Wednesday, December 10, 2008


Today the woman next door (I suppose I could call her the girl next door, but she is too withered) invited me to a party at her house. I asked her if it would be swinging or cozy. She replied with the former. Thus, I accepted.

She then asked if I wouldn't mind "helping out" beforehand.

Was this a game of cat and mouse or was it just some wench too cheap to pay for catering? I needed a delving response.

I replied dryly, "Yes. I live to cook and clean."
Her resulting enthusiasm and long list of errands left me speechless, like watching a bullet shot into the heart of wit. This bird's all surface and you can't delve into a puddle. Visions of yellow rubber gloves and garbage cans fleeted through my mind. I don't know how to use them.

She'll be expecting me at 5:00? The party is at 8:00? I'll just get drunk. I'll drink rye as an inside joke and I'll toast my freshly dead friend. I'll be loud and make a big mess. That should teach her that friendship is laughter and drunkenness, not entrapment.

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