Usually when summer comes, I have, like, a thousand plans, ranging from little things like "grab as many titties as possible" to giant things like "spend a month in Europe." And, really, when it comes down to it, the majority are open threats, empty promises and travel plans. Sometimes, it's things like "go to the beach until I get tan" and then, other times, it's more like "give up on getting tan and just hanging out in a ton of jacuzzis with chicks." Maybe a bit of "do a shitload of freelance work" or "destroy the industry of poetry." I don't know. I sorta-kinda just wing it, you know?
But, this year, I'm not feeling so ambitious. Aside from swim in pools as much as possible and take as many backyard naps as I can (which are both givens), here are my plans for summer:
1) Write at the library.
2) Read in bed.
3) Play basketball.
4) Go jogging with my dog.
5) Work on and finish every project (literary or musical) I have going on right now.
6) Do a killer road trip through the Dirty South with Viking Dick.
7) Grab titties by the handfuls, maybe stuff 'em in my pocket, sell 'em on eBay or something when I'm done with 'em.
8) Quit life and end up in Seattle indefinitely, so I can swim every day and write every night while boozed up on Bloody Marys or red wine.
9) Buy a one-way ticket to Australia, score a kick-ass loft in Darling Harbor and become a well-paid novelist with my mega-hot semi-artist ladyfriend who I have an open relationship with but she stays totally devoted to me only and doesn't care about double standards, like, at all, while I gallivant around the city as a man-about-town.
10) Kill a person.
Ah, see, I screwed it up again. I got all ambitious again and stuff.
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2 comments:
Do #9. Then come back with an Australian accent and those types of ladyfriends will be all over you.
That's shallow, Celeste. I don't want women to love me for my accent. I want them to love me for my affluence and my usage of the word "affluence."
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