old old old

what a strange and curious weekend it was. I was all set to go to the party
in lackadaisical fashion and to wish a yohoho to everyone there and then
vanish away, once done. but the call came in and I had to bustlybustly off
to the hospice with her, playing hospitaller and etc. the row of olympics-watchers
all in a row, made me think that everything was funny and that they were
all related somehow or in-relation to one another apart from just the geometrical
progression that they inhabited, watching those silly ‘sledders sliding down
their little track. “this is no curling!” i said to myself, or said that
I said later. they made me laugh though and took my mind for a moment off
of my bronchial friend in the room away. things seem quieter now, even though
I’m more tired than I can shake a stick at, because I’m too tired to lift
any old stick at all. didn’t sleep hardly a wink that whole night or maybe
I just don’t remember that. busy refilling waterglasses and etc. silly me,
though tired, traipsed off with mb to ‘nother party after just a twain of
twinklers. znooz. drank like a fish, but couldn’t keep up with the tenor
of the party. just wanted to sit in ye old couch, until the matresser came
along and started asking questions about the “pulse of the culture” and some
rubbish. I told him that he should talk to the people who anticipate the
“pulse of the culture” and he said goddamn and dammit and whatzit swearing,
but it was funny when he sat down and said, “read to me.” but all I had was
a sillier magazine with a silly comic strip I didn’t feel like reading. I
should have said. but I didn’t. I should have read something better than
that silly comic strip. this makes me think: I have picked up things to
read at many parties. it’s antisocial, yes. no one’s ever called me on it,
like that. opinion revising itself, although he still had innocuous things
to say about things. I surrepped to the loo and it transpired as I predicted
that my couch seat next to mattresser was interdicted. sure sure, bereft
the mbee to languish under his painful discourse, but all’s fair in partyparty.
I’d heard stories (and the coworker just drank so ever like a fish that I
couldn’t even think how funny things were, and but those two antiquarian
typewriters made me revise just a bunch of old things in my brain; it was
an evening for brain revision, now I look back on it.) of this painfully
shy girl, but she didn’t seem shy, drunk or barricadoed in an antisocial
textual place. instead, found her speaking freely to the mbee (silly psych
teacherwoman with her nocommentnocomment, immediately after her comment,
presuming to make some judgement about her perception of her reality tunnel,
when you’d think she’d be wiser than that.) but this shy girl, was unnaturally
shy, based upon her unnatural alcoholickal crutching. she ended up whirling
in the closet. I am amused by too many things. and so I left and didn’t make
a fuss when the mbee clamored to flee. ya, I said, ya, let’s flee this monkeyland.
(this is me thinking of rules and derryold pumpkins. but no, I’ll just anyold
which way, because that’s enough for me) yug

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