Kittens On Rollerskates

Hey Gang! It’s 5:08 am, so evidently I don’t need sleep anymore, and so based on what I understand about enlightenment (limited) I’ve graduated to a higher plane of consciousness. Yeah, it feels good here at the top. Long time since last post, though, so that makes me lame again. One Step Forward, One Step Back: The Memoirs of CJP. Boring first paragraph will be rectified later in this essay, dawgs, so bear with me. Better yet, bare with me. Hey-oh! One more thing: My peeps from San Francisco: you guys are unthinkably rad. You’ve no idea how much your kind/forceful/inspiring-all-the-way-around-words have meant to me, and caused me to stop attempting impossible sleep to come here, into the office, to write instead. Thank you, Marin. Thank you, Shay. Thank you all. I would probably do this if no one ever read any of it, but knowing that people I love care whether or not I write causes me to feel itchy and to need it. And so here we are. I owe you all, because this is better. For me, I mean.

I’m thinking about starting a few regular segments here on the ole blawg, at the risk of  a rapid transformation into Good Morning America. These segments include: Cooking With Katie Couric JUST KIDDING that bitch got fired, Things That People Googled To Find My Blog, Things I Voluntarily Wrote With No End Game Before I Was Ten, and How Bad Was Traffic In Carrboro Today. I’m going to start with TIVWWNEGBIWT (work it out), and Mama, couldn’t have done this without the radical birthday album you put together for me of things I voluntarily wrote with no end game before I was ten. I’ll just open here with a note to Santa that I prolly wrote around 7.

My handwriting is essentially still this poor. Also still this cynical.

It’s worth noting that on the back of this letter are the words : Kidney Soup. Followed by 11 squiggly lines. Sounds delicious! Quick question: How does one go from absolutely amazingly awesome at 7 to, like, pretty cool I guess except for how I got into a borderline physical altercation with literally a bum last night at 29 years of age (I am told it was fucking awesome.)? Anywayz, “Sign here if your alive?” Like, if it’s cool, could you just hook me up with some dope gear, like that fly dog movie or a microphone or whatever, because you’re like hella real, and here’s some fucking delicious cookies, and oh if you have a second could you just sign here because when you do that we’ll just have it out of the way. I’ll have it on file. In case of an audit. Papertrails, you understand. Uh, kidding me right now? And that is seriously only the beginning. Tip of the motherfucking iceberg. I wrote mad shit, because I wanted to be an author, but my topics were wicked bizarre, or else they were runaway notes. Lots of those, I was intensely sensitive and 110% sure my family was making fun of me all the time, so I’d like pack up some toy horses and walk to the end of the street like I was waiting for a cab. Hey, um, Camille! You’re eight, so you’re crazy broke, so you aren’t going anywhere. Totes sorry.

But you’ll have to wait for the notes, because now we’re on to our next segment, Things That People Googled To Find My Blog. Which…guys. Guys. Folks. Hold up. Whoa whoa whoa. The fuck are you talking about. And why in the fucking world are these searches pulling up my site. I have like a squad of these. Like I think up some crazy shit, for sure, but never once in all my years was I like, hey, last night was crazy rad! Aw man, so much fun. What a blast, we should do that again. I should almost certainly google “had a killer time last night huh billboard” and just see what pops up. Like, that was so fun! Right, Billboard? Right? Billboard? You get it! Not gonna call the actual people I was with, those dummies, what do they know. But that billboard, it knows. It gets it. HEY. EVERYONE. ARE YOU OK. Because that billboard does not know what your night was like. Jesus Christ.

Or, hey, how reasonable a search is this? “what does diyer mean? like im in dire need of a shower ” Um, excuse me? Gross. Like, gross. Hey, dawg? Go bathe. Wash up. It’s cool. I’ll wait. The site is not coming down in the next ten minutes, or before you learn how to spell a super simple word that for the record has just the four letters. You’re over thinking this. Like, just spell the word and take a shower. Please.

“beautiful girl getting stoned” I actually have nothing to say about this. Right on.

I’ll finish up with “gigolo mumbai condom they allow me only when i convinced them.” I feel frightened for some reason, like this is so disjointed that I’m trembling. What…what is a mumbai condom. Why do gigolos need whatever that is. If you are a gigolo kind of the whole premise is that you don’t spend a lot of time convincing “them,” because they just purchased you. Like, they sought you out, you don’t have to sell it so hard. Cool out, homez. Stop googling scary things and then coming to my blawg. If what you mean is that…just no. Never mind. I’m afraid of you. You win. I cannot with this.

Final segment: How Bad Was Traffic In Carrboro Today. You know what? Traffic was super bad. Hey, East Main Street? You do know what the word street implies, right? Like, typically you drive down one, you don’t move into it. I already live somewhere, like a house? You know, with rooms and a kitchen? It’s wicked sweet. So, I’m cool on that, thanks. PLEASE STOP IT AT ONCE.

Just ordered rad new Ray-Bans. Need to go stand by the street and wait for them for the next week. Love y’all!