Andare, Partire, Tornare
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Happy turkey day, fuckers
I think this may go down as the most white-trash Thanksgiving I've ever had. Bemo and I were kind of at loose ends, and he was starving, so I agreed to go to this buffet place that is usually filled with people that don't have important things. Like all their teeth. It's one of those places where the food isn't really good, but there's a lot of it, and I hate going there but somehow I seem to forget how much I hate it until I'm actually in there, starting at all the food on my plate and realizing that aside from the rolls, none of it is really tasty. I mentioned that to Bemo when we left, and said that I didn't think we should come back, and he agreed, because by that point he was full. What can you expect from a man who prefers fake mashed potatoes because that's all his momma made when they were kids? I'm not even a great cook, and yet it's enough to make me weep.
Ended the evening with a mission to mom's house, where things were raging. I'm not going into detail, but suffice it to say, I don't know if I'd be terribly broken up if a meteor came through my mom's roof and squished her. Except it would cost a lot to get the roof fixed.
I suppose this means I should go read Lacan:
You are Jacques Lacan! Arguably the most important
psychoanalyst since Freud, you never wrote
anything down, and the only works of yours are
transcriptions of your lectures. You are
notoriously difficult to understand, but at
least you didn't talk about the penis as much
as other psychoanalysts. You died in 1981.
What 20th Century Theorist are you?
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11:38 p.m. - 2003-11-27
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