Yeni söz.

The new word.

I woke this morning (to NPR... something inane, uninspired and insipid, I assure you) in a cold sweat. I'd been assured that since I am utterly bereft of a soul and since my heart is a dried corn-husk rattling in my chest that I'd not be able to dream. Well, eff you, amusement-park Gypsy woman. Sorry. Eff you, woman of Romany descent.

Anyway, in my dream, I was in a dimly-lit Mediterranean restaurant, my back to the wall. In front of me, the most supremely satisfying meal ever crofted by humans: spaghetti a la puttanesca. Yes, that's "whore spaghetti". As I fell upon the olivey treat, faces of other swarthy individuals swam in and out of the darkness. They were kissing my hand, upon which there was a ring that weighed as much as an infant. Whispers in my ear. Kisses on my hand. Neverending nutrition. I don't remember what any of the men were saying, right up until one of the men came up to me and asked for mercy. Another hairy man pushed him to the ground and held his head down so that he couldn't make eye-contact with me. Oh, and did I mention that we were speaking (what I believe to be) Thai? Oh yes. Anyway, he's begging and pleading for his life, and telling me that he has kids and a wife. I remember the warmth of the bread as I tore it and mopped up some of the whorey delight. I waved my ring-bedecked hand dismissively and he began thanking me and kissing my foot, which--of course!-- was bare. Then I whispered into an attendant's ear that if he effed up again, to "take care of him." We laugh heartily, a la Pol Pot whilst enslaving Cambodia, and I returned to my food.

I dunno. Maybe I've been watching too many mob movies lately. Maybe it's a portent of things to come. Maybe I shouldn't eat scrambled eggs with curry and jerk seasoning at 2 AM anymore.

I bathed my carcass and hopped into clothes (too many clothes, as it turns out: it was effing 80 degrees today) and got into my hella-sexy 2000 Rainforest Green Ford Focus. Oh yes. There were puppies to be tended to, and woe betide me if they shat all over their houses. One, Life in the Corn Devotee Brooke's lovely daughter Nikki; the other, Life in the Corn Acolyte Keith's beloved son Zeke.

Now:

I had to be at class at 11. I left the house at 9:30, thinking: hey. How long could this possibly take? Apparently, I'd eaten a brain tumor with a side of paralyzing frontal lobe stroke for breakfast. Dogs can sense when you need to be somewhere and, naturally, take their dear sweet effing time to do anything. Begging does no good, and it makes you look weak. "C'monc'monc'monc'monc'monc'monc'mon! Make a biscuit!" They laugh to themselves and continue eating cat feces and grass, snuffling around, regardless of your need for haste. Nikki was first, and she immediately made water. OK, one bodily function down, I thought to myself. A half hour later, a biscuit was not forthcoming from her loins; she finished snuffling around the yard and headed for the house. "Girl", I said, "don'choo be needin' to pinch sump'in?" She looked at me and panted. It was very Greta Garbo, stand-off sigh. OK, then. I gave her treats and lured her into her room. I'm sorry, Brooke. I did what I could. If there are rank Tootsie Rolls on your bed, I owe you a sawed-off finger. It won't be mine, but it'll be a sacrifice of a different kind to get it, as my van is up on cinder blocks and it's hard to lure transient homeless men into a Ford Focus.

A 125 mph drive later and I was at Keith's house, where Zeke greeted my like he always does: he flips the eff out, running around the house with his toy and leaping, velociraptor-like, onto any stationary object. I let him out the back door and he sped to the back of the yard, where a small woodland mammal nearly met its maker at his snout; it crawled under the fence nanoseconds before Zeke could snuff it. [I think it was a groundhog, but I was too horror-stricken to note much about it]. After staring at the beast as it beat a hasty retreat for ten minutes, he commenced to eat grass. And then more. And, when he was done with that, he ate more still. "Zeke", I begged, "do yo' bidness!" He looked up from his grazing only long enough to make eye contact with me before he resumed it. As a whippet, seeing him eating grass seems fitting, as he is already rather gazelle-like. Anyway, what I think happened is this: Nikki, after our romp, called Zeke on her cellphone. "Hey, the hairy one is coming and he looks like he's in a hurry. Hold it in, hold it in!" Then they laughed merrily. Anyway, Zeke waited about twenty minutes to relieve himself, and once suitably lighter, he bounded into the house and curled up on his chair and dropped off to sleep. Mission accomplished, my canine friends. Well, almost. I made it to class with a fatty five minutes to spare. You could be peeved, but Nikki and Zeke are two of maybe five dogs I love, so since it was a nice, EIGHTY DEGREE day anyway, I guess all wasn't lost.

I learned a new word today from the other guy in my Turkish class. Yes, there's only two of us. Anyway, we were talking about the three-inch-wide "booty shorts" that many of the women on campus are now donning, what with it being hot and all. Emblazoned on the back of them are nice words, like "Hoosiers" or "Indiana" or "Brazen Slut-puppy Hussy." Dustin waved them off dismissively. "Sorostitutes", he said almost inaudibly.

I soiled several of my undergarments and had to clumsily change in the reek of the men's room.

Sorostitute. It comes from two very ancient words. The first, "soror, sororis", which is fifth declension feminine of the word for "sister" in Latin, if memory serves. The second part comes from the verb "statuere", which means "to stand" in Latin. The standing sister. Yeah. The sister who stands on the corner of Kirkwood and Indiana, half her junk hangin' out for all the earth to see, high on crystal and drunk on malt liquer; you can contract a venereal disease just by being downwind from one.

My old chum from last year, Joe, has come back from the UK (his native land) for a week and a conference, so I've been saying words like "chuffed" and "shag" and "pissed" a lot. It's sure good to see him again, as he was my best friend my first year in the corn. I sure did miss him.

Hahahahahaha, bitches! Someone came to see me from one of my previous lives! Take THAT!

< takes medication>

Helvacı kabağım için: seni görmeyi yine beklemiyorum.
I remain, as ever,

Dom