Plastic Coffee Cups

Third title in a row with "fucking" in it

...and so Liz told me to make this a post consisting of loosely connected words, something that may or may not have anything to do with anything, a stream of nouns and adjectives and adverbs that may serve a larger purpose, a motivation beyond my control or within my grasp, a transgressional digression along the lines of previous sleep-deprived and semi-delirious posts that I have made which have consequently made my roommate, a future English teacher, squirm with anguish and anger at the clear abuse of the language of a run-on sentence that, really, he only has a problem with because of its length, since the grammatical structure and integrity are still intact and complete, and also angry at the inspiration for the post, a story titled "Sentence" by Donald Barthelme, a piece which consists of a single sentence that starts in mid-stream and is still not completed by the end of the eight pages it consumes, and also angry because he was drunk and couldn't read the words that seemed to run into each other haphazardly, a hideous amalgam of letters and half-hearted puncuation that served little purpose swimming on a luminescent screen and rubbing against each other in a most inappropriate fashion that would make even the sternest high school administrator begin to question his or her motivation in taking a job that turned into little more than a babysitting gig for students younger or older than his or her own children but never the same age for some strange reason, trying to stop the adolescents from grinding and bumping and letting hormones flow freely during the school dance because parents were waiting outside, staring in the foggy windows and patiently tapping their feet along with the thumping bass rattling the foggy windows, the lights flashing and pulsating and searing the air that is thick with sweat and lust and alcohol sneaked from the liquor cabinets of unsuspecting parents who are too busy with their lives and lost loves and lovers living in constant memories of them, themselves, stuck in that high school dance with the lust and sweat and alcohol with their parents waiting outside in their cars bought with the money they earned from jobs that kept them away from their kids except when the kids were punished, our parents still waiting and swearing that they would never turn into their parents and then they did without ever knowing it, speaking like Mom and Dad gradually and in turns becoming more of them than of themselves, incorporating traits and personality into an already clouded consciousness...


Methinks that sleeping might be good at this point.

posted by Werd @ 12:47 AM