Cinnabeer?

“Sometimes all I need is the air that I breathe” Air That I Breathe - The Hollies

Yikes, last night was weird.

I met up with my friends for drinks and to shake our bones to some tunes, but all day I had this feeling of dread. Just like something wasn’t right or like how you feel if you’re in trouble, or someone is being insincere… something, though I couldn’t put my finger (or thumb) on it. Not that applying an appendage onto an issue ever remedied it or made it any less real - I digress.

Someone my crew all thought was gay lunged at me while I was talking about sewing my outfit. I wasn’t scantily clad (see above) or flirtatious in any way, I mean, he’s cute and stuff, but EW. That’s so not cool to begin with, but as he attempted to smash his face into mine, his breath nearly brought me to suicide. NASTY like what I imagine an anchovy’s ass to reek like.

Diverting his attention elsewhere (by screaming “NO get off me!”), I wriggled away and ran to the nearest car wash and then had a chemical peel, followed by seven hundred courses of Tic Tacs.

After making an appointment to get a face transplant, I became engaged in a low key discussion about Russian literature with someone else who also had death breath.

Both of these guys were drinking beer, a beverage I’ve never been really fond of as it makes men eventually get breasty and pregnant looking (it is highly estrogenic btw), but lately I’ve been noticing it really kills your exhale in an almost ambitious manner.

Maybe it’s time to double up that swill with flavors like how they’ve gone and perverted vodka. Cinnabeer? Winterbeer? Spearabeer? Strawbeery? Citrabeer? Beernilla? Beerchouli?

Something must be done, and soon! Pew!

Currently listening:
Pablo Honey
By Radiohead

Question Air 8/19/08

A lazy breeze, overwhelming gale force winds, blustering blizzards.

Air.

Gasp it in. Longingly sigh it out.

Inhaling the idea of what could be or what once was, exhaling a scream for what is.

The best thing about having hair (H + AIR = hair) is feeling it flirtatiously fondled by the zephyrs.

Skin just lives to be tickled by the invisible breath made from stirs in the atmosphere.

Does the same breeze come around to you twice in one lifetime? Are there new ones, or are they the same gusts that danced across time, maybe bumping into the likes of Marilyn Monroe or John Lennon along the way?

Imagine drawing in the same breath that exited from Adolf Hitler, would you choke on it?

If you exert a yell with everything you are, will that air penetrate time and send warmth to the ones you lost? Or, perhaps, a chill to the ones that lost you?

You can hold your breath, but does it hold you?

Air can't be ensnared no matter how hard you try to catch it; it's ALL free – for now.


Currently listening :
The Sun Is Often Out
By Longpigs
Release date: 1997-02-25