There’s no regurgitation post today because I was half way through writing one and had copied/pasted the older post into my regurgitation when I realized that I had *just* regurgitated that same post a couple of months ago. It was the one about how I had assembled a stockpile in the event Nate and I were ever forced to repopulate the earth after a terrorist attack and how the population of humanity was destined to stay at a maximum of two because I had neglected to pack a razor and enough toilet paper.
I was going to tie it all in with the whole Rapture mess and I started writing it late last night since that’s when I finally discovered what Rapture was all about because, as usual, I had no idea what the hell was going on until it was almost over. All day yesterday, I had seen a bunch of Rapture discussions on a chat board I belong to but I hadn’t read any of them because the second I saw the word “rapture” in their titles, I immediately had a flashback to Blondie and the eighties and before I could stop it, my brain stopped concentrating on the here and now and started rapping about Fab Five Freddie and getting in my car and driving all night and seeing a light and almost running over the man from Mars who shoots me dead and eats my head and then goes on to eat Cadillacs and Lincolns too, Mercuries and Subarus and a lot of other inedible crap.
Luckily, my brain was quiet and my lips didn’t hear it so I never wound up screaming CAUSE THE MAN FROM MARS STOPPED EATING CARS AND EATING BARS AND NOW HE ONLY EATS GUITARS! GET UP! in the produce aisle of Wegmans.
I hate it when that happens.
When I eventually realized that Rapture was supposed to be the end of the world, it was late last night and I was a bit pissed because if it turned out to be true, I had celebrated my last day on earth by inhaling the smell of feet at a dojo, fishing a chunk of hair out of my shower drain, dealing with sudden onset period, scraping two day’s worth of peanut butter off my kitchen island and trying to get the sour smell out of a load of laundry, leaving me with only twenty minutes remaining in which to eat my weight in cheesecake and try to have my way with Anderson Cooper. And if it turned out to be false, I was still spending a perfectly good Saturday night writing a blog post about the psychedelic hallucinations of a victim of a binge-eating Martian set against the backdrop of Nate’s deafening snoring.
Either way, it was sexless and depressing.
And repetitive, not because of the sexlessness and depression although that could be argued, but because I was *this* close to regurgitating a post that I had just upchucked in your general direction this past February.
So I scrapped the whole thing, ate almost an entire bag of Milano cookies and wrote this post instead.
Aren’t you lucky?
If you only had one day left to live, how would you spend it?