Photo proof that my summer is not being completely wasted on stupid shit

July 18, 2005 - 11:15 a.m.

Here’s just a few examples of what the hell I’ve been doing instead of writing all summer. At least now you’ll believe that I’ve actually been doing SOMETHING, and not just being lazy.

Two lovers, in love, lovin’ on one another like nobody’s business. Waiting for a ride from the Tender service to get our asses out on the sailboat. That was a great day because Eric came out with us and we got drunk on cider, him with his gay pride sunburn, and me with my gay pride beer cozy.

This is my boyfriend’s sailboat, see all of our friends partying on there? Yeah. Except it’s not. That there is Windy II, and she is kept at Navy Pier and people rent her out and pretend to be Christopher Columbus and shit. Windy I is around there somewhere too. Sing: Oh Windy, well you came and you sailed without sinking, and your sailors sat back and were drinking, Oh Windy.

Woot-Woot! Holla! Fuck yeah that’s me in my sailor bikini, that has tiny anchors on the bottoms. Sailing is hard fucking work and I’m covered in bruises from being knocked around from the waves. I Photoshopped a large black bruise that I have on my ass, because it ruined this picture. What is it about bruises in general that makes a person look low-class and ill-bred? When you see a large bruise on anyone, you just think UGH with disgust, like the person most certainly got the bruise from putting their grandma in a headlock in the front yard, or dragging in jugs of moonshine from the woods. Notice the pirate flag, the Jolly Roger stabbing into a heart with a knife.

This was the worst 4th of July holiday I believe I’ve ever had. I REALLY should write a story about it here.

We had a picnic in the back yard and it was Perfect. For some reason I didn’t get a picture of the actual basket. We laid around and drank cold Coke and ate Quizno’s and Tostitos with a Hint of Lime. Fucking Yum. We were relaxing after our morning in the float tank. You heard right, a float tank, ya know, a sensory deprivation tank? Yeah, it has water in it full of salt so that you’re completely buoyant and you float perfectly like on a fluffy cloud and the air and the water is 93.5 degrees, the temperature on the skin’s surface, so you hardly feel anything at all. My senses were deprived all right, but unfortunately only oxygen can deprive my somewhat neurotic brain from thinking, madly and constantly, like a speeding train. I laid in there, bodyless, but with my floating little brain pumping away.

Those books there, are about the WWII Stearman Army biplane. It’s an old-ass plane with two sets of wings, go figure, and the Pilot wants to buy one. He said that him and I should fly this plane across the U.S., stopping every three hours for gas, and sleeping under the wing at night. At first I was like, Yeah Right, whodahell flies across America. And then 10 minutes later I was like Hell Yeah, let’s fly across America!

The first Thursday of every month is rockabilly night at Martyr’s. The pilot had plans to meet up with some friends and then they were all going to ride over there together on their bikes, ya know, for safety reasons. Not because it looks cool or anything.

I got off of work at 10 that night, ran to the bathroom, and like Clark Kent I changed from my stuffy librarian costume into my biker bitch clothes with tight jeans and high heels. I went outside to wait on the granite sidewalk outside of my hoochie-coochie LaLaLa corporate office building, where the fat bastards have their Livery lined up at the door to chauffer their privileged, clogged arteries to Kenilworth.

A couple of Khaki Co-Workers saw me dressed like that and stopped dead in their tracks, and no lie, it was like Fast Times at Ridgemont High, Moving in Stereo, Phoebe Cates climbing out of the swimming pool in a bikini. It was like time slowed and I was walking through molasses while they stared at me agape, and everything went dead quiet. Except I don’t think that the staring was lust, it was awe, at seeing this bitchy, frigid, bun-wearing schoolmarm transformed into a hot-to-trot, lion-maned, large bosomed Vixen.

They were like HOLY FUCKING SHIT WHERE THE FUCK DID THIS COME FROM.

I’m not kidding that 10 minutes later they still had not regained their composure and it was embarrassing all around.

When I was waiting on the sidewalk, I saw and heard a bike gang come around the corner with my boyfriend in the front. They slowed down in front of me and I jumped on the back of the pilot’s Triumph and it was like a fucking dream come true. My dream to be the bitch on the back, in a pack of bikes. Not just any bike gang, not the bearded Harley dudes with leather tassels who use metal pipes to solve problems, but a hot piece of ass like my boyfriend on a cool-ass James Dean type of bike, with his friends and their cute girlfriends. It was the best night, and I should have written a long story about it here.

And then yesterday we flew an airplane. More on that later.

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The Fast, Days 1-6
January 28, 2007