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TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER

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


03.08.02

Aw geez. I've been summoned to San Diego because, apparently, a job requires knowing how to drive and finishing school, i.e. taking that damn statistics class. Well, I won't go; years ago I told myself I would just shoot myself if I ever found myself there again. Living in San Diego, as I fuzzily remember, requires a lobotomy as soon as you enter city limits, year-round bikini waxes (and I hate to itch) and a mammoth supply of sedatives my family cannot simply afford.

But what's an unemployable girl to do? Lots: bake a Black Russian cake for your brother's art show ( with copious amounts of Kahlua and creme de cacao, of course); edit other people's papers, sadist's scarlet pen in hand; purge attic of clutter, unnecessary paper and emotion; model, scowling; forget to return phone calls; break up with boy (and try to stem the urge to reconcile, you silly fiction-maker!); scribble down lists of to-dos and dukkha; read about Zen, scratch head, murmur Huh.






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