So, I'm focusing, focusing, focusing, getting stuff done. I'm on the train to Finishedpapertown, doing a little mental dance... My cell phone rings - it's Grammi. Aw shit. I love Grammi and everything, but this paper...and she's such a windbag... The phone continues to ring. ... I sigh, pick up the phone. "Hey Grammi!" "...It's your Uncle Billy."
Aw fuck. Another reminder that my family still maintains its level of fucked-up-titude. So, I talk to Uncle Billy. It turns out that he (finally) got the hat and shirt we sent him from Uncle Billy's hotel in Hilo, Hawai'i. Uncle Billy asked how the place was, I told him "Good. A little old, though."
He asked if I walked around in a thong bikini on the beach over there. Appalled by my modesty, he replied with "Hey man, I love conservative...ness and all, but you gotta strut your shit! You're beautiful, you got brains, I bet all the boys are drooling over you. What, you got 2, 3, boyfr-" "None."
He also talked about whities like me (he's a native Floridian) and how Yankee chicks don't have tanlines when they take off their bras and panties. I've never heard albinos exoticized so much. It kind of made me want to vomit, actually. And I quote (not about me, mind you): "That is so sexy, you’re like glow in the dark, man. You’re different, I liiiiiike it."
Then he made me send some guitarist an e-mail (under his stage name "Gimme Moor") about his latest album: "Please contact Gimme Moor at ***-***-**** in regard to Strange Universe. My Universe is not strange enough! Help! Help! Help!" ("Heh, I like that last part, it's good.")
God, I hope he was stoned.
As for this Freud paper...I'm taking another hiatus, I suppose. I wonder what ol' Siggy would have made of my beloved Uncle.
"Alright, I have to go. I'm knocking down the front of your Grandmother's garage." (I was half-tempted to say, "For fun, right?" or some other snippy comment alluding to his destructive personality. I decided to hold off, however.) "Oh, ok." "We love you." "What? Yeah. See ya." End.
I just realized that I have yet to call my dad back from a couple days ago; I haven't talked to him in a few weeks. I don't know what it is about the men in my family. The good ones die prematurely, and the rest sadly grip on to monotony until they eventually erode into nothing. If you think that's bad, don't even get me started on the women. Fuck. If genes play as big of a role on personality as I suspect they do (60%), I'm screwed. Like, big time. I'm probably beating a dead horse, but I really haven't vented in awhile. Perhaps, some of you have notice my bitchinocity. 'Tis why.