Well, damn it all to hell. I was trying to escape my wretched reality by smoking a little of the ole sweet leaf and drifting off into a pleasant reverie; a silly little fantasy starring Joaquin Phoenix and my brother (who does not exist). (No, they were not screwing, it was a fantasy of a…. conversational nature. Women have those. Wow.)
Dear Granny just HAD to choose that moment in time to knock abruptly on my door, and then just start coming in (without my permission to do so having been granted), insisting that it was time to put the god-fucking garbage out. I had a picture of a completely clothed Joaquin on my screen, and even though Granny totally knows that I have a crush on him, I was jerked out of my nice, high, drifty, endorphin-producing fantasy into an adrenaline jolt, and the effort of trying to switch my tab over to a nice, innocuous and inoffensive Facebook tab in a split second before she saw that I was looking at him. I don’t know why I have this knee jerk reaction! It’s like a husband or a son getting busted looking at bonafide porn. Like wtf! Unfortunately only one real semi-nude picture of Joaquin seems to exist, and the bulk of his nudity is covered up by some blond chick. Damn it.
Yeah, so anyway. Damn it! 😦
After fucking with the garbage I tried to get back into my sweet reverie but it was shattered beyond redemption. I am, in fact, some 20 minutes later now, still recovering from the initial knee-jerk adrenaline shock of being so rudely yanked out of my reverie, and the over-all pain in the ass of taking the garbage out. (The process involves multiple flights of stairs.) 😦
So, I came here to lament because I guess that’s what I made this place for. My laments.
What makes all of this even more absurd is that I know very well that she is sitting out there in the living room doing her own version of the same damned thing! By which I mean, of course, escaping the horrible reality with fantasies of a lewd and/or erotic nature.
What’s left of her life (she’ll be 89 this summer) revolves around cowboys. The Encore Western channel is on all day long. She wants me to bring her cowboy and Western themed library books. Ah yes, and she writes her fucky-fucky cowboy stories. Then, she rips them up and throws them away. I tried to read one once but I could not stomach it. She’d start out with a bit about gingham dresses and sweet fresh baked rhubarb pies, the lovely ladies at work in the kitchen; and then a bit about the handsome rugged ranch hands and a few details about their horses, farm & tack. By the end of that mess everybody was getting fucked proper and cumming all over the place. Every now and then somebody would get murdered just to spice things up. Some people dig that I guess, reading and/or writing erotica, (never mind that of an old-timey, country western themed nature!) but it never grabbed me. I’d rather make my own damned fantasies and keep them in my head. I couldn’t get through the thing because seriously, who COULD sit and read a whole story about gingham and pies and fucky-fucky-fucky that was written by their grandmother?! I mean, like, EW, right?!