Friday, March 19, 2004
redeadening excitement
sakes alive, and bless the new new-fangledment, for tonight's my Christmas Eve and my Wrestlemania Saturday all balled up into one glistening glissando of anticipatory arousal. The purest joy of insistent waiting has already commenced, and courses through me like those giant innertubes twirling madly down Thunder River. Tomorrow is the great day, the mystery fun time, when the wondrous worlds of baseball, mathematics, and unrelenting fetishistic nerddom violently collide to forge the protracted orgiastic big bang of the fantasy baseball draft. Tomorrow's draft will most assuredly be a life-affirming eight hours spent drinking with strangers and conversing electromagmagically with friend and foe alike. Tomorrow we all shall drown in the currents of unextirpated enfranchisement like ancient Sumerian kings neckdeep in a harem full of fertile crescents. It is all I can do to force myself to focus past the buzzing din of pleasure eager to erupt out of me, and find some suitable way to wile away the hours between now and my spiritual rebirth. Perhaps Xiu Xiu could tame the inner fury, were I to head to their performance this evening. Maybe instead I could take in that new Charlie Kaufman film. Or perchance I could hoodwink some succeptable young lass into pleasuring me to the point of orgasm. This night is truly an empty bin, waiting for me to fill it with the refuse of my youthful exuberance, all in the hopes of burning through the long dark hours between now and the personal rejuvenation and salvation of tomorrow's fantasy baseball draft. It's morning in America, and I'm gonna live the fucking shit out of it.
sakes alive, and bless the new new-fangledment, for tonight's my Christmas Eve and my Wrestlemania Saturday all balled up into one glistening glissando of anticipatory arousal. The purest joy of insistent waiting has already commenced, and courses through me like those giant innertubes twirling madly down Thunder River. Tomorrow is the great day, the mystery fun time, when the wondrous worlds of baseball, mathematics, and unrelenting fetishistic nerddom violently collide to forge the protracted orgiastic big bang of the fantasy baseball draft. Tomorrow's draft will most assuredly be a life-affirming eight hours spent drinking with strangers and conversing electromagmagically with friend and foe alike. Tomorrow we all shall drown in the currents of unextirpated enfranchisement like ancient Sumerian kings neckdeep in a harem full of fertile crescents. It is all I can do to force myself to focus past the buzzing din of pleasure eager to erupt out of me, and find some suitable way to wile away the hours between now and my spiritual rebirth. Perhaps Xiu Xiu could tame the inner fury, were I to head to their performance this evening. Maybe instead I could take in that new Charlie Kaufman film. Or perchance I could hoodwink some succeptable young lass into pleasuring me to the point of orgasm. This night is truly an empty bin, waiting for me to fill it with the refuse of my youthful exuberance, all in the hopes of burning through the long dark hours between now and the personal rejuvenation and salvation of tomorrow's fantasy baseball draft. It's morning in America, and I'm gonna live the fucking shit out of it.
