Guacamole

I am angry. I know that you will not ask why -- so I will tell. I cannot seem to write this fucking (spit comes flying out of my mouth) album review.

Hint: I use curse words because it calms my nerves and makes grandmothers blush.

I spent an hour in the afternoon sun collecting pools of sweat on the various places of my body, (the breasts, neck, and back) and all I managed was four short paragraphs of scribbles. My hour spent trapped in the mouth of hell – often mistakenly called July – produced three sentences of wit; and even that is pushing the envelope.

To push the envelope

Meaning: To attempt to extend the current limits of performance. To innovate, or go beyond commonly accepted boundaries.

Origin: This phrase came into general use following the publication Tom Wolfe's book about the space programme - The Right Stuff, 1979:

http://www.phrases.org.uk/meanings/push-the-envelope.html

My frustration over my impotence stems from the fact that at roughly 1300 hours I signed a pact with my blood: the blood was taken from a cut on my left fuck you finger; the cut was received while under onion triggered emotional direst. The "pact" was made with my left brain -- represented by a middle-aged man wearing a purple beret, a joint hanging from his lips. Before the worry begins to harden, and accusations of an affair fly, let me say that this French pothead is actually a figment of my imagination. This may frighten some, but this is the x-rated version of Alice in Wonderland boys and girls. Piss like the big dogs or get off the pot. It is either that or shit. I never seem to remember my white trash proverbs.

I swore with the signature of my type AB blood that I would not allow myself the comfort of a social outing until I had completed the album review. Since I am a [insert obscene word here] -- I will not be purchasing the much desired 12-pack of Corona, two limes, and a container of shoplifted salt this evening. I despise dieting, I lack the commitment of a cult, and I have never subscribed to established religion -- in other words I suffer from a lack of discipline. Writing is the only thing for which I will deny myself the luxuries of sex, drugs, and rock n roll. I tend to drink while writing, but not in the mass quantities I so wanted for this evening.

I am driven from fraternizing by my incessant need to be more (a currently undefined more). My motivation to be this still undefined more appears to me in the form of a nagging wife. She allows me the occasional beer and baseball game, but then she appears in our doorway disguised in curlers and mud mask; to drive me to the bedroom in demand of sexual pleasure. I slave over the laptop until she is satisfied. When I suggested Sex Addicts Anonymous she slapped the words right out of my mouth.

The nagging wife simply adores my boyfriend. She finds my boyfriend's talent to be unrivaled; this which only furthers her disappointment in my bedroom feebleness. His band is currently touring this fine nation; and as they play gigs, sign skin, and maintain an essence of cool, I sit in my all too hot room teasing apart my life in clothesless blogs.

Inconsistent: lacking agreement, as one thing with another or two or more things in relation to each other; at variance.

We have yet to settle this inconsistency.

I am off to paint my chipping toenails and think of new ways to become famous.

P.S. Anyone heard of Angry Ape?

P.S.S. Homemade guacamole rocks my world.

For those who live in the afterthought: I am in pursuit of an affair with grammar freaks worldwide.

"Funny thing how things change when you got a little liquor in ya"