Naked in front of the coffee table, actually. Since you're no doubt curious as to the intimate details of such erotic -- and legal -- nudity (I was in my own home, after all) let me whisper precisely what I mean, sweet things.
Sadly, it didn't involve fucking of any sort, sadly.
"You typed sadly twice."
Sadly, I had *gasp* left my black notebook on my desk at work. Doesn't get much more naked than that, mes amis. You have to understand, my entire
rut physical existence consists of being either at home with my lunatic family, at the library with insane patrons or on the way to and from the library with madcap pedestrians and transportationistas, some of whom smell like pumpkin guts n' smokes and this black notebook is in close proximity 100% of the time. Linus had his blanket, John Wayne Gacy had his rotting corpses, I have my black notebook chock full of every poorly-written line of the recent past, uncounted story ideas that do nothing but decay on the page, Goya-esque doodles if Goya was talentless (I can't draw worth a lick). In short, the spilt blood of the self.
Anyway, in the middle of a Simpsons rerun, a terrible line pops in my head and, my hand passing by a pristine stack of loose leaf --
"The parchment of the unwashed masses? Elitist fuck."
Dude, it's a 99 cent notebook. Where the pages can't get lost. Gee, you're dumb.
"Then so are you."
Can't talk now. I have to go clock myself on the noodle.