Wednesday, November 22, 2017

November 22, 2017

Dear Diary,

Today being the day before Thanksgiving, I feel a sense of tradition settling over the kingdom country. Everywhere you look, you can hear the sounds of slackers and bounders doing whatever they can to leave work early early snowfall dusting the whiskers of alcoholic homeless bums lying in the street trees in the woods just outside my window.  The cool, crisp air reminds me that I'm not the only one hibernating 20 hours a day. How those bears do it without Benzodiazepine is beyond me. I go through that stuff like candy. In fact, Dr. Morell has me keep a jug filled on my nightstand.

Perhaps it's because I'm such a depressed loser in the autumn of my years, these winter scenes fill me with melancholy. Partly because they remind be of my childhood and partly because my long-term use of Lorazepam has permanently affected my color perception. The clean, freshly fallen snow on the ground reminds me of how if nature weren't really racist and misogynistic, snow would fall in all colors, not just white what the holidays were like when I was a little girl.

I still have occasional vaginal discomfort just thinking about it.

I suspect that most minimum wage types people forget that today is the anniversary of John F. Kennedy's death, which always hits Bill pretty hard. JFK was Bill's idol when we were growing up. They even shook hands one time. Bill wouldn't wash his hand for a week. He just kept sniffing it. It was kind of gross, but I didn't say anything. I just pretended to enjoy it when he stuck it under my nose. Then I barfed chunks after he left.

After the day when the mob took Kennedy out from the grassy knoll was assassinated in Dallas, I recall Bill shaking his fist at the sky and swearing two things: First, he was determined to get as much White House pussy done for poor people as JFK, and second, he would find out how mob hit men always manage to get away clean be President himself some day. He managed to accomplish both.

Unfortunately, I'm still one for two.

Oh well, that's why God invented Benzodiazepine. A few more of these puppies and I should be all set for Thanksgiving, assuming that Bessie gets back in time for my sponge bath. One doesn't attend a dinner reeking of stale urine.

It just isn't done.

Subscribe for each day's entry by Email!