sweet bro

enough with the hookah. our house is hooked to yours. every time you light it up, our house starts to stink. as of the time of this post, the smell has wafted all the way to my bedroom at the other end of the house, and i already had a headache.

please.

don't make me tell your mom.

i'm sitting here, supposed to be working. but that's another story.

the interesting story is the sweet bro puttering around cleaning up a handful of sandboxes. the one on the end table next to me is white, about 8 inches by 14. and it's full of soap. green. smells like ivory spring. each piece has been lovingly carved into something that resembles absolutely nothing. and i like it.

another sandbox has random car parts in it. a steel rim, a carborator. part of an exhaust manifold.

another is full of small bones. this has to be the most realistic one. after all, bones are common in the desert, no? it reminds me of a slightly twisted zen garden. rake the sand, stack the bones up in some aesthetically pleasing arrangement. peace. happiness. death. zen at its finest.

i wonder how many of those yelling, moshing, screaming sweet bros knew what that song is really about...

Sticky hair, sticky hips, stubble on my sticky lips
Michael you're the only one I'd ever want
only one I'd ever want
only one I'd ever want
Beautiful boys on a beautiful dance floor
Michael you're dancing like a beautiful dance-whore
Michael waiting on a silver platter now
and nothing matters now...