It's Friday. I made a rule about Fridays: I allow myself to not have a point. To go pointless. Not that I am consistently pointy, but today I am definitely not.
Last night's point was Swisher Sweets Cigars. Mon Frere came over and we smoked cigars in my bed and talked about family dynamics and having random sex in suburban pools. He looked at the pack of Swishers and remarked, "Mild, Sweet, and Satisfying... just like my ex-boyfriend." Oooooh. We were supposed to dream up a celebratory excuse for smoking cigars, but then we forgot to, until The Dane came over with his new car, freshly purchased in America for $750. So we all smoked in celebration of station wagons.
The other night I was getting Thai food at the place next to my apartment and I stared for too long at the fish tank. A sunshiney 70's song was competing with static on the half-tuned radio, and there was the fish tank -- completely empty except for three languid, frighteningly ugly softball-sized goldfish. One of them is a telescope Oranda, with enormous, bulbous eyes that face the surface of the water. I always look at them too long when I go in that place, but this time accompanied with the music, I went on a surreal journey into the land of acid flashback. I find it disturbing that they keep the little glass jar of toothpicks right next to the tank, because I am often filled with the urge to grab one and poke the eyes out of that fish for no good reason.
The Thai iced tea there is phenomenal.
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