Nyack! Ronkonkoma! East Orange! Piscataway!
D'ya hear that, Mike Doughty?
Those are your lyrics, man! "Bustin' Up a Starbucks"!
Those lyrics have been circling around my brain today like buzzards!
Okay, it's my own fault, blame the victim. Yeah, I did buy the new album. Autographed, no less, so as to feel all gooshy inside when I open the jewel case. Yes, I own every other thing you've recorded (except Smofe + Smang, because I truly suck). I have the t-shirt, I downloaded the Bonnaroo thing (I paid for it, I swear!), I check your blog every day like a compulsive crack whore. I've awoken every morning for the past 2 weeks with one of your songs in my head. Oh, yeah, sure, they're hooky, yeah, I like 'em, they're like fucking morphine in my veins. I try to work, I try to do anything requiring thought, and your songs are in there.
Are they stalking me?
I'm begging you, man, please make it stop.
I promise, I'll make you my floater boyfriend for a few weeks. I'll loan out all my stuff to spread the MD goodness. But for the love of all holiness, I've GOT to get these songs out of my head, my spinning spinning head full of lovely Doughty lyrics and that damn fine bruised voice. Anything you could do, man, would be appreciated. Thanks. Love, Mona.
Now that I've got THAT done....
I like metaphores for female masturbation. I make 'em up all the time. And today I said, "smoothing my orchid petals". Because I have these fantastic orchids at my house that look really sexy. A la Georgia O'Keeffe. See for yourself, and think dirty:
Or this is better, close up:
Sexy, no? Your tongue is licking your lips and your finger just traced the inner folds of the flower, didn't it? You dirty, naughty blogger....
I miss Lisa. She's on a well-deserved holiday. But damn if I don't miss her writing and posting pictures of her breasteses. I threatened on her comments that we'd all take photos of ourselves, to fill the aching void. So I did. Lisa, I have absolutely nothing on you, girl! Okay, I've got a few more years of living under, on top of and around my belt. But really, it's late, and I can't be bothered to photoshop this damn thing to make me look loftier, perkier, or to take out that damn feathering. So I hope you're having a good week, and we miss ya!
And now, live and in person, Mona in her bedroom, breasteses flanked by a funky Vietnamese hat and a small lamp. Grch.
Yeah, for all you who question whether I really exist, that wonder if I'm not just a figment of Sergei's blogging imagination, I am real.
And now, to bed.