interior monologues

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Three hours of ink, done. This thing is starting to look bad ass! I’ll have pics tomorrow.

I did some driving today. I realized, as I was driving, that my interior monologue (IM) would make for some damn good blog. At least, to set some minds to rest that I’m turning “generic” or that I’m not actually loony as a Canadian two-dollar coin, God forbid.

I’m one of those people who are always thinking. My mind is always going. I go from one subject to the next to the next to the next until I’m totally confused on how I got from point A to point Q, or wherever the hell I’m at. Sometimes I even make myself laugh out loud. I can entertain myself for hours while getting tattooed just by the thoughts in my head. Of course, they (the thoughts) leave nearly as quickly as they arrive, but they’re entertaining while they last.

So I’m in the drive-through at Starbucks getting coffee (as per usual on a weekend). The new addition to the drive-through is a little screen with pictures and stuff that shows your order. The people there know me now, which is pretty cool. The lady talking to me through the speakerphone is the one who always offers me whipped cream for the Dog.

To give you some background, I have been drinking the same coffee beverage for over ten years. I know how to say it. I know how it tastes. I know how much it should cost. $4.79. It’s high maintenance. Bite me.

Drive Through Lady: Hi there, what can we get for you today?

2N Out Loud:Uh, hi. Yeah I need a…

IM: oooh! Pictures. And I can see my reflection. Holy crap, my hair looks hot. Behind the ears? Yes.

DTL: Yes?

2NOL: Yeah. Sorry, I need an iced quad venti mocha with caramel syrup, not sauce. Syrup.

IM: Did I say syrup or sauce? Syrup, right? Yes. I wonder how much change I have in my ashtray. Ooh this is a good song. Crank it! Oops. In drivethrough. Crank after drivethrough.

I notice that the screen displays over 5 bucks for the drink. And it says caramel sauce.

2NOL: Hi, yeah, me again. Can you confirm that’s the syrup, not the sauce? And it should only have one add shot. Okay thanks. (An iced venti comes with three already. I’m saving myself fifty cents. Bite me again.)

I cruise through the drivethrough, up to the window and engage in a discussion with the lady regarding sauce versus syrup, the number of shots and whether the drink sitting on the counter is mine or not. It is. I am right, and she is wrong. I drive away quite satisfied.

I’m on my way to my tattoo appointment. I drive past my house on the way.

IM: I need to mow my lawn. No joke. That shit is getting…ooh. Looks like the neighbors have company, I wonder…ooh. This is a good song. Louder! Oooh red light. SHIT! Oh well.

I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the rearview.

IM: Damn, I love these sunglasses. I look like a Rockstar. Did I remember my lip gloss?

I rummage in the purse. For once, I locate my lighter before anything else. No lip gloss. Damn. Someone pulls out in front of me without looking. I lay on the horn. Because, well, I’m a Rockstar and I can. I turn up the music louder and start singing at the top of my lungs. Why? Because I’m a Rockstar. Obviously.

2NOL: Bitchass! YEAH!

IM: Damn, I’m good. I should be on American Idol. Or maybe not. Everyone who thinks they should be on American Idol really shouldn’t. What a bunch of assholes. That Simon, he’s a kick in the pants though. Almost as much as my good buddy Big. I wonder if he’s commented on my blogs yet. I wonder if anyone has commented on my blogs yet. I wonder what I should write about when I get home. You know, this interior monologue shit I got going on here is some damn interesting stuff. Damn, I’m good. So is Skippers. Damn, Skippers sounds good right now. I wish I still had those leftovers. I think I still have some tartar sauce. I wonder if there’s anything in the fridge I can reheat to go with it. I wonder if I can pick up No N’s weedeater tomorrow. I wonder if it’s easy to use. I hope so. I wonder who I can borrow a lawn mower from. No one was out mowing their lawns this weekend. I forgot to let the Dog out. Damn, I’m not as good as I thought.

I cruise up to the tattoo place and realize I forgot to stop for cash. They no likey da credit card. I jam across the street and park at the side of the Arco next to a shady-looking character standing next to his car.

IM: Doors locked? Check. Boobs in danger of slipping out of shirt? Dude checking them out? Check. Fixed, check. Gross. Okay purse out of sight? Good. Keys? Good.

I run inside and pull some cash from the machine, which takes forever.

IM: Shit, this is taking forever. Ooh, I can see my reflection. Damn, my hair still looks hot. Hmm hmm hmm hmm. I wonder how long this will take. I wonder if Vilate sent me the application yet. I wonder what my answers will be. I wonder if Sean Sometimes commented me back on his blog. I wonder…oh there’s the cash.

I’m hurrying now, because I’m almost going to be late. I hate being late. I run back to the car, note that the shady character is still there, remind myself to lock the doors, and zoom back across the street, park with one wheel up on the curb, wonder for a second whether my country CDs are in danger of being stolen from my seat, decide they are not (especially in this neighborhood), and hurry inside.

This, my friends, is why I blog. Otherwise I would drive myself crazy.

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