Give or take a pack.

Calories consumed: I dunno, how many calories are there in a small country? What about after you smother it in Nutella?

Calories worked off by moving between the futon and the laptop, which plays music: About 18. (We eventually realized that we could move the laptop to the futon, greatly streamlining the process.)

Hours spent listening to music: Oh, 20 or so.

Songs we heard during this time: About 5. But they are really good.

Men we hate: 2

Men we love: 2

Does that add up to 4?: No, 2.

Women we hate: 2. No, wait, 3.

Women we love: 2.

Does that still add up to 2?: No! What the fuck is wrong with you??? GOD!!!! . . . oh, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to yell, I'm just kinda pissed off. I HATE THAT BITCH! Oh, sorry, didn't mean to yell.

Angry phone calls received: 1.5 - 2, depending on whether you use the metric system or not.

Length of time it will take to purge the scent of tobacco, alcohol and twitching malaise from clothes, apartment, hair, skin, capillaries, etc.: Long enough for us to become normal, functioning human beings. Yeah, I know, I can't fathom it either.

(this stream of inanity is fondly dedicated to my partner in crime. The 2 women we love? I - presumptuously enough - meant each other ;)

new calamity

OK, we have cigarettes and liquor* but now we also have futon sores. Which are kind of like bed sores but way cooler, in a way hipsters would probably enjoy. But still unpleasant. So, please send ointment. And quickly. They are beginning to fester.

* wine product, whatever that means. We tried putting that on our futon sores but it didn't really help. Maybe anti-itch cream? Nutella? But then I'd be tempted to lick it off, which is just gross, so seriously, send ointment.

oh right

You don't know where we are. Hm. Well, we're somewhere in Bushwick. On, uh, some kind of avenue. Toilet Avenue? Something like that. Uh, just follow the sounds of screaming.

You're right. We're fucked.

Shit. Either the refrigerator is grunting at me or I am seriously fucked up.

Please send cigarettes and liquor. And anti-refrigerator rape whistles.

Update: now, someone is rattling a bottle of pills at me. This could be a good sign. Then again, probably not.

Update 2: she's just spat something all over my arm. On my CASHMERE SWEATER. The bitch.

Update 3: I'm being threatened with a slunting. I have no idea what a slunting entails, so I am very frightened. Please help.

Please send cigarettes and liquor. And stun guns.

for the love of jeebus

I tell you, we have no liquor OR cigarettes. Not even any (good) pills. We have anti-itch cream, but that does us no good, as we don't have an itch. Yet. Unless you count the itch for CIGARETTES AND LIQUOR.

Please send cigarettes and liquor. It doesn't have to be good liquor. We've been drinking Chateau Diana wine all night. Clearly, we have no standards. (Some of us also read books about vampires and listen to Five for Fighting. Non-ironically. See, no standards.)

God damn, times like this, I really wish I had a more popular blog. Or the ability to dial a phone.

please help

We are in a state of emergency. Please call FEMA and tell them to send relief in the form of cigarettes and vodka.

And please tell them not to fuck it up like they did their last thing.

PS - we are not black.