I think we’re maybe getting closer to something resembling the possiblities of what could pass for in somebody else’s dream sequence as a dream home.
For me right now, though, it’s a wickedly snarling thing run to trail wrapped up in a nightmare spiked with vodka and set on fire.
Hooboy, ain’t that the fun shit you tuned in for?
Let me rephrase all that.
The Little House of Horrors is a full metal jacketed round boring into my forehead if I don’t do something and soon.
Whew. Is that better? No?
I think it’s one of THOSE nights, maybe then.
*total horizontal hand wag*
Don’t get me wrong. I’m pretty sure once it’s done and it’s the little house of the best times and parties ever in the history of everybody we’ve ever known we’ll wonder why we didn’t build it and drink and eat like conquering heroes sooner.
I know these things. But, dude, right now? It’s a pestilence, a scratchy patch on my face that festers annoyingly. Honest.
At least Miss Carol and me picked out the stanchions whose lonely light will theme our Little House of Horrors.
Ever since South Beach I’ve been mainlined to the idea of stanchions dimly lit.
And Miss Carol and me finally found some we both like. We’d been thinking The Little House of Horrors is gonna end up being slightly kinda hispanic and seductively recluse so we’d wanted to find something, you know, seductively reclusive? And mexican?
And we did. And a theme was born.
Think Zorro in a thong.