NOTE: Someone killed this diary. Guess it's because I took the trollbait. Next time: recipes!
Anybody know?
I thought I saw him down at the laundromat but it was Rob Reiner. Meathead. If I wanted a Reiner I would have checked into Methodist!
Then I saw him at the mess hall, but it wasn't him either, just some guy spitting mashed potatoes all over the place. I think it was Quayle.
Some say he's down by the front, but just as many swear they saw him up by the back.
We have airplanes, you know. And mechanical horses too. The airplanes gallop underground and sniff glue. The horses fly. Somebody's gonna bill Richardson for the whole thing.
Sometimes when we long intensely for Bill, we grow our faces long and refuse to cut them for days on end. Or minutes. Then suddenly the razors are out and we confess not a single suicidal impulse, which only makes us feel more guilty. And indebted.
Our debts come in sixteen flavors now, including sex, but not including turkey, which isn't a flavor but something you do. We've done it too. It never works.
Some day Bill will appear on the horizon big as day, all brown and tan, with golden stars in his eyes and lizards scurrying from his feet in all directions. We will press our faces into the dust before his terrifyingly friendly visage, coughing and spitting out our confessions, and he will call us to our feet, his college ring now swollen into a fifteen foot plasma screen television, and gently thunder:
"Remember this...?"