hobo fantasy camp.

it’s 4:42 am.  i am lying on a futon mattress on the floor and my dog was just looming over me wearing a cone collar and a bandana, ramming me in the face for some reason, and spinning and spinning looking for the right place to lay down, which has turned out to be on my butt.  i am covered in dog hair and neither the sheet or the blanket i think are clean.  OH MY GOD AND THE FUCKING BIRDS WILL NOT SHUT UP.  i don’t even remember what i was going to write about.  i don’t think i can go any farther down in life.  except maybe for migrant worker, like in the grapes of wrath, and i might or might not have to breastfeed a hobo.  that would be worse than lying on a dirty futon with a rabid conehead dog.  i don’t think i would breastfeed the hobo, even if he was dying.  i don’t know if that makes me a bad person, but there it is.  i will not breastfeed strangers.

i generally do not hate birds, but i sort of wish i could shoot them all so they would be fucking quiet.  i was trying to sleep, after watching the usual 3 hours of cheers on the hallmark channel, and then they start in on me.  what the fuck.  and you know why else i hate birds, they can fly and i can’t.  that doesn’t seem fair at all.  although i can respect any animal that doesn’t see the need for pants.  however, i am wearing pants now.  which is kind of a rare occurrence.  yesterday i was lying on my dirty futon, with conehead wolfdog, and i was yet again covered in some type of crumbs and not wearing pants.   i don’t think any of this makes any sense.   i’m trying to cheer myself up by saying i am NOT a fucking hobo but it’s not working.  maybe if i charge people to sleep on my living room floor and live like me for a week, i could make some money and everything would be okay.  it could be some kind of fucked up fantasy camp, or a boot camp for at-risk kids that would be featured on maury….i could pretend i’m a drug addict and draw track marks on myself with eyeliner.  in the middle of the night when everyone is asleep in their sleeping bags i can creep up on them with a knife to simulate the streets.  in the dining room i could set up some refrigerator boxes and newspapers and some empty liquor bottles, that can be alcoholic alley.  my house will be like the circles of hell or something.  except i won’t have fake aborted babies in the bathroom.  it’ll be like a wacky carnival of misfortune.  and in the end, maybe i won’t feel any better, but i’ll have scared and traumatized some kids straight.  or possibly have real hobos in here that i can’t get rid of.  you know how if a cat pees on the carpet, you can never really get that smell out?  it’s the same for hobos.  i’d have to move.

i like how i never explained why i was on a futon on the floor in the first place.

~ by hollaphonic on 06/19/2010.