Worms in my bodie.

The tingles are back. This time as the electric tails of tape worms that have swum their way into my heart; yes that's right. It's that time of year again when love is contagious. Caught on the pollen in the air and swallowed up into your lungs all in the midst of an asthma attack. Or allergies if your not a nerd, dweb, twat, or shriveled potato man.

I found out a news article heading on the telephone. An announcement, followed by a less inflated story of teenage angst. My brother, the first man to explore the uterus of my mother, asked his woman-parts-provider for her hand in marriage.

Swell, huh? I'm excited...for the reception.

I like cake and I like celebratin'. I just hope that they decide to get a mime instead of a priest. I do like outlines of objects. Except if they are body shaped and in my apartment. There is a time, and a place, for everything. And then teen angst goes like this: girl smokes pot with germans, gets caught, gets isolated (not like gerauds), gets car taken away but does not get any of my jokes.

I tried to explain the toe revolution; the scars, the memories, and the soup cooked over an open fire.

Absofuckinlutely no response. I would have accepted a growling stomach as a sign of receipt. In fact, I should have heard her insides on the account of that mornings intestinal slurpies. One computer phone call and nothing changed. I suppose you don't expect it to, unless the tape worms are in your brain. In which case, you got the giggles...for life! but come December I'll try to use my body as it was designed-a smothering, steam rolling machine. It's too bad Kasha doesn't read this, she could try out some pre-emptive striking.

This is my blog. It doesn't sometimes make sense to you, but it really does because you can read and you'll change the meaning of my words to lube your brain up real good. Speaking of sense, my finding money on the ground rut is no more. I found eleven pence on the ground in two days. Inside. I think that's the key. I've got hobo competition outside, but inside I'm the only one scavenging.

I ain't go no shame and my fingers are fucking agile. Got nails for grip.

cartoon living

Géraud has a blue superman t-shirt that is ultra stretchy. It was a gift from EX-con murderer Bernie, from next door. Bernie calls Géraud, "Gévereaux" because he can't remember or work on remembering the Grods true frenchy name. I'm mostly okay with that. Bernie has a very eclectic musical preference and we try to imagine him loving up those ladies when we hear the sultry sounds of late 80's adult contemporary and r&b hits.

He also never sleeps and says, "d'ya know wut aye mean?" post every sentence. The thing is, we never know what he has just said... But the fear of a knife gutting makes that grin and nod of understanding so much easier. So, I think we are friends.

Back to the superman t-shirt. It is an icon of relaxation and in more severe times, sloth. It also goes great with a pair of oversized christmas cane covered boxers. This time, a gift to the grod from yours truly. So in being a most grateful recipient of all gifts, great and small, Géraud has more than brought to life the personnage of Grod.

I wake up to find the two crumpled garments on the floor, shed the night before because our bed is a place of gages faits and work is no place for a modest superhero. But come five of five thirty, these two gifts of thread red and blue awaken and bring to life GROD.

Forget what you may think you know about GROD, for sightings and true accounts are rare and often full of inaccuracies. I have been lucky enough to track him and have secured photographic evidence of the G himself.

Our living room has been transformed into the set of an adult cartoon with a permanent slow-moving haze of the destroyed evidence, which we had to smoke because it enhances our power kicks.

grele

In all my efforts to be a productive piece of society I am still behind. I am failing at sleeping in. The bed no longer comforts me in the wee hours of the morning. I don't necessarily want to get up and go gallivanting, but I can't stay there. Two theories: 1. It's cold under a pile of puff sans habits 2. Ageism is deteriorating my brain into thinking waking up early is beneficial for small nains.

Besides failings in sleep, I have been racking my mind trying to plan my futur. School acceptance check. Deposit paid check. Academic prowess? I'm leaving on November 12 to go back to Philadelphia. It's the surest way to get the visa without have stress pains and mild alcoholism. So for two months I'll be an only child of sorts, spending thanksgiving alone with three cats. I'm going to job myself as a santa slave; elf.

Then the next part of the futur says I take an airplane journey back and pretend to know anything about something.

Anyways, I've got more pressing issues at hand. I've got to vote. I need two witnesses to sign my overseas ballot. I only know one person. Who wants their signature to be forged on my ballot so that I can vote. I'm not sure if you all know how many people are on the louisiana presidential election ballot. 7. The socialist workers party, the louisiana taxpayers party, and so on. There is also a party whose only platform is prohibition.

I keep wanting to photograph my life and show it. But. I forget.

This morning it hailed. I'm cold. Heating uses too much electricity. I bought detox tea. I drink to stay warm. But when the tox leaves my body I'm no longer warm.

Let's pretend that we all know what we are doing. It'll make the less imiginative feel silly.

extraordinary machine

Yesterday I bought electricity. I did it in record time. 3 Miles + dodging hefty runcornbreads + fresh fruit distraction = 1 hour. I was impressed and sweaty. I thought that I was in a hurry. The real answer was not in a hurry. But it did make for good sport. I'm like a tank.

I've been accepted into a Masters Programme for Public Health specializing in International Health Development. I think I have decided to do it. I didn't realize this until last night when I remembered that I just bought a plane ticket back to the UK for January. In my waking life I was already a student again. It's a strange feeling. The course seems larger than myself as it exercises magnetic pull on me. I'm not sure what I do now. This is the longest summer vacation ever. All the other kids already went back to school and there is noone to play with.

PS Money is expensive and my purple shoes are wearing thin. I can feel the texture of the earth when I walk.

I have a UK library card. I also have a national insurance number. Grod too. What if we get stuck on this island?

I certainly haven't been shopping for any new shoes
And I certainly haven't been spreading myself around
I still only travel by foot and by foot it's a slow climb
But I'm good at being uncomfortable so I can't stop changing all the time