Finally Died, and Notes on becoming an Alcoholic OR: Notes on: Lloyd Braun

I wrote this yesterday morning in my car in the parking lot at school before a parking copper got the best of me and scared me away with his little orange book of tickets:

I finally died... my hair. What'd you think? That someone finally died? You fool. You damn fool. I had been letting it go gray for fun and then I realized that my idea of fun was really stupid. Lets just say that I began to feel really old. You know you are getting old when people are no longer surprised at how much gray you have in your hair. They barely mention it...

Then I wrote this late last night. I think it is pretty self explanatory:

You know when you've drank a little bit and things are so fucking profound! They are profoundly funny or profoundly sad and not much in between. You know what I'm talkin' bout. Talkin' bout Down Town! Talkin' Bout levitation. Talkin' Bout Zanita what's her name that my sister used to run with that she said sort of smelled and was weird and claimed to be able to levitate. I wonder what ever happened to her? Probably the most genuinely interesting person my sister has ever known and to think it all happened on mulburry street. Mulberry? Tuney will know and will most likely correct me so I will preemtively say thank you, tuney, and I will tip my hat, so to speak, at her knowledge of Seusisms. Really, the only reason I think she even had children was to brush up on her her Seusisms. And her children are thankless. Oh how like a serpents tooth it is. See? I don't need to have kids. Shakespeare told me what its like already and I totally believe him because that guy Bloom or whoever the guy is who loves Shakespeare so much said that Shakespeare wrote the book on what we are like. We humans.

Lloyd Braun. That's why I started writing this. Seinfeld. In case you weren't sure or in case it was on the tip of your tongue. Anywho, speaking of drinking a glass of whine or two (not three, yet) on a Sunday night and wondering if I'll ever truly know who any of the commentors on Mick Lasalle's blog REALLY are, like really, you know REALLY, and these thoughts start running through my head. First of all, Seinfeld, on wine, is Profoundly Funny. Capitalized for emphasis. Like Civil Rights, which I didn't know should be capitalized until recently when I didn't capitalize it in a brilliant paper I wrote and this error was corrected.

LLoyd Braun. The names used in Seinfeld alone are profoundly funny. And I was going to say some other stuff about Michael Richards and how he lives in a different world then we do and so can not truly be held accountable for his rantings, and that I believe this because I have known, personally, intimately, people like that who just don't live where we live.
I am loath to go back and read what I've written since I'm afraid that I'll start to edit and there is NOTHING worse than drunken editing. Can you even imagine? I wonder, at times, if drunken writers simply write drunk and edit sober or if they ever write sober and edit drunk. Now that I think about it, perhaps the latter would be the better. What do you think? I have class at nine a.to the m. tomorrow morning and it is 12 to the 16 am right now. Oh yeah! Now I remember. Lloyd Braun. That's why I was even writing this. Jerry got some Chinese gum from LLoyd Braun and I totally remembered, I had a sensory memory of, Chinese rice gum. Has anyone ever had this? I think I had in San Francisco when I went there the summer after 7th grade with my two best friends Erin and Leah. I can taste it right now... What I would like you to do is give me some other iconoclastic, that isn't the right word, memorable Seinfeld names. Like... Deloris. Whenever I hear the name Deloris I think, "Rhymes with Clitoris." And then I think "Mulva." And then I think of Sheila and the million times she liked to lecture people on the difference between the vulva and the vagina and that when most people talked about the vagina what they were really referring to was the vulva. I mean, like, constantly she would lecture people about this. She was like the soup nazi, only in regards to female genitalia. Oh Sheila. You came and you brought me a turkey. On my vacation from workey.

Which reminds me. I left several crazy, yet sober, messages to friends and foes alike this morning using Google Talk. Talk about a revolution! Talkin' bout Down Town! Google talk is a marvel for a person like me who makes verboseness into an art form the likes of which have not been seen since (famous talker/orator person fill-in the blank here). The only person I could think of was Ken Nordeen because of the Spoken Word albums my dad had when I was a kid. Marya, do you know that 90% of what I write is only understood by you like when we play pictionary or taboo? Do you know that? Seriously? Because you remember everything I remember. Even the stuff that you weren't privy to, you can kind of figure out. I am drunk right now, so don't hold this against me later, but I really appreciate having a sister who knows everything I know especially after living with a brother for 3 years who seems to know very little about what I know. I am physically having to restrain myself from deleting that last part because mushyness makes me physically ill.

Lloyd Braun.... Dammit... I think I missed the rest of the episode! The one before this was the sponge-worthy one. That was pretty freakin' funny. Am I spelling Braun correctly? Maybe it is brawn? I doubt it. We aren't talking about paper towels here. Delete! Backspace!!! Oh if you only knew. I wrote recently in my creative writing class that I believe the backspace key is the physical manifestation of internalized societal censorship. I do believe this. I get genuinely upset when I use it for anything other than correcting spelling or grammar mistakes. Am I alone in this? Also, I wish I had more comments. I know. That's really lame to say, but have I mentioned lately that I am nearly done with my second glass of wine? Quite nearly. I think I might get a third.... thrid. Thrididiidifid. You'll know us by the trail of the dea.... you'll know if I'm on my third glass of whine if I start making Freudian slips replacing wine with whine. Ha!!! You'll know us by the trail of our dead or whatever that band's name is is a really cool name of a bland. band. Bland... another Freudian slip? Can one type freudian slips? If so, even more evidence that the backspace key is the physical manifestation of internalized societal censorship and another reason why google talk is so great. I can't backspace what I say out loud!!! You know what I'm saying? Oh God! Okay, so I had told myself a while back that I wanted to have at least or no more than one drunk blog post a month. I figured this way I could avoid alcoholism and yet take advantage of verboseness. Bad idea.


I will reiterate... Bad idea.