Alabama
As some of you (Nick) may know, Sarah and I live in a bizarro neighborhood. It is most like, I would say, the section of Albia in which S. Bonebright's family lives: vaguely rural with the air of houses and businesses nearby. Conceivably tiny horses could graze not a quarter-mile from where I now write this. At the end of our dead-end street is a park and a ranchish house with a yard big enough to host a miniature ren-fair (faire?) in.
Fuck that bullshit about ending with prepositions.
I get off a little bit every time I end with a prepositoin.
Sometimes I run around the neighobrhood in running shoes and oversized gym shorts and feel ridiculous. Already we are ridiculous enough, 26 year-olds in a neighborhood entirely populated by listless teenagre girls and fat and overhaired mid-50s people who drive nice cars and either directly or quietly mock my car and wonder what the fuck we're doing living in a house that is now on the market for $750,000, no shit, with the landlord gone and us living over the garage and me brandishing the garage opener in much the same way as a space pirate might brandish a blaster.
Last Monday I thought I would give up my neighborhood marathon manning for a real gym. On the way home, driving through Ghettoland, Orlando I passed this lame little movie theater, the kind of place that might remind you of the Cinema V but worse. There was a thin light pole blocking my view as I ate my omelet sandwich but still the spelling on the marquis was up and I saw this:
He just [pole]ot that into you. T
This was among other movie titles, but still I fixated on this one. What could it mean? He just shot that into you? Either it was a bizarre porn or a horror film about a deranged doctor who killed by lethal injection. The floating T on the end indicated a sequal (two). What the fuck, one might ask? What the fuck? I asked. And even after realizing the marquis mistake I still wonder, what the fuck? What the fuck, movie theater?
Other movie news: Sarah and I may see Coraline or the Wrestler or both. Thoughts? Objections?
Fuck that bullshit about ending with prepositions.
I get off a little bit every time I end with a prepositoin.
Sometimes I run around the neighobrhood in running shoes and oversized gym shorts and feel ridiculous. Already we are ridiculous enough, 26 year-olds in a neighborhood entirely populated by listless teenagre girls and fat and overhaired mid-50s people who drive nice cars and either directly or quietly mock my car and wonder what the fuck we're doing living in a house that is now on the market for $750,000, no shit, with the landlord gone and us living over the garage and me brandishing the garage opener in much the same way as a space pirate might brandish a blaster.
Last Monday I thought I would give up my neighborhood marathon manning for a real gym. On the way home, driving through Ghettoland, Orlando I passed this lame little movie theater, the kind of place that might remind you of the Cinema V but worse. There was a thin light pole blocking my view as I ate my omelet sandwich but still the spelling on the marquis was up and I saw this:
He just [pole]ot that into you. T
This was among other movie titles, but still I fixated on this one. What could it mean? He just shot that into you? Either it was a bizarre porn or a horror film about a deranged doctor who killed by lethal injection. The floating T on the end indicated a sequal (two). What the fuck, one might ask? What the fuck? I asked. And even after realizing the marquis mistake I still wonder, what the fuck? What the fuck, movie theater?
Other movie news: Sarah and I may see Coraline or the Wrestler or both. Thoughts? Objections?
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