greygirlbeast (greygirlbeast) wrote,
greygirlbeast
greygirlbeast

"We file down our fangs on the bones of our foes..."

Today, Ferris Bueller's Day Off is twenty-five years old. That is, today is the 25th anniversary of its theatrical release. Fuck, I'm old. I told Spooky we should play hooky today, do nutty shit like lip syncing on parade floats, and then destroy an expensive car. Sadly, she only laughed.

"Bueller?...Bueller?...Bueller?"

Le sigh.

I hereby open the floor to comments.

Yesterday, I wrote 1,430 words on Chapter Three of Blood Oranges (a chapter which, by the way, is titled "Bobby Ng, Alice Cregan, and the Troll Who Lives Under the Bridge"), and reached page 102. It was pretty much all a conversation with the troll yesterday. Today, I have to find the end of that conversation. I let readingthedark have a look at the pages last night, and, afterwards, he declared "Holy shitfuck. You've written literary crack." I'm assuming that's a good thing. Anyway, he's driving down tonight for a visit.

Please allow me to remind you of the Big Damn eBay auction. Because, you know, I'm still waiting for Everything on Earth is Free Forever Day, but it's a slow train coming. Also, have a look at Spooky's Dreaming Squid Dollworks and Sundries Etsy shop. All her paintings are on sale (limited time) for 20% off! Coupon code: ART20

It just occurred to me that the loathsome emoticon o.0 is actually a broken infinity symbol, and that's got to be some sort of profound. I blame the Illuminati. For breaking it, not for my revelation.

Gods, it's only noon thirty, and already I've mentioned the Soggy Bottom Boys.

Yesterday, Spooky stopped by Myopic Books and procured for me a belated birthday present – the 50th-anniversary edition of William S. Burroughs' Junky, because a bitch cunt of a snatch, who otherwise shall not be named, absconded with my copy back in 2005 (along with many other favorite books), and because I've been needing to read it again. In part because Siobahn Kerry Quinn, the protagonist of Blood Oranges, was a heroin addict before getting bitten by a werewolf and then vampirized on the same night. Oh, and last night, we watched Trainspotting, which I hadn't seen since the '90s. Obviously, not exactly a coincidence. I can hardly draw off my own experiences as a heroin addict, having only shot up that once and all. It's not that I dislike needles. And smack really is better by a hundred times than the best sex you've ever had. It's just I was meant for greater things, like growing old and bitter and more properly wicked.

Junkies, by and large, aren't wicked people. Sure, they'll rob you blind, but isn't that the American way? Isn't that the cornerstone of Capitalism? I ask you, isn't highway robbery the very platform upon which this great nation was founded? Isn't that why Richard Nixon rode out against Che Guevara at the Battle of Little Bighorn on that venerable Christmas Day in 1932? Isn't that why Mister Fred McFeely Rogers wore cardigan sweaters?

What the hell am I on about? Oh, and now Spooky's singing the theme song to Captain Kangaroo, but making up her own lyrics.

Maybe we'd best pause here, to reflect and twiddle our collective thumbs.

Twiddlin' and Reflectin',
Aunt Beast
Tags: blood oranges, capitalism, dope, theft, then and now, william s. burroughs
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