espite word of terrible thunderstorms on the route, Joanna Road Rage set out in her van on a road trip from Malvernia to Charlottesville. With her was Johnny Boom Boom, just out of rehab.
Meanwhile, I was mostly working on the massive computer component shuffle begun yesterday. Getting the serial ports working on my newly K6ified machine was the most harrowing task I undertook (it's using a different, somewhat classier, motherboard).
n the evening, Matthew Hart and Angela and, separately, Wacky Jen, came over. Matthew had word from KC and the Triplets that Tall Ben was hosting a little "get together" (not quite a party) over at Abundance House. That sounded like fun, especially if Kirstin the Ecoradical was there. I told Angela and Matthew about Kirstin's oft-quoted line, "It's not's gross, it's just dog sex!" and hatched a scheme whereby we'd tell Kirstin we'd seen a pair of copulating dogs, and that we'd thought it was disgusting, in hopes that she'd come back with the line (in her characteristic intonation). So off we went, stopping first at the Seven Day Junior for a six pack of Sam Adams (Abundance House people disdain cheap beer) to augment a remaining six of an original dozen Yuenglings.
adly, Kirstin was not at Abundance House, but other fun people were: Cory the [former] Coffee Cart Girl, Tall Ben, KC and Esther the Triplet. There were also a number of people I didn't know, including some guy with a heavy Russian accent who told amusing stories (though his accent may have been crucial to his humour).
I'm not sure what the occasion was, but for some reason Tall Ben was in possession of several bottles of Absolut Vodka, and I made myself several drinks. Pot was, of course, being passed around as well. Matthew and Angela headed home and an expected arrival of Jessika and Deya never materialized.
For awhile, KC, Esther, various other people and I sat in the kitchen talking. One subject discussed was warts on our hands. KC had just finished chiseling a big one off her finger and its roots were bleeding profusely. Another topic was sex: Esther's recent experiences as an asexual, KC's dissatisfaction with masturbation, that sort of thing.
We got to the party and walked through the crowd to the refrigerator. Most of the people there were high school age boys, all mainstream and unremarkable with their closely-cropped hair, backwards baseball caps and light blue jeans. We stayed there exactly long enough to get beers.
We were hungry and went on a Gordita run to the Barracks Road Taco Bell, but found it closed. We ended up back at Kappa Mutha Fucka, eating makeshift spaghetti and discussing Manic Michelle and the problem with people using the patio area of the new Espresso Royale as a public toilet.
Suddenly Jessika, Johnny Boom Boom and Deya arrived from another party over on Dice Street. Johnny was in a festive, happy mood, slugging from a flat 750 mL bottle of Mad Dog and careening around the living room. Jessika seemed somewhat exasperated by his drunken behaviour, especially when he shot a load of white window caulk into her blue bottle (which contained beer she'd been drinking).
've been chewing on my finger wounds compulsively for the last few days, especially today. When a chunk of scab or dead blackened tissue comes off revealing pink, healing flesh, I experience a primitive rush of satisfaction. Using your mouth and teeth to clean wounds is as old as wounds and mouths themselves, and sure is cheaper than taking advantage of advances in modern medicine. I think my compulsion to lick and pick at my wounds reflects an evolutionary advantage in doing so. Perhaps I am forcing the wound to stay open at the top and heal from the bottom, which is (I am told) the best way for a wound to heal.
one year ago
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