the irresistible, tongue-in-cheek comedy starring Hartnett
the telltale signs of long-withstanding sexual absence
Inordinate disgruntlement mixed with piquing curiosity- that's how i feel right about now, less than 24 measly hours into subscribing to the Catholic holiday of Lent- a tradition i never really understood much less heretofore followed.
don't ask me how it all got started; something about spending a merry Mardis Gras weekend cavorting about the city in reckless debauchery with nearly 800,000 fellow New Orleanians ignites the urge to book an impromptu confessional. or maybe just subject oneself to mere self-denial for the next 40 days and 40 nights. immediately, i think back to the movie, that one with the cutie, josh-what's-his-face who gives up coitus for the month+ of Lent. he dreams of boobs and ass, his nightly incubus and day-mares hallucinating rampant images of carnal lust and desire. and i wonder, myself, as i embark upon this crazy yet very (questionably) reasonable sojourn of my own, whether or not i'll be dreaming up visions of behemoth hamburgers sitting atop skyscrapers and pyramids or maybe, like the femme-bot version of the movie, strip- teasin' bananas, gyrating cukes and other phallic images of the sort.
While 40 days of Lent is a long, withstanding Catholic tradition (where by way of practice, marks the 40 days leading up to Easter, the celebration of the resurrection of Christ and involves fasting, both from foods and festivities, and other acts of penance) I decide to give it a go and try my first hand at it, seeing if I can, possibly, just maybe, deny myself the hedonistic pleasures of the flesh and bone for a finite period of time. Before setting forth on this seemingly simple task, I confer. What shall I give up? Alcohol? Nah, I immediately nix the idea; too easy. Meat? Rubbish! (I just want to exercise a little temporary forbearance here, not back-breaking purgatory, he-llo!) I finally settle on the in-between, which also just happens to be the bane of my fool-hardy existence- doces amores, Brazilian Portuguese for 'lovely sweets' (for all you Engrish kinfolk). My heart putters a bit, and then slightly chasms, releasing a pained moan, and I know I have arrived at a suitable fit. Lust-worthy, D-vine, decadent if not the appropriate bit of nefariousness! It's perfect, and before I know it, I have sold my soul to the Pentecostal devil.
I settle comfortably into the stretch, maintaining a marathoners stance, arms at side, fists clenched, nary a sweat drop or rivulet in sight. we're good, in fact, we're better than good, we're GOLDEN. i get right to it, diving into the kitchen like a whip-sawed maniac, as if cookin' up a hundred other things will distract me from that inanely sweet "ushy gushy". Keeping my hands busy in my palatial cornerstone, i sift and pour, mix and pat whilst maintaining a sunny disposition. my Thai creations are spot-on; the indelible mix of savory and sweet (just a dash of brown sugar; surely that doesn't count!?) with a touch of the requisite thai galangal bitterness to even the stew. i'm pleased with the outcome.
my lovely cohabitator, sarah, works alongside me in good humor, throwing a mishmash of ingredients together to make a whaaaa??? a COFFEE CAKE??! but i haate coffee; i never drink the stuff! or so i think. all of a sudden, her drool-worthy creation imbibes my immediate attention and my higher consciousness jettisons all good sense and rationale. i am besotted: the cake (or rather, the gooey beginnings of it) becomes my paramour, my siren song as the incipient quell rising to my chest sputters like the guttural rumbles of a rabid Harley machine.
all of a sudden, i get it, the obsession, the hyperbolic mania. even the leftover mardis gras king cake (which a day earlier, had practically been my nemesis as I complained about its overpowering cherry-filling center and frosting-laden exterior) belabors at me, its bedeviling frosty goodness sending my head into a Loony Tune head-spin. i open the freezer and all i see is Dutch-chocolate Blue-Bell brand icecream; i walk into the living room and see remnants of Valentine's Day choco-palooza aftermath sitting on the fireplace mantle, beckoning to me like the polymer-constructed, pneumatic women of Fox's Temptation Island.
Lest I give in to my rapacious urges and harangue myself from the abject humiliation and public scorn of unencumbered failure i shall surely be issued, i pause, seeking refuge in the blog. the blog, right, the bloogg. oh what have i done, what have i done! i say as i pace across the narrow diameter of my bedroom, wringing my hands with great self-affliction as i contemplate my self-imposed conundrum.
Four hours and 3 cocktails later, i sit, zombied out on my buttock-straining futon of a sofa, haunches sore from the coiled tension of unrequited desire. wondering, in all earnestness, if i have just traded one vice in for another. suddenly, i call to mind that brief stint of abstinence from all things carbs and the resulting overdrive that followed, + a hefty 4 or so pounds. i cajole myself only momentarily, reassuring that this time, my motivations are purely virtuous and ecclesiastical, right? RIGHT?
And then i shrug, surrendering myself to the overhaul of a stretch that awaits me; 12 hours down, 39 1/2 days to go. now THERE'S a struggle worth fighting for, even if i do end up in a catatonic state of headiness. my insides suddenly glow phosphorescent amber from the challenge as i paint on an invisible samurai warrior face. Let's Go.
don't ask me how it all got started; something about spending a merry Mardis Gras weekend cavorting about the city in reckless debauchery with nearly 800,000 fellow New Orleanians ignites the urge to book an impromptu confessional. or maybe just subject oneself to mere self-denial for the next 40 days and 40 nights. immediately, i think back to the movie, that one with the cutie, josh-what's-his-face who gives up coitus for the month+ of Lent. he dreams of boobs and ass, his nightly incubus and day-mares hallucinating rampant images of carnal lust and desire. and i wonder, myself, as i embark upon this crazy yet very (questionably) reasonable sojourn of my own, whether or not i'll be dreaming up visions of behemoth hamburgers sitting atop skyscrapers and pyramids or maybe, like the femme-bot version of the movie, strip- teasin' bananas, gyrating cukes and other phallic images of the sort.
While 40 days of Lent is a long, withstanding Catholic tradition (where by way of practice, marks the 40 days leading up to Easter, the celebration of the resurrection of Christ and involves fasting, both from foods and festivities, and other acts of penance) I decide to give it a go and try my first hand at it, seeing if I can, possibly, just maybe, deny myself the hedonistic pleasures of the flesh and bone for a finite period of time. Before setting forth on this seemingly simple task, I confer. What shall I give up? Alcohol? Nah, I immediately nix the idea; too easy. Meat? Rubbish! (I just want to exercise a little temporary forbearance here, not back-breaking purgatory, he-llo!) I finally settle on the in-between, which also just happens to be the bane of my fool-hardy existence- doces amores, Brazilian Portuguese for 'lovely sweets' (for all you Engrish kinfolk). My heart putters a bit, and then slightly chasms, releasing a pained moan, and I know I have arrived at a suitable fit. Lust-worthy, D-vine, decadent if not the appropriate bit of nefariousness! It's perfect, and before I know it, I have sold my soul to the Pentecostal devil.
I settle comfortably into the stretch, maintaining a marathoners stance, arms at side, fists clenched, nary a sweat drop or rivulet in sight. we're good, in fact, we're better than good, we're GOLDEN. i get right to it, diving into the kitchen like a whip-sawed maniac, as if cookin' up a hundred other things will distract me from that inanely sweet "ushy gushy". Keeping my hands busy in my palatial cornerstone, i sift and pour, mix and pat whilst maintaining a sunny disposition. my Thai creations are spot-on; the indelible mix of savory and sweet (just a dash of brown sugar; surely that doesn't count!?) with a touch of the requisite thai galangal bitterness to even the stew. i'm pleased with the outcome.
my lovely cohabitator, sarah, works alongside me in good humor, throwing a mishmash of ingredients together to make a whaaaa??? a COFFEE CAKE??! but i haate coffee; i never drink the stuff! or so i think. all of a sudden, her drool-worthy creation imbibes my immediate attention and my higher consciousness jettisons all good sense and rationale. i am besotted: the cake (or rather, the gooey beginnings of it) becomes my paramour, my siren song as the incipient quell rising to my chest sputters like the guttural rumbles of a rabid Harley machine.
all of a sudden, i get it, the obsession, the hyperbolic mania. even the leftover mardis gras king cake (which a day earlier, had practically been my nemesis as I complained about its overpowering cherry-filling center and frosting-laden exterior) belabors at me, its bedeviling frosty goodness sending my head into a Loony Tune head-spin. i open the freezer and all i see is Dutch-chocolate Blue-Bell brand icecream; i walk into the living room and see remnants of Valentine's Day choco-palooza aftermath sitting on the fireplace mantle, beckoning to me like the polymer-constructed, pneumatic women of Fox's Temptation Island.
Lest I give in to my rapacious urges and harangue myself from the abject humiliation and public scorn of unencumbered failure i shall surely be issued, i pause, seeking refuge in the blog. the blog, right, the bloogg. oh what have i done, what have i done! i say as i pace across the narrow diameter of my bedroom, wringing my hands with great self-affliction as i contemplate my self-imposed conundrum.
Four hours and 3 cocktails later, i sit, zombied out on my buttock-straining futon of a sofa, haunches sore from the coiled tension of unrequited desire. wondering, in all earnestness, if i have just traded one vice in for another. suddenly, i call to mind that brief stint of abstinence from all things carbs and the resulting overdrive that followed, + a hefty 4 or so pounds. i cajole myself only momentarily, reassuring that this time, my motivations are purely virtuous and ecclesiastical, right? RIGHT?
And then i shrug, surrendering myself to the overhaul of a stretch that awaits me; 12 hours down, 39 1/2 days to go. now THERE'S a struggle worth fighting for, even if i do end up in a catatonic state of headiness. my insides suddenly glow phosphorescent amber from the challenge as i paint on an invisible samurai warrior face. Let's Go.
1 comment:
Josh "what's his face"???????? HARTNETT!!!!!!!!! honey that's bad, dont say that around me. that's almost as bad as saying "ashton whats his face" around me. You shoulda seen my face when I read that. Imagine the face I'd make seeing a deer get hit by a car.
I know you are not going to take this well... you take everything well except for this but I'm going to say it. Before you read it, promise me you'll KIND OF take it? Just digest the compliment and say "thank you" =) Here goes...Some of your sentences, I have to read slowly like I do Shakespere or the BIBLE. There, I said it! Does this make me a little ummm... slow? No! I'm going to say no and attribute it to your writing being THAT good.
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