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Current mood:  sweaty Category: Dreams and the Supernatural
We are hoping to return home in May and get some heavy lifting done on this new album of ours. We've all got our matching back braces on like we work at The Home Depot and we're ready to stock this freaking plumbing department. The aisle is closed with a collapsible orange gate and there's a forklift adding a beeping soundtrack to the subtle mixture of sawdust and Old Spice in the air. A pair of trapped birds are flying high through the exposed warehouse ceiling beams while screaming little kids are riding illegally on orange push carts made out of thick bent metal pipe below. You wonder how they're ever going to lure those poor disoriented winged creatures back into daylight at the same time that you're wondering why those Old Navy-loving parents with the exposed tribal tattoos couldn't have utilized Trojans. You don't waste time contemplating your strange combination of sympathy for nature and contempt for humanity because the overly talkative grandpa employees in the paint section and oddly young female clerks at the front counters are combining forces to steal your attention. There's a self-serve checkout towards the middle of the entryway that you prefer over forced interaction with these Lolitas of the Lumberyard, but posted signs say you can't purchase wood products there. You sing a Tesla song under your breath and bring your two-by-fours over there anyway, because you know that the assistant in the middle of the scanners will roll her eyes and help you buy your boards there if you look properly confused. Your skinny jeans, messy hair and oversized non-prescription eyeglasses properly identify you as a snobby asshole who will probably put up a ridiculously intellectual fuss if she sends you to a regular checkout lane.
When you push the buttons on the scanning machine, it makes noises that remind you of that annoying kid in 7th grade who had two interesting (at first) tricks to show off, both of which involved his mouth. The first one was something he called "gleeking", which meant he stuck his jaw out and curled back his tongue and magically shot a small hot stream of saliva like a snake shooting venom. He sometimes did this onto the overhead projector that was being scribbled on with a fragrant dry erase marker by the teacher. Every few minutes, the teacher would absent-mindedly wipe the tiny spit puddles away with the side of his hand, and the class would all feel sick to their stomachs. But most of all, this particular classmate enjoyed gleeking on the back of your neck during creative writing (you thought it was a leaky roof for the first month of class, tried to convince your non-confrontational self that it WAS a leaky roof for the second month, and got sent to the principal's office for disruptive vulgarity after losing your cool and loudly using the word "shet" in the third month, which in retrospect, really isn't a bad word). Your orally fixated little friend's second vaguely impressive mouth trick was performed by puckering his lips and flicking his cheek or chin with his index finger. This somehow made a noise that sounded almost exactly like a water drop, which in turn sounds almost exactly like the buttons you're pushing to run your debit card on The Home Depot self service checkout machine. And now you've just held up the line of short muscular owners of massive Ford trucks (with window stickers of Calvin pissing on Chevy logos) because you were lost in a nostalgic daydream that is far too boringly insignificant to tell any of your closest friends. But for some reason, blogging this pointless account to six billion complete strangers across the world seems completely acceptable. Go Obama!
3:19 PM
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