11/7/09

Deep Fried Lard with Ranch on the Side

Dear Diaretic Blog,

I don't want to feel bad for going and changing on you, but you are on the verge of calling me neglectful and that I won't have. I made you. I can delete you, but even scarier still is the fact that I can drag out an infinitude of simple variations on the same post time and time again. And, you know I will, because I have been doing it when you didn't even realize it.

Gimme some Hooters chicks who think they're punk rock. Gimme some Heathers with cursive writing on their asses. Gimme your tired old ass with 3 hours of sleep (stupid), and let me deep fry it with powdered sugar, and call it delicious. Delicious!

I am only 5000 words into the NanoWriMo thing and I can easily see why I write a couple chapters and then start over. It's shit. I'll keep going, hoping to catch up and move ahead this weekend, but it's bullshit. I started feebly and slid down a slippery slope into mediocrity about 10 words in. Short pieces of fiction maybe. Long, involved dynamics amongst non- mutes is painful. All I know how to write is this diarrhetic pseudo-pensivity which is merely complaining in sheep's fur.

The week in review: Monday- clean clean porn clean class kids water paycheck give it away cook clean; Tuesday- write walk kids group cry coffeeshop talk; Wednesday- return laptop in mad dash office hours class kids homework; Thursday- return another laptop in mad dash give away all our money grocery store read to children garden garden garden home dinner coffeeshop tutor homework period (for those keeping track) ; Friday- sleep write grant stuff errand pay more money class Snaggletooth's presentation water plants home children go I stay cry register friend movie talk cake ice cream cat scratch (no fever) up way too late; Saturday- shower fog work grits fall asleep drive write work get this one mixed up it's now. Note: There was no kissing. This week it's break up.

I gave the semi-silent ultimatum which was heeded, even though I discourage heeding ultimatums unless cinnamon rolls are involved, but there was insistence on mutuality that was later retracted. Disappointment ensues, and so shall my moving into my own place in January, she says today, but each time she is less and less willing to be unappreciated, though she is still annoyed at the third person references to herself. Hey, I mean you!

Who knew that the trifecta of self-sustaining 50 hits a day word blog things are "Look up my Corduroy skirt?" I bet you knew and never told me.

Just had to complain
Or it wouldn't be a day
Like any other
Best day ever:
fucking sleeping fucking
cleaning was fun that time
lay and eat and walk and skip beats,
but not beets with bulls eyes.

You mash me up
And swallow me whole;
I'm salty, sour, dour.
Formerly pickled
Recently filtered
Only necessary
Due to tragic the lack
Of adequate Rocky Mountain springage.

A complaint a day keeps the
Novel away;
Keep up keep up, slut.
Wrap your mouth around my nut
Suck and slide,
Then hide.
Hit the snoozer;
Ditch the boozer.

I miss the Position of the Day videos.

7 comments:

Comrade Kevin said...

Just write, Freida. Just write. Even your mediocre efforts astonish me.

Cormac Brown said...

And I miss your writing. You're doing the NaNoScreamatthecomputerMo, so you probably don't want to do this easy, easy, F-F-F tailored for everyone to jump in. So I won't push.

Back in the original days of Salon, I used to love their links to Nerve and the "position of the day." I knew that most of those were only good for eventual frustration of the foot and leg cramp varieties, but they were fun to look at.

"Gimme some Hooters chicks who think they're punk rock. Gimme some Heathers with cursive writing on their asses. Gimme your tired old ass with 3 hours of sleep (stupid), and let me deep fry it with powdered sugar, and call it delicious. Delicious!"

BTW, the best non-professional paragraph I've read this week, seriously.

Randal Graves said...

I'm going to start an internets petition to get your second paragraph to replace the tripe they currently have on the statue of liberty.

He was going to look up your corduroy skirt, but he was lost in foggy grits.

Novel writing is the motherfucker of motherfuckers.

Freida Bee, MD said...

You dears are too nice and/ or just want to eat a Hooters ass deep fried and sprinkled with powdered sugar. That's why I loves you, especially you.

Kevin- I appreciate your supportivenesses far more than I tell you.

Cormac- There is the best chance in weeks for just some thing of that sort (my participating in FFFFF). I have to confess that the universe paid me a penny to write that paragraph, so I am legally obliged to consider myself a professional Hooters pimpin' writer. ;) Thank you.

Randal- That's exactly why I keep a flashlight in my cunt. I can't afford to miss a little action due to fog.

Don't tell anyone, but I think I hate novel writing, and yet I know I must do it. I think I've been brainwashed by that commie nano cult, but at least that afterschool intervention reality show special promises to pay me the big bucks.

Liberality said...

You are really busy! Kids, homework, and housework--never mind the relationship work. Yet you write about it with flair and wit. You laugh at yourself in your words but you should take yourself more seriously. You are good at what you do and that counts for something.

Randal Graves said...

But are you guaranteed to learn a valuable lesson? Otherwise, what are big bucks but the way to hollow pleasures like ice cream?

You're lucky you're a chick. I tried keeping a flashlight in my dick, and man, it hurt.

Übermilf said...

I agree you should blog more often. I never know when to look here.