April 14, 2002
Heaven Again
My legs hurt like a mother fucker. And if I am not losing weight by walking for six or so hours, five days a week, exercise can just fuck me up the goat ass.
In Heaven there will be more than twenty-four hours in day. Cafe Mocha flowing freely. Your favorite jeans will always fit, and never fade. Unless, of course, you want them to.
People are nice, and if the occasion should arise where they are not, you can bitch slap them without reprimand.
Rolling Stone never has Britney Spears on the cover. The weather is deliciously warm, but humidity is unheard of. When the telephone rings, it is always a good friend or Publisher's Clearing House calling to tell you that you have won a million dollars. And then you donate it all to a charity that actually isn't out for itself because in Heaven you don't need money. The movies are free, and so is the popcorn.
Mirrors never break. All internet connections are broadband. When you hold seed out in your palm for the birds, they'll take the bait. You don't get a head ache from reading, even if you do so for eight straight hours. And there's plenty to read.
All the boys and girls are cute. And honest. And you can be friends without ever thinking about them in a sexual nature. Unless, of course, you want to.
And you can have sex. Without consequences.
But kissing is always better.
Still, I think I just might head up, have a cup of coffee with Shakespeare or Jane Austen, and get my ass reincarnated.
Boys suck. I want to fall in love. But they keep fucking it up.
Is anything ever like it is in the movies?
Maybe Heaven is a movie. I'll be Ginger Rogers, and he can be Fred Astaire...
astera at 11:05 p.m.