Eating Dry Frosted Flakes...
On the way to the office today I drove past at least three Smith's, 19 convenience stores, and a Wild Oats but I was so lazy that I could not bother to turn into any of them...I was comfortable in my car that smelled sort of like something under the hood was on fire...and since I was already used to that aroma that should have probably been mildly alarming but only caused a very momentary pause...I figured I should just keep going. So that's how I find myself writing a blog...eating dry Frosted Flakes directly from the box. These are those moments when I really miss Simon's Delivers. Even though my former co-worker Iweda (yes...she's black)....threatened to take away my ghetto pass for ordering my groceries on-line and having them delivered...I rarely found myself in the heart rending circumstance in which I now find myself. Milkless with one hand in caressing Tony the Tiger's face and the other reaching out towards the gas station a block away.
But back to Simon's Delivers. Iweda really flipped when I told her that I ordered my Thanksgiving dinner groceries and got real excited when I saw a section on the website called "greens." I thought I was going to be able to get my collards and mustards right there and dropped off at my door the night before...of course...when I opened the link it was all spinach, kale, Swiss chard (what the hell is a chard?). They didn't have any damn hamhocks either. Since I'm probably the only person of color that used the website, I really shouldn't have been surprised. But I was. I was. But you can't take the Northside outta anybody. The ghetto pass is mine forever. Iweda still calls me bourgetto...combination of bourgeoise and ghetto. She's clever that one.
I really should be at home preparing for the CDC quarantine that I just know is coming. But as Jeremy so insightfully peeped out yesterday...I'm in a mild depression and whenever you want to know my mental state...all you have to do is look at my bedroom/living space. Right now looking at my house you'd think I was Bi-Polar with Major Depression and Borderline Personality Disorder (no offense to anyone with any of these very serious mental health diagnoses...some of my best friends have borderline personalities and are manic/depressive...black too). I'm much happier right here with my bottle of red Powderade and my dry toasted sugared wheat by-product. Although...I almost pitched a major bitch-fit yesterday when I ran into the Shamrock to get my beloved blue Powerade...only to find that it was not there at our usual rendevouz spot. So I went for hooker red instead. It works in a pinch.
If I'd been a little more prepared...and brave enough to stick my bare flesh into the clothes pile around my bed...I would have brought one of the movies I purchased the other day at a discount retail chain that shall remain nameless but represents every consumer evil imaginable...but the upside is that I got Coming To America for $5.50. I LOVE that movie. It's one of the all time most quotable movies ever...right after the Color Purple and followed by Drop Dead Gorgeous (which I watched last night...I just downloaded my membership application for the Lutheran Sisterhood Gun Club...Go Muskies!). I also bought Rent which came bound with a free copy of Center Stage...why not? I'm going to wait to watch Rent until I'm in a little more upbeat state of mind. If I watched it today you might hear about my on the news...done myself in with one of my three CD soundtrack versions of the movie and broadway show (really...don't call 911...I'm not a danger to myself...I can contract for my safety...peachy). I did have a random synapse burst at the movies just before making my DVD purchases...there was a hot guy working the snack bar...and he looked Latino...so Spanish was out..thenI thought to myself that I wish Gigi spoke French...and voila...as if Gerard Depardieu and I were mentally in sync...I rattled off...regardez-vous le garcon ici! I know that's more or less the right way to say...hey...look at that guy over there. I thought the only thing I recalled from fours years of French was how to count, some random curse words, and the phrase Je mange le glace (I eat ice cream). Score one for Madame Rogers!
C'est bon. Not much more to say today. Until tomorrow...old resevoirs.
why r u diagnoised with depression? chill, man.
Posted by: -gud writer- | March 6, 2006 06:42 PM