tuesday nights and the world is a defiant cloud of laundry, an ever-stretching sky of boxers, argyle socks, and inside-out tees (yellow rat bastards and educated students of color.) if i look at the pile long enough, i start to make out faces and things: che’s beard on the wrinkles of that black sock, snufflelaphocus gliding down that brown sweater. i’m down to my last pair of underwear, and if i wait any longer i’ll be harvesting leaves off these october sidewalks as pants padding.
moe said something somewhat poetic on the simpsons today: the stars are lazy, they do nothing good for nobody. i thought for a second, aren’t my socks lazier, one day of work in a snug pair of vans and then they get to lie around for the rest for the week.
my dad called me and told me i should adopt a new style, “you’re wearing the same things you wore in high school, you’re not 16 anymore….”
i think, yeah, you’re right. wednesday night, maybe i should take my cloud of dirty laundry, take em to the roof, lie em out like a fatty cushion, and lay in it, whistling with nothing on but an underwear made out of stars.
on another note: hey, who wants to have a bbq in costume this weekend.