Earlier this morning my dad asked me if I had plans to go to the "disco" tonight. That's upsetting for more than one reason. 1. Because it makes him sound about 800 years old and 2. to go the disco is to go to The Albion on Saturday nights, every once in a while, instead of the disco every night because it's the 1970s and just about everything is "disco".
And no, I couldn't possibly go to the disco alone. Who would I make fun A Very Potter Musical references to??
About 30 minutes ago my dad gave me every reason in the world to wash my hair: a farm girl left her hair up in an up-do for 3 weeks, spraying it with gunk, until some spider mites decided to burrow into her skull, go into her brain and kill her. Only after she had died and eight hundred and twenty-seventh thousand six hundred and fourty-three spider mites poured out of her cut open brain did they realize how she died. I do not want spider mites in my brain or spider eggs in my face (that's another story her told) so I'm going to wash my hair and NOT fall asleep on the beach!
A few nights ago I had a dream that Al Pacino and Eugene Levy were dictators in a post-apocalyptic world in which they controlled everyone with bio-luminescent wands that shot paralyzing balls of light at people. Awesome, eh?
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