sac·cha·rine

JARVIS: Black Magic

I have never sweat more in my life than I have the past few weeks in Brooklyn. I’m not necessarily complaining. It’s really more of a mystifying thing to me, really, how I have not become some oxymoronic dehydrated puddle.

I decided that Tecate should sponsor my Sunday night, further robbing my body of hydration today. Too lazy to investigate curtain rod offerings in the neighborhood, my windows remain naked. They almost act like a magnifying glass for insufferable mouth heat and make sleeping in impossible. I woke this morning next to my friend and said to him, “I feel like I’m sleeping outside.” Somehow my bed felt like gross pine needles and rubbish. “For all intents and purposes,” he replied with eyes still closed, “You are.” I looked to see both windows wide open, allowing the sun to lava in and up my space. 

But things are looking cooler. Yesterday I purchased three ice cube trays from the 99 cents store on Graham. They are shaped exactly like testicles. So. That helps.

PULP: Trees

‘Bout to see a whole bunch of these when I roll up into Western Massachusetts tomorrow afternoon. MEGABUS IS MEGAFUN. It’s actually usually MEGAAWFUL, but I’ll be en route to see my family, drink loads of local craft brews and breathe in some non-NYC-perverted air. And all of that is cool.

Also I get to point and make fun of my sister for being fat pregnant. Double fun!