Slipper Socks
i have no idea what i did or where i want to go with this. give me ideas, please?
http://www.loserturdmafia.com
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In two hours of walking I haven’t made a single decision. Possibly because it’s been snowing, possibly because its sleeting as well, but probably because I’ve only got on a robe and slipper socks. I hate slipper socks. The old commercials were right. These damned things were always a gift. No one ever bought them for himself. That’s because they’re shit. They’re thick, pastel-colored socks with tread. In snow up to your ankles, hard snow at that, they don’t do anything other than keep your feet wet. I hate slipper socks. I hate slipper socks and I hate my life. But I feel fairly confident that my life would have a much better light on it if I had shoes. Pants would be nice and maybe, I don’t want to get greedy here, but just maybe, a working car.
This road is pretty Goddamn long. It’s longer for me; I’ve never been down it. The way is always longer when you don’t know where you’re going. And it’s even longer when you are along the side of the road. And it seems just a bit longer than that when you are along the side of a country road. No one goes down a country road when it’s shit outside. I know this. You know this. I still hope for a car to pass, the first one in two hours.
My El Camino broke down I don’t know how far back. I didn’t hit a tree or another car. I didn’t skid over some black ice. El piece-of-shit-o overheated. Overheated, in the snow? Only when I need the stoner’s wet dream on wheels to work does it die on me. Seems like a trend in my life. I remember the first time I saw that car. It was amazing, candy apple red in my mind. You can tell it used to be candy apple red. It was candied yam orange. What you may call a project car. I have what you may call a project life. A fixer upper.
I want to shake that man’s hand. That man that designed the El Camino. The Way. The Road. The Path. I want to thank him for such a fine vehicle. Such an inviting hybrid of car and truck. A marvel of, what was then, modern technology. The high point of society, if I do say so myself. This man, or woman, let’s be PC here, is a genius. He was just sitting there one night wondering. How can I take the ability of a truck, to haul shit to and fro, and merge that with the inability of a car to haul as much shit? After all, there is such a large customer base of people that want long cars that don’t hold many people or cargo.
This person must have designed everything in my apartment. From the futon sofa-sleeper to the toaster oven. Futons, glorious futons. I was getting worried. For a minute there I thought my lack of income and the car I don’t totally own weren’t going to get me laid. As a last line of defense we have the futon. Is there any way possible, please, that I can combine an uncomfortable couch with an uncomfortable bed? Thank you, Jesus, all mighty. And the toaster oven? The poor man’s entire means to heat food, the bastard of the kitchen. That same asshole made slipper socks, I just know it!
That same asshole is laughing right now as I keep walking down this back woods road. To think this could’ve all been stopped. I didn’t have to run. I could’ve at the very least put on some clothes when I did run. No, I’ll stick with not having to run. Should’ve stayed with the car. Could’ve stayed a bit warmer. Could’ve stayed to main roads. Could’ve stayed in college. Could’ve stayed away from drugs. Could’ve done this and shouldn’t do that.
I shouldn’t have shot that hooker. I didn’t mean to after all. I can tell the cops. Tell them that it wasn’t on purpose. Hell, I don’t need to tell the cops, she’s a hooker. No one will find her anyway. God, I’m thinking like a criminal. I am a criminal. I fucking shot a hooker. Claire. Claire is the hooker. Claire was the hooker. She was kind of cute if she didn’t wear all that make-up. I think it’s in the Streetwalker Handbook. Rule 14: Wear too much make-up. This make-up must be cheap and must smear a lot. If there’s a handbook there can be a union. I doubt there is, never heard of a whore striking for better wages.
I didn’t even aim at Claire, after all. I aimed at her pimp, Frank. He’s an ass. Now pimps are scum. Pimps are, well, fucking pimps! I go to shoot him and he has the nerve to hide behind Claire. Now that I think of it, he might be mad at me. Screw the cops; Frank is going to kill me. Screw Frank; frostbite is going to kill me. Screw frostbite; the fashion police might get to me first. Not only are they slipper socks, they don’t match. This means that at one time I owned at least two pairs of slipper socks. I sicken myself.
This road is pretty Goddamn long. It’s longer for me; I’ve never been down it. The way is always longer when you don’t know where you’re going. And it’s even longer when you are along the side of the road. And it seems just a bit longer than that when you are along the side of a country road. No one goes down a country road when it’s shit outside. I know this. You know this. I still hope for a car to pass, the first one in two hours.
My El Camino broke down I don’t know how far back. I didn’t hit a tree or another car. I didn’t skid over some black ice. El piece-of-shit-o overheated. Overheated, in the snow? Only when I need the stoner’s wet dream on wheels to work does it die on me. Seems like a trend in my life. I remember the first time I saw that car. It was amazing, candy apple red in my mind. You can tell it used to be candy apple red. It was candied yam orange. What you may call a project car. I have what you may call a project life. A fixer upper.
I want to shake that man’s hand. That man that designed the El Camino. The Way. The Road. The Path. I want to thank him for such a fine vehicle. Such an inviting hybrid of car and truck. A marvel of, what was then, modern technology. The high point of society, if I do say so myself. This man, or woman, let’s be PC here, is a genius. He was just sitting there one night wondering. How can I take the ability of a truck, to haul shit to and fro, and merge that with the inability of a car to haul as much shit? After all, there is such a large customer base of people that want long cars that don’t hold many people or cargo.
This person must have designed everything in my apartment. From the futon sofa-sleeper to the toaster oven. Futons, glorious futons. I was getting worried. For a minute there I thought my lack of income and the car I don’t totally own weren’t going to get me laid. As a last line of defense we have the futon. Is there any way possible, please, that I can combine an uncomfortable couch with an uncomfortable bed? Thank you, Jesus, all mighty. And the toaster oven? The poor man’s entire means to heat food, the bastard of the kitchen. That same asshole made slipper socks, I just know it!
That same asshole is laughing right now as I keep walking down this back woods road. To think this could’ve all been stopped. I didn’t have to run. I could’ve at the very least put on some clothes when I did run. No, I’ll stick with not having to run. Should’ve stayed with the car. Could’ve stayed a bit warmer. Could’ve stayed to main roads. Could’ve stayed in college. Could’ve stayed away from drugs. Could’ve done this and shouldn’t do that.
I shouldn’t have shot that hooker. I didn’t mean to after all. I can tell the cops. Tell them that it wasn’t on purpose. Hell, I don’t need to tell the cops, she’s a hooker. No one will find her anyway. God, I’m thinking like a criminal. I am a criminal. I fucking shot a hooker. Claire. Claire is the hooker. Claire was the hooker. She was kind of cute if she didn’t wear all that make-up. I think it’s in the Streetwalker Handbook. Rule 14: Wear too much make-up. This make-up must be cheap and must smear a lot. If there’s a handbook there can be a union. I doubt there is, never heard of a whore striking for better wages.
I didn’t even aim at Claire, after all. I aimed at her pimp, Frank. He’s an ass. Now pimps are scum. Pimps are, well, fucking pimps! I go to shoot him and he has the nerve to hide behind Claire. Now that I think of it, he might be mad at me. Screw the cops; Frank is going to kill me. Screw Frank; frostbite is going to kill me. Screw frostbite; the fashion police might get to me first. Not only are they slipper socks, they don’t match. This means that at one time I owned at least two pairs of slipper socks. I sicken myself.
