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TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER

an archive of pleasures, wounds, sublimations
& other curiosities :: elsewhere :: profile


02.11.03, tuesday afternoon

Dear Ladies,

Today I've been a mess. Woke up in chemise and jeans, leaden-tongued and raw-ther rumpled.

Had to listen to a lotta fuck-noise that spilled through the open door of S's room, before flipping on Bjork's Selmasongs. Squawks and squeaks and whirrs much preferred, to drown out festive coital sighs and slaps.

On the walk to work, I spied a skinny man pedaling his unicycle up University, dressed head to toe in shiny hot-pink Lycra. Flapping his arms, he was a comic sorta bird, the kinda bird you might laugh at or recoil from, but would never like to be around for more than five minutes. He was accompanied by a scruffy squat man riding his dirt bike, brown eyes peering out from underneath the worn bill of his trucker's cap.

At work, I was informed that I was to be given a raise, but that I will be unemployed as of March 15 because the company was moving to NY and would you reconsider your choice not to move with us?

Afterwards, I had a very uncomfortable conversation with a young man, the one most loved, who said all sorts of things that made me raw-ther flustered and unable to concentrate.

Two cups of caw-fee have not helped at all.

Running on empty,
an orangepeeler






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