Wanted: Sugar Daddy, Repulicans Need Not Respond

I wish you could see me right now. Converse, pink capris, bondage belt hugging the hips, black t-shirt tied above the navel, showing the midriff, 10 foot boa wrapped around the neck, cowboy hat atop the head, the brim curled tightly on the sides. This is what unemployment does to you. You sit around all day, dressed up in the most outrageous outfit you could come up with, emailing your resume to hr departments all around the city, waxing professional in your cover letter, grinning ear to ear the whole time.
& don’t think this is just some private home showing either, O no, I go outside looking like this. Granted I don’t go much further than my porch, but outside I do go, to smoke or take a nice, long, slow stretch, allowing my neighbours & any passing innocents to get their fill of the flamboyantly hot cookie that is me right now. The Iconography of Sex. O yes...

& on the subject of Hotness: at 47 Monroe we have a house guest! ‘Is this house guest hot’ you ask? Why but she is non other than the ‘Hot Scot from Oklahoma’ who Brian met in France, in Paris no less, the city of
L-O-V-E. Her name is Kat. She isn’t Scottish. She lives in Seattle. She attends Bennington College over in Vermont, from which she will graduate this year. She is crafty, in both senses. It also seems she is getting the most in-depth introduction of any character thus far.

& on the subject of Fun!: I don’t know what you did for Superbowl Sunday but it probably wasn’t half as much fun as you could’ve had had you attended our Superbowl party. ‘Why was the party at 47 Monroe just that much better than any of the other, christ I don’t know, 50 gabillion or so parties raging all over Eugene on that overcast afternoon’ you ask? Why but ours was the only Superbowl party without a TV. Well, OK, there was a TV, or moreso a tv, but it was one of those 3”, portable televisions, with single antenna & crackling speaker, the kind that affluent families in the 1980’s took with them on their summer vacations to Yellowstone. Not the kind that anyone would want to watch the Superbowl on, unless that person is living illegally in Yellowstone in a make-shift shack that is barely more than a lean-to, has a long, old man winter beard & is making postal bombs, the Superbowl fueling his hatred of our society. No bombs were made at 47 Monroe, though I might’ve dropped the L-Bomb, not really sure but I wouldn’t put it past my sappy-ass.