(Living with a narcissist is sheer hell.)
Yesterday, I went to Emart with James-uh. Monday is wonderful for shopping. The five-story parking-garage had tons of open spaces. We spent 80 dollars stocking up on groceries. We're used to living with a high-conflict woman. Everything out of her mouth is asshole-this or motherfucker-that. The peace was amazing.
I cooked dinner. We had fried shrimp and tortilla bread. I'm no Betty Crocker, but the meal was damn good. Not walking on eggshells is a wonderful feeling. I washed the vittles down with two plastic bottles of rice wine. I got toasted. It was a dumb move. I must resist becoming a drunkard.
I was too plastered to watch television. But I did pay homage to the Christ God. I said the Lord's Prayer on bended knees. No big surprise. I'm not some filthy pagan. I thanked Jesus for his kindness. It turns out that my mother is cancer-free. So I'm not on the short-list for becoming an orphan. What a relief.
I went to bed at 10 p.m. I had a strange dream. I borrowed Harrison Ford's motorcycle and drove it to Texas. On the way, two cows fell out of a truck and landed on the highway. The beasts chased the vehicle for miles and miles. Yet the driver paid no notice to the furry creatures galloping behind him. The end.
I woke up at 6 a.m. and turned on my laptop. Billy Cosby admitted that he slipped dope to girls in order to get sex. I don't understand the logic. Bill's a big-time star. He could make it with half the chicks on the planet. So why drug them? The answer is simple. There's something about an unconscious female which gives Cosby wood.
I read the paper later in the day. An editorial writer badmouthed the pope. I got a bit peeved. First of all, I love Francis like a brother. Secondly, the writer doesn't truly understand liberation theology. He's confusing the movement with Marxism. Nothing could be further from the the truth.
Anyway, it's time for the song du jour. Here's Love Stinks by The J. Geils Band. God bless.