Sleep Talkin' Man Read Online Free PDF Page B

You’re huge!
    Stand further away. You can’t possibly appreciate my greatness this close up.
    I’m like a god. Only, it’ll hurt more when I judge you.
    Listen: Some people play Scrabble.
Some people play chess.
You? You play turd puppets.
    Well that’s just great. Peanut butter in my crack. Goddamn it.
    I’ve written your epitaph. Yup.
I did it early. You wanna read it?
“Here you are, lying dead. Ha ha ha ha ha.”
    Hey, boobs! Stop staring at my face!
    Oh yes, I must have an enema.
And I’m going to keep what comes out, ‘cause it reminds me of you. I will take it home, dry it, make it into paper, and write your name on it as many times as possible, and frame it. Put it on my wall, and there it will remain. It will be my memory of you.
I may do it more than once, depending on what I’ve eaten.
    I need this like I need a second crucifixion.
    It ’ s growling. Shhh, it ’ s growling closer … It ’ s an angry thing, a big angry thing. It likes cabbage, though.
    I’m not waving at you. I’m just building up for the big fucking slap you’re gonna get.
    I could go find somebody who could surgically remove that stick from up your ass.
Or, you could just chill the fuck out, Batman.
Choose.
    Hey! You killed my velociraptor, dickhead.
That’s so unfair. You do realize how hard it is to find one of those ‘round here, don’t you?
    You’re a complete waste of space.
Just go home and apologize to your mother’s vagina.
    I need a big room, with strobe lights.
And people riding bicycles … naked.
To classical music, of course.
    Two hats for my bunny, please.
Make ’ em smart ones.
    He ’ s got to look the business.
And no more fucking spats, OK?
    Loving you is an important life lesson.
You learn about all the fucking stupid mistakes you make.
    Leave the broccoli alone.
It can sort out its own problems.
Confusion is part and parcel of its life.
    â€¦ Then out of nowhere, the puffin ninja kicked my ass! Little fucking runt bastard.
    Where are we going?
I want to know where you’re taking me.
It’s all fun not knowing, but now I’m bored, so FUCKING TELL ME WHERE ARE WE GOING! … Ooh, I’ve never been there before! I hope it’s good.
    I’d say welcome to the School of Life, but you wouldn’t pass the entrance exam.
Dickhead.
    All I want out of life is ice cream and cuddles.
Is it too much to ask? Is it?
    Half the time listening to you, I’m imagining the carnage of pulling out your tongue and wrapping it around your throat.
    Your singing can wake the dead.
So shut the fuck up. I don ’ t want any zombies dropping their jazz hands all over the fucking place.
Alright? Just shut it.

    Stupid-fucking-cunty-bollocks-expialidocious
    â€œYeah, falling in love is WONDERFUL.
Especially when it’s with me.”
    By now you might be wondering how Adam and I met—especially with an ocean between us. I think it’s actually a pretty juicy story. And, of course, it involves sleeping.
    It was 1991. The Western world was in the early stages of recovery from the cultural atrocities of the 80s. Synthesized pop ditties, rock power ballads, and neon nylon had given way to grunge, flannel, and apathy. But in the Jerusalem nightclubs, it was Duran Duran and “Land Down Under” every night of the week.
    I was spending a year between high school and university in Israel on a program with a Zionist youth group. Our year was split between studying in Jerusalem, teaching in a small-town school, and working the fields on a kibbutz. In those first months in Jerusalem, I spent the days soaking up the history, architecture, culture, andlanguage, and the nights dancing until the sun came up. Sleep was not on the syllabus.
    Adam was on a similar program with a sister youth group from the United Kingdom. Occasionally, the leaders of our two organizations threw us all together for social weekends. You