I woke up in a closet.

Coffee in my stomach.

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It’s so hot you could roast a chicken on the sidewalk!

It looks like I’m moving to Ridgewood, Queens. I looked at an apartment with Scott on Sunday. It’s in a prewar building, one bedroom, living room, kitchen, hardwood floors, nice tile in the bathroom, new appliances. Whatever. And it’s on a really nice block that’s incredibly close to my sister. There’s tons of families and kids on the block, and there are a bunch of Polish delis. Right near the M train and B38 also.

It’s been hot. Nearly 100 degrees hot. What I hate most about the heat is the fact that no one can find anything else to talk about but how fucking hot they’re feeling. It’s obvious, move on and get a popsicle. Which I did yesterday. The cooling effects of the popsicle lasted all of 15 minutes before I’d have to lay in bed motionless before a fan to feel my body temperature stabilize. Aside from staying cool, my only concern is my northern european genes that make me so fair-skinned/borderline albino, and the gaping hole in the ozone layer that burns me like a bug under a magnifying glass. I have to wear sunblock even if I’m going in the sun for half an hour.

I read this article this morning before work about the “arena” opening up, and neighborhoods like Proho (Prospect Heights. EW. Why are they calling it that???) are now becoming home to cheaper restaurants that have the chic and palate of Manhattan places. I think it’s cool that there’s more and more stuff to do in Brooklyn because it’s closer to me and I love hanging out here. At the same time, I wonder if the higher concentration of stuff to do in Brooklyn will change the borough to make it have all of the characteristics of Manhattan that make me avoid it most of the time.

Then I’ll become a hermit and move to suburbia. Speaking of suburbia, I think I might go to CT this weekend.

By Scott Tomford and Sharon Clark

Placenta Pete
Me: I hope the only coma I come out of is the one you put me into.
You: Sometimes he thrashed in his sleep.  One time his right elbow crushed her pelvis and she fell into a coma after they removed her lady parts.

Thank You Gary!

Me: I hope when we nod in agreement that we don’t bump our heads into each other.
You: They had matching bruises  hers was a more deep purple while his was black like an African Shaman.  “Dear, I need another ice pack.  I hurt.”  “I hurt too.”

Miscalculated madness at your local international coffee house!

Me: If you put a ring on my finger, make sure it’s from a hand bell.
You: After riding an escalator to the clouds, we could see everything.  Lots of things looked like penises.  Five things looked like a vagina.  One looked like Chris Martiny.

Starvation is an obstacle anorexics must overcome.
Me:  The only thing you need to wed is my appetite.

You: Genocide is only acceptable if you’re bored.  Murder is okay if you’re sleepy.  Rape is okay if your name is Hand Banana.

Me: The next time you’re in pain, think about being incognito.

We are suspended in gelatin.

Me:  There are worse things you could lose than your dignity.  Like your eyeball in a cockfight.
You: There are worse things to lose than your virginity.  Not much though.

We’ve been here for years.

Me: In the past, some of my times have been spent waiting.
You: Thank you for waiting.

When you think something is nice, the slavery involved usually ruins it for you.

Me:  I am waiting for your nails to grow so you can put our house together.
You: I found a home where I thought there’d be lady parts.  Is the white man’s burden funding welfare?

Close your legs!

Me: My knees aren’t the only things that have been getting bent lately.
You: Indie Anna Jones is your stage name.  I’d like to hear you sing about Jesus while wearing a giant pentagram on your chest.

Stomach Cheese
Me: When cows stop making milk, there’s nothing left in their udders.
You:  The elderly are shrunken and wrinkled because toddlers suck out their soul juices at night.

Me:  It’s the thought that counts if you’re good at math.
You:  I drink your milkshake rape your toilet.

Lip my talking.
Me:  If there’s no end and no beginning, there’s only role reversal.
You: ((><))

For you and me.
Me: A narcoleptic falling asleep in the shower is the next best thing to a night of heavy drinking.
You: In Connecticut, no one can hear you scream or complain about a lack of diversity.
Me:  When I pick you up, it’s hard to drive.
You:  Humping a pillow does not feel the same.  Also, it makes the case feel less comfy.
Me:  The guy next to us has a wad of $100 bills.
You: I am simply a pile of meat wielding a rather large boom box.

Me: It’s more embarrassing to pass gas than it is to pass tests.
You: Is it worse to lave at a funeral or an execution?  The answer is it is worse to laugh at a crippled sasquatch.

…boner, haha.