My heavy bangs, which have in certain circles been predicted to be quite fashionable in the coming year, have been blown dry and straight, while the rest of my hair is sitting damp and limp on my back and shoulders, in the midst of a half ass attempt at being curly. I am eating stolen biscotti with my tea. How many can allege to have eaten stolen biscotti? Not many. I am now a part of an elite community whose sole claim is to have eaten a pilfered petrified pastry. I know what you’re thinking, but lets face it, life isn’t fair. I have spent more time writing today than I have in the past month or more combined. I wanted to say “writing rubbish” but I made split-second pact with myself to never call anything I write rubbish, as it would only make me think negatively on the little writing that I do these days. My canine encumbrance (notice that I’ve changed the commonly used ‘companion’ to something slightly more, um, accurate; this is no mistake) has been somewhere in the vicinity of my feet for hours. She is dreaming her doggy dreams, doggedly chasing something worthwhile (her tail) no doubt, with one eye open, lest a real threat (her tail) that needs her attention present itself.
I was listening to Tchaikovsky a few minutes ago because I needed something wordless and non-depressing (see previous Boards of Canada entry) to listen to. Yeah….no. That lasted for a couple of nocturnes, when I felt the little burrito of my soul unfold and begin to wither. I knew then that it was time for a change of pace. I selected track one of Best of Flamenco, which is, obviously, the best of flamenco, and pushed play. Now, not only is my burrito revamped and refolded, I’d venture to call it a burrito supreme.
Saturday, December 15
Transient Woman
I am in my car; I am the driver, pulled up to and stopped at a light. I am waiting to turn left. There is a transient woman on the corner, looking directly into my face. Directly, or so I imagine, just as every other driver must imagine, while we fidget with our phones or change the radio station. Any distraction, any device to give an air of busyness, of lost in thought-ness, of I-didn’t-give-you-money-because-I-didn’t-even-know-you-were-there-ness. The woman on the corner holds a sign that simply says “IN NEED.” Nothing more. No sob stories or case histories, no ploys, nothing to make you chuckle and subsequently donate for the amusement. The words on the sign were even spelled correctly, and each letter faced the appropriate direction. A simple statement, so fine in effectiveness, so effective in its simplicity, it shoots through every logical thought, every judgment, every grammatical criticism, straight to our wells, whatever the size, of humanity and compassion. Or so it should. But there’s no accounting for doubts, suspected deceptions, and the fear of being victimized by a scam. With these tools, anything can be justified.
These thoughts, in a situation of the seconds it takes to look down at the never sizeable and steadily dwindling stack of ones in my purse.
I have no job. In fact, I am on my way to an interview as we speak. I have less than fifty dollars to my name (including the changed change in the water jug, less the 8.9% fee (greedy bastards!)), and well over a thousand owed to a mess of places. Self inflicted responsibilities, drowning in them, everything a compounded result of a decision I’ve made. I look back at this woman, in her out dated and ratty jeans, her ill kempt teeth, sneakers dirtied by smog and street corner smut. She stands in the cold, moistened by a persistent drizzle. She has laid down her pride and she begs. I don’t know her reasons. I don’t know what decisions she’s made or have been made for her that have brought her to this specific junction in space and time. Despite her exposure to the elements, her lack of things, her necessary humility, I envy her. For her freedom. And despite my worries and pressures, despite my stress and obligations, maybe she envies me. For my…well, maybe not. Maybe for the respect I can have from others for being “respectable,” for doing what I’m supposed to do. Maybe she doesn’t need that. Maybe she craves it. I wonder, is the scorn of your species a reasonable price to pay for your freedom, for living the way you want to live, or the way you have to live? And what about the price I pay? Is the forsaking of your freedom a reasonable price to pay for the approval of your neighbor, for a completely insecure sense of security?
Theses thoughts, in the mere moment it takes for me to pull my eyes from my purse, and decide to keep my dollar for myself.
These thoughts, in a situation of the seconds it takes to look down at the never sizeable and steadily dwindling stack of ones in my purse.
I have no job. In fact, I am on my way to an interview as we speak. I have less than fifty dollars to my name (including the changed change in the water jug, less the 8.9% fee (greedy bastards!)), and well over a thousand owed to a mess of places. Self inflicted responsibilities, drowning in them, everything a compounded result of a decision I’ve made. I look back at this woman, in her out dated and ratty jeans, her ill kempt teeth, sneakers dirtied by smog and street corner smut. She stands in the cold, moistened by a persistent drizzle. She has laid down her pride and she begs. I don’t know her reasons. I don’t know what decisions she’s made or have been made for her that have brought her to this specific junction in space and time. Despite her exposure to the elements, her lack of things, her necessary humility, I envy her. For her freedom. And despite my worries and pressures, despite my stress and obligations, maybe she envies me. For my…well, maybe not. Maybe for the respect I can have from others for being “respectable,” for doing what I’m supposed to do. Maybe she doesn’t need that. Maybe she craves it. I wonder, is the scorn of your species a reasonable price to pay for your freedom, for living the way you want to live, or the way you have to live? And what about the price I pay? Is the forsaking of your freedom a reasonable price to pay for the approval of your neighbor, for a completely insecure sense of security?
Theses thoughts, in the mere moment it takes for me to pull my eyes from my purse, and decide to keep my dollar for myself.
Here is where I am. My legs are crossed into a Native American pattern, and just one of my dried and crusty feet sits in my lap, like some deformed, yet pleasantly quiet baby, wearing a golden ring on its bulbous, what would it be, arm? My lap, and similarly the remainder of my lower half, is covered in inadvertently stolen, sparkling cherry screaming pajama pants. They are very thin, very comfortable, and despite these things, not mine. I meant to return them before Lindsay left, but I didn’t, so I must accept this flamboyant night wear as my charge. I am drowning in responsibility.
I walked outside and downstairs today, only to allow my phone charger eating, constipated, asshole of a dog to urinate and defecate. She did not defecate. Shocking.
I am still blinking boogers from my eyes as I’m typing this, and although you don’t know this, I am making beau coups of typos and stealthily rectifying them before they can be observed. That’s just the kind of person I am.
Ambulatory appendage update! I have stretched out my legs to rest on the chairs in front of me, and right foot (the baby) is tingling with awakening. Such miserable shit. Fortunately no one is around to poke or prod my yawning limb at a time like this. I’m channeling memories of Melody and my days of prolific toilet top reading. But that’s another story for anther time.
Actually, to be honest, the story has been 90% written; maybe 85% if you consider that it hasn’t been edited. Maybe I’ll work on that later, so I have something cohesive on my sister’s various adolescent torture tactics to present to the world. Yes, I will write it! I will write it and inspire siblings across the land!
Last night I thought of a funny way of describing myself which is “poop poured into a human mold (Candice, 2007).” This isn’t always necessarily accurate thought. Sometimes I’ll make an effort, style my hair, slap on some make up, don a tutu, and then I may be more accurately described as poop poured into a human mold then adorned with a ribbon; a pink and red ribbon, a sparkling cherry screaming ribbon.
I walked outside and downstairs today, only to allow my phone charger eating, constipated, asshole of a dog to urinate and defecate. She did not defecate. Shocking.
I am still blinking boogers from my eyes as I’m typing this, and although you don’t know this, I am making beau coups of typos and stealthily rectifying them before they can be observed. That’s just the kind of person I am.
Ambulatory appendage update! I have stretched out my legs to rest on the chairs in front of me, and right foot (the baby) is tingling with awakening. Such miserable shit. Fortunately no one is around to poke or prod my yawning limb at a time like this. I’m channeling memories of Melody and my days of prolific toilet top reading. But that’s another story for anther time.
Actually, to be honest, the story has been 90% written; maybe 85% if you consider that it hasn’t been edited. Maybe I’ll work on that later, so I have something cohesive on my sister’s various adolescent torture tactics to present to the world. Yes, I will write it! I will write it and inspire siblings across the land!
Last night I thought of a funny way of describing myself which is “poop poured into a human mold (Candice, 2007).” This isn’t always necessarily accurate thought. Sometimes I’ll make an effort, style my hair, slap on some make up, don a tutu, and then I may be more accurately described as poop poured into a human mold then adorned with a ribbon; a pink and red ribbon, a sparkling cherry screaming ribbon.
Bubble Bath
Once again I find myself confronted with an opening line dealing my listening to Boards of Canada, and the very weird place it puts me. So I won’t elaborate much. But for a quick Dayvan Cowboy update, I have just finished listening to it for the first time in months literally, and I was in the ocean, and the waves were tumbling my mind, and while I’m not in an existential crisis yet, I am a bit dazed. The weather is grey and I am far from the sea in a place I have been, and been, and been, with vibrant memories flashing and swirling in my mind of distant places, distant people. I am looking out this window, again again again, at this tree I have seen so many times it is now a part of my mind, and the weather isn’t grey, it’s the sky, so oppressive it’s found its way inside.
That’s the basic gist of it anyway.
There are many fruitful and productive things I could be engaging myself in. I could be exercising at this luxurious apartment complex’s 24 hour gym. I could be bathing myself in the Dove soap shaped bathtub, the kind that, when you see one somewhere you either think to yourself or say aloud, “I’d love to take a bubble bath in that!” But that sad truth is, if you had that bath tub, you would rarely, if ever, take a bubble bath in it. You wouldn’t treat yourself to some lemonade or some hot tea, and sit in the tiny, tickling bubbles for an hour, some candles lit, reading a book, closing your eyes and listening to some tunes. If you even made it as far as the bubbles, you’d, in all likeliness, sit in the underappreciated warmth of the water, and think about all the other things you should be doing that are productive and non-frivolous for about ten minutes before deciding to get out and become a person you can respect and your mother can be proud of. After deciding this you will drain the bath, wasting fifty gallons of water, killing several fish and completely obliterating one species of algae, all for naught, since you didn’t even enjoy yourself. And worst part of it all is that, en route to accomplishing the first item on your list of ‘should’ activities, you will turn on the tv, sit your dimpled ass on the sofa, and not move for the next several hours except to stuff your jiggling face with potato chips or to relieve your self of your bodies fetid waste.
It’s grim, I know, but it’s reality.
Can’t we just accept our congenital selfishness sometimes? And by “we”, I mean “I”. Can’t we just do what we need to do sometimes instead of what we should do? I can only stand in appalled amazement when mentally observing the vast library of tomes left unwritten by me in lieu of tidying or dish washing or worst of all, television. Disgusting. All that genius wasted on an hour of mindless entertainment, a clean kitchen which will only once again become dirty after dinner.
About a year ago now, I was in the apogee of a fantastic phase for me. It was an era during which I commented at the very least twenty times daily on my awesomeness. Instead of hearing a constant inner monologue of self-doubt, self-loathing, fear, insecurity, I was verbally reiterating the nature of my awesome. A very simple and very effective affirmation. You don’t need to write one hundred sentences a day on the things you want or don’t want in your life. This is a catchall. When you are awesome, everything else falls into place. The only possible negative side effect, if it could even be viewed as negative, is excessive self-confidence, which, to some nay-sayers, could translate as a superior complex. Not so. I always encouraged my friends to celebrate their awesome vocally, and they did. And you know what? It helped them too.
Here’s the sad thing. These days, when, in some sort retrogressive tribute I say “I’m awesome” it sounds weak and pathetic. It sounds like a lie. Maybe it’s the lack of coke, maybe it’s the fact that I’m not on an awesome solo voyage. I don’t know the answers to these speculations. But I do know that at some point I stopped saying it, and as a consequence, I stopped believing it.
So, do I believe in my awesome no matter what, or do I make myself something I can’t help but to believe in the awesomeness of? Maybe some where in between.
That’s the basic gist of it anyway.
There are many fruitful and productive things I could be engaging myself in. I could be exercising at this luxurious apartment complex’s 24 hour gym. I could be bathing myself in the Dove soap shaped bathtub, the kind that, when you see one somewhere you either think to yourself or say aloud, “I’d love to take a bubble bath in that!” But that sad truth is, if you had that bath tub, you would rarely, if ever, take a bubble bath in it. You wouldn’t treat yourself to some lemonade or some hot tea, and sit in the tiny, tickling bubbles for an hour, some candles lit, reading a book, closing your eyes and listening to some tunes. If you even made it as far as the bubbles, you’d, in all likeliness, sit in the underappreciated warmth of the water, and think about all the other things you should be doing that are productive and non-frivolous for about ten minutes before deciding to get out and become a person you can respect and your mother can be proud of. After deciding this you will drain the bath, wasting fifty gallons of water, killing several fish and completely obliterating one species of algae, all for naught, since you didn’t even enjoy yourself. And worst part of it all is that, en route to accomplishing the first item on your list of ‘should’ activities, you will turn on the tv, sit your dimpled ass on the sofa, and not move for the next several hours except to stuff your jiggling face with potato chips or to relieve your self of your bodies fetid waste.
It’s grim, I know, but it’s reality.
Can’t we just accept our congenital selfishness sometimes? And by “we”, I mean “I”. Can’t we just do what we need to do sometimes instead of what we should do? I can only stand in appalled amazement when mentally observing the vast library of tomes left unwritten by me in lieu of tidying or dish washing or worst of all, television. Disgusting. All that genius wasted on an hour of mindless entertainment, a clean kitchen which will only once again become dirty after dinner.
About a year ago now, I was in the apogee of a fantastic phase for me. It was an era during which I commented at the very least twenty times daily on my awesomeness. Instead of hearing a constant inner monologue of self-doubt, self-loathing, fear, insecurity, I was verbally reiterating the nature of my awesome. A very simple and very effective affirmation. You don’t need to write one hundred sentences a day on the things you want or don’t want in your life. This is a catchall. When you are awesome, everything else falls into place. The only possible negative side effect, if it could even be viewed as negative, is excessive self-confidence, which, to some nay-sayers, could translate as a superior complex. Not so. I always encouraged my friends to celebrate their awesome vocally, and they did. And you know what? It helped them too.
Here’s the sad thing. These days, when, in some sort retrogressive tribute I say “I’m awesome” it sounds weak and pathetic. It sounds like a lie. Maybe it’s the lack of coke, maybe it’s the fact that I’m not on an awesome solo voyage. I don’t know the answers to these speculations. But I do know that at some point I stopped saying it, and as a consequence, I stopped believing it.
So, do I believe in my awesome no matter what, or do I make myself something I can’t help but to believe in the awesomeness of? Maybe some where in between.
Tuesday, December 11
Okay kids, now it’s time for “Candice tries to explain life with a random adage she made up.” Yay!
Life is, in its most duo chromatic sense, like theatre. There are tragedies, and there are comedies. We are often quite quick to cry at the tragedies, slow to laugh at the comedies, and almost always fail to see that there’s no distinct line between the two. In essence, in the great cosmic play, we are all the comic relief.
I just added that last sentence at the end. Kind of brings the whole theatre of life theme full circle. I feel as though this minute morsel of magnificent will lose some of its scintillating effect by any effort to clarify on my part, but since I can be wordy, and I also do so happen to love the sound of my own hands typing, I can’t resist. One indisputable example of the bleeding and blending of comedy and tragedy, the “opposites” attraction in to copulation and ergo, the creation of a progeny, is the show “ America's Funniest Home Videos.” For those who aren’t familiar with the show (where have you been existing for the previous fifteen years, dwelling beneath an igneous boulder?) (I’m a douche) I’ll sum it up quickly: people or animals or babies (because they aren’t people?) do funny things, almost always involving someone getting hurt, videotape it, send it in to win a prize, and the viewers, whether in the audience or at home, laugh. Now that I’ve explained the program, I think it would be redundant to expound further on my point. People get hurt, we laugh, and thus the line is blurred.
As a speedy aside, I learned something quite interesting as I googled comedy and tragedy to find appropriate links. What I found was 5,760,000 entries for tragedy, while comedy came in with a whopping 34,900,000. Kudos to humanity. We're trying to look on the bright side.
I am capable of annoying even myself. Not that it’s hard.
Life is, in its most duo chromatic sense, like theatre. There are tragedies, and there are comedies. We are often quite quick to cry at the tragedies, slow to laugh at the comedies, and almost always fail to see that there’s no distinct line between the two. In essence, in the great cosmic play, we are all the comic relief.
I just added that last sentence at the end. Kind of brings the whole theatre of life theme full circle. I feel as though this minute morsel of magnificent will lose some of its scintillating effect by any effort to clarify on my part, but since I can be wordy, and I also do so happen to love the sound of my own hands typing, I can’t resist. One indisputable example of the bleeding and blending of comedy and tragedy, the “opposites” attraction in to copulation and ergo, the creation of a progeny, is the show “ America's Funniest Home Videos.” For those who aren’t familiar with the show (where have you been existing for the previous fifteen years, dwelling beneath an igneous boulder?) (I’m a douche) I’ll sum it up quickly: people or animals or babies (because they aren’t people?) do funny things, almost always involving someone getting hurt, videotape it, send it in to win a prize, and the viewers, whether in the audience or at home, laugh. Now that I’ve explained the program, I think it would be redundant to expound further on my point. People get hurt, we laugh, and thus the line is blurred.
As a speedy aside, I learned something quite interesting as I googled comedy and tragedy to find appropriate links. What I found was 5,760,000 entries for tragedy, while comedy came in with a whopping 34,900,000. Kudos to humanity. We're trying to look on the bright side.
I am capable of annoying even myself. Not that it’s hard.
Wednesday, October 31
A poll
After spending several hours playing Spanish homework catch up, I am slightly mentally depleted. Here is an unofficial poll:
Should you write on your blog for the sake of posting, even if your brain equals mashed bananas?
Here are your answer options:
1. Yes
2. No
Discuss...
Should you write on your blog for the sake of posting, even if your brain equals mashed bananas?
Here are your answer options:
1. Yes
2. No
Discuss...
Tuesday, October 23
A lifelong puzzlement, solved!
I was just looking back over some photos from my Southeast Asian adventure, rereading the fabulous, if few, posts I wrote in the midst of it all, and becoming increasingly depressed. I've decided to skip class today, in lieu of commiserating with myself over the suckitude of my life.
Do not be alarmed. This happens with some frequency.
I don't really want to get into one of my rambling whining rants, so I probably will despite myself. In an attempt to curb this compulsion I will tell you a story filled with witticisms, struggle, family intrigue, a fall from grace, and finally, redemption.
When I was just a wee lassy, in order to not corrupt my chaste ears, my Grandma, god rest her soul, used to refer to my vj, her vj, and all vjs for that matter, as a 'possible'. For years, roughly 20, after the blind acceptance of this bizarre terminology began to wane, I puzzled over this question: why? Why, of all cute or cuddly or inoffensive colloquialisms, would she choose to use the word 'possible' in addressing my cookie?
In an effort to unravel this convoluted nest of insanity, this reporter hit the streets, and what she found was astonishing... absolutely nothing.
When sharing humorous anecdotes on what words our grandparents used to refer to our genitalia, my story would have scant effect on my friends apart from perplexion. I studied, inquired, even begged for some clue into this mystery, but no such lead was forthcoming.
On one pre mortem visit I made to my Grandma, I had the presence of mind to ask that maddening question I had so long yearned to have answered; why? As I waited, animation suspended save for a pounding heart and a barely detectable twitch in the corner of my right eye, the suspense killing me, literally (notice, I neglected to include breathing. Remember to always breathe, or you will die. I will elaborate on the physiological repercussions of lack of oxygen, to the body at a later time), she finally parted her lips, and began to utter that most holy of utterances. It was as if the clouds had separated, the clouds being her lips, and god him/her/itself spewed out all his/her/its glorious lumination about the land, and all blessed enough to stand beneath its radiating brilliance, were enlightened with, not the secrets of life, but THE secret to life.
What she said was this: "I don't know. My mother used to say it."
Her mother who has been dead since well before I was born. FRICK!
Since that traumatic, devastatingly devastating incident, I have carried that burden with me, in silence, letting it stew, or ripen, or fester, depending on your perspective or the day I'm having.
But all that changed one fateful night. The most important of all nights in my life thus far, which was either Thursday or Sunday, I can't remember.
So, I'm chatting with a couple of friends, again involved in a grandparent-bequeathed-slang-term-for-genitals conversation, when I relate my heartbreaking story. When I finish, teary eyed and obviously shaken, my friend, Walta, says to me, "Are you kidding? You don't know where that comes from?"
Well, this was the last response that I expected. Contrary to usual post 'possible' events, he wasn't forlorn or desolate, he wasn't as panicked as a recently bombed villager. Neigh, he was sitting there, telling me that he, in all his wisdom, had the answer to the biggest conundrum of my life.
Once I recaptured my breath, and my faltering heart had resumed its regular rhythm, I demanded he proceed.
This is what he told me.
When he was just a young boy, and due to hygienic negligence, had got to smelling pretty ripe, his mother would tell him to "get in the shower and wash as high as possible, wash as low as possible, and don't forget to wash possible."
Wow!
As relieving as it was, it lacked the satisfaction I had longed for for so long. As amusing as it was in a nostalgicly reminiscent of yesteryear type of way, it was a bit of a let down. It was searching for King Tut's tomb, only to find inside of it a King Tut Ken doll.
Don't be mistaken, I would not trade this knowledge for the world (okay, that is a lie), but after so many years of contriving stories about the unlockings of dark family secrets, concocting arcana to which 'possible' was the cipher, it was, suffice it to say, anticlimactic.
But c'est la vie, it's a good story, and you were totally scandalized but also so enticed that you nutted in your panties.
It's time for me to smoke a Nigarette (shout out to LindSAY). I may post yet again today since I'm a truant slacker who just so happens to love to sporadically write things.
Do not be alarmed. This happens with some frequency.
I don't really want to get into one of my rambling whining rants, so I probably will despite myself. In an attempt to curb this compulsion I will tell you a story filled with witticisms, struggle, family intrigue, a fall from grace, and finally, redemption.
When I was just a wee lassy, in order to not corrupt my chaste ears, my Grandma, god rest her soul, used to refer to my vj, her vj, and all vjs for that matter, as a 'possible'. For years, roughly 20, after the blind acceptance of this bizarre terminology began to wane, I puzzled over this question: why? Why, of all cute or cuddly or inoffensive colloquialisms, would she choose to use the word 'possible' in addressing my cookie?
In an effort to unravel this convoluted nest of insanity, this reporter hit the streets, and what she found was astonishing... absolutely nothing.
When sharing humorous anecdotes on what words our grandparents used to refer to our genitalia, my story would have scant effect on my friends apart from perplexion. I studied, inquired, even begged for some clue into this mystery, but no such lead was forthcoming.
On one pre mortem visit I made to my Grandma, I had the presence of mind to ask that maddening question I had so long yearned to have answered; why? As I waited, animation suspended save for a pounding heart and a barely detectable twitch in the corner of my right eye, the suspense killing me, literally (notice, I neglected to include breathing. Remember to always breathe, or you will die. I will elaborate on the physiological repercussions of lack of oxygen, to the body at a later time), she finally parted her lips, and began to utter that most holy of utterances. It was as if the clouds had separated, the clouds being her lips, and god him/her/itself spewed out all his/her/its glorious lumination about the land, and all blessed enough to stand beneath its radiating brilliance, were enlightened with, not the secrets of life, but THE secret to life.
What she said was this: "I don't know. My mother used to say it."
Her mother who has been dead since well before I was born. FRICK!
Since that traumatic, devastatingly devastating incident, I have carried that burden with me, in silence, letting it stew, or ripen, or fester, depending on your perspective or the day I'm having.
But all that changed one fateful night. The most important of all nights in my life thus far, which was either Thursday or Sunday, I can't remember.
So, I'm chatting with a couple of friends, again involved in a grandparent-bequeathed-slang-term-for-genitals conversation, when I relate my heartbreaking story. When I finish, teary eyed and obviously shaken, my friend, Walta, says to me, "Are you kidding? You don't know where that comes from?"
Well, this was the last response that I expected. Contrary to usual post 'possible' events, he wasn't forlorn or desolate, he wasn't as panicked as a recently bombed villager. Neigh, he was sitting there, telling me that he, in all his wisdom, had the answer to the biggest conundrum of my life.
Once I recaptured my breath, and my faltering heart had resumed its regular rhythm, I demanded he proceed.
This is what he told me.
When he was just a young boy, and due to hygienic negligence, had got to smelling pretty ripe, his mother would tell him to "get in the shower and wash as high as possible, wash as low as possible, and don't forget to wash possible."
Wow!
As relieving as it was, it lacked the satisfaction I had longed for for so long. As amusing as it was in a nostalgicly reminiscent of yesteryear type of way, it was a bit of a let down. It was searching for King Tut's tomb, only to find inside of it a King Tut Ken doll.
Don't be mistaken, I would not trade this knowledge for the world (okay, that is a lie), but after so many years of contriving stories about the unlockings of dark family secrets, concocting arcana to which 'possible' was the cipher, it was, suffice it to say, anticlimactic.
But c'est la vie, it's a good story, and you were totally scandalized but also so enticed that you nutted in your panties.
It's time for me to smoke a Nigarette (shout out to LindSAY). I may post yet again today since I'm a truant slacker who just so happens to love to sporadically write things.
Click
So, in a halting, sputtering, clumsily stuttering manner, I am attempting to transform myself into a journalist, a documenter of the professional variety, not through school, and drab papers on uninteresting topics I am forced to trifle away my creative quasi-genius on. Instead, I am starting a new personal campaign I’m calling the “Stop watching TV it will never help you accomplish anything you want, except maybe slightly improving your cooking skills” campaign.
I’m constantly coming across calls for entries for restaurant reviews, articles about Austin places and events, and the like, yet not only do I not write, and subsequently enter nothing, I don’t even peel my ass off of the couch, grab a Chronicle, and go out to see what my city has to offer. So, this week, Thursday to be precise, I’m going to go to an adult spelling bee at Fado, and if I’m feeling especially gutsy, I may even enter, since, as most know, I am an exceptional speller.
Then, on November 14th, Cris and I will drive all the way out to Marble Falls for a play which we’ll be seeing free of cost, save for the bajillion dollars in gas it will cost to get there. My goal is to bring my camera, if I can manage to remember it this time, and a tablet and document the shit out of it. I will then write a review so compelling, it will outshine the play itself, making all who read it, but did not see the play, glad they saved their gas and the environment. I will also do this for the spelling bee that I’m going to win.
Cris is usually reluctant to even want to accompany me on my unexecuted excursion ideas, no matter how economical. He’s agreed to the play, but I think the spelling bee is going to take some work. But regardless of whether my couch warming companion is willing to come along or not, I’m going. I mean, how many times can you watch the same episodes of Scrub’s?
I’m constantly coming across calls for entries for restaurant reviews, articles about Austin places and events, and the like, yet not only do I not write, and subsequently enter nothing, I don’t even peel my ass off of the couch, grab a Chronicle, and go out to see what my city has to offer. So, this week, Thursday to be precise, I’m going to go to an adult spelling bee at Fado, and if I’m feeling especially gutsy, I may even enter, since, as most know, I am an exceptional speller.
Then, on November 14th, Cris and I will drive all the way out to Marble Falls for a play which we’ll be seeing free of cost, save for the bajillion dollars in gas it will cost to get there. My goal is to bring my camera, if I can manage to remember it this time, and a tablet and document the shit out of it. I will then write a review so compelling, it will outshine the play itself, making all who read it, but did not see the play, glad they saved their gas and the environment. I will also do this for the spelling bee that I’m going to win.
Cris is usually reluctant to even want to accompany me on my unexecuted excursion ideas, no matter how economical. He’s agreed to the play, but I think the spelling bee is going to take some work. But regardless of whether my couch warming companion is willing to come along or not, I’m going. I mean, how many times can you watch the same episodes of Scrub’s?
Why? Why? Why?
“Why?” is a complete sentence in itself. I know this because spell check told me. And as highly amusing a topic as this is, I cannot proceed. I can’t because I am wondering about a few things.
Am I making the right decisions? Are there wrong decisions? I don’t want to start waxing philosophical because I have real concerns that can’t likely be helped by mental masturbation (but it feels oh so good!). I worry that I am sacrificing myself, and that I am not strong enough not to lose me, not to forget me. I worry that I can’t accept people that I love, and that I’ll never really love anyone because I can’t accept them. How many things do you really have to have in common? How much compromise (or sacrifice on a bad day) is acceptable? Do I really want to be around someone like me? Do I always have to be right? Can’t any body take a fucking joke? Should I censor myself because no one can take a fucking joke? Was it really a fucking joke? Am I allowed to think he’s wrong? That just takes me right back to: Do I always have to be right? Are relationships really just two people trying to change each other?
I got an email from a friend today. All it said was, “write something today.” That person cares about me. And although this isn’t likely what my friend had in mind, I did write, this, and I only actually coerced myself to do it because those three words kept popping into my head. Write something today. Apparently I’m not the only one who gives a frick about my writing, which is good because I obviously don’t give enough of a frick.
Tonight Cris and I made some sesame chicken and broccoli with rice. It was yummy. The chicken was moist and tender, much like a recently used vagina. The sauce had all the important Asian flavor components, which are: sweet, salty, spicy, bitter, and MSG. Necessarily, I didn’t wind up going to work. I was easily dissuaded.
I only mention our succulent feast because it was assigned to me to write about something (presumably other than poop and my perpetual problems) for at least five minutes every day. A few options on the menu du jour are bands I saw, restaurants I ate at, streets I walked down, public toilets I employed, or even just meals I prepared at home. Since I did nothing of consequence today, you get home made sesame chicken, and very little of it for that matter. We ate it all.
Though I suppose it would be mildly amusing to dissertate on the TABC certification course I spent four and a half irretrievable hours of my life completing today. It was super. More on that later. It is 1:39 a.m. what do you think I am some sort of heathen? Frick!
Am I making the right decisions? Are there wrong decisions? I don’t want to start waxing philosophical because I have real concerns that can’t likely be helped by mental masturbation (but it feels oh so good!). I worry that I am sacrificing myself, and that I am not strong enough not to lose me, not to forget me. I worry that I can’t accept people that I love, and that I’ll never really love anyone because I can’t accept them. How many things do you really have to have in common? How much compromise (or sacrifice on a bad day) is acceptable? Do I really want to be around someone like me? Do I always have to be right? Can’t any body take a fucking joke? Should I censor myself because no one can take a fucking joke? Was it really a fucking joke? Am I allowed to think he’s wrong? That just takes me right back to: Do I always have to be right? Are relationships really just two people trying to change each other?
I got an email from a friend today. All it said was, “write something today.” That person cares about me. And although this isn’t likely what my friend had in mind, I did write, this, and I only actually coerced myself to do it because those three words kept popping into my head. Write something today. Apparently I’m not the only one who gives a frick about my writing, which is good because I obviously don’t give enough of a frick.
Tonight Cris and I made some sesame chicken and broccoli with rice. It was yummy. The chicken was moist and tender, much like a recently used vagina. The sauce had all the important Asian flavor components, which are: sweet, salty, spicy, bitter, and MSG. Necessarily, I didn’t wind up going to work. I was easily dissuaded.
I only mention our succulent feast because it was assigned to me to write about something (presumably other than poop and my perpetual problems) for at least five minutes every day. A few options on the menu du jour are bands I saw, restaurants I ate at, streets I walked down, public toilets I employed, or even just meals I prepared at home. Since I did nothing of consequence today, you get home made sesame chicken, and very little of it for that matter. We ate it all.
Though I suppose it would be mildly amusing to dissertate on the TABC certification course I spent four and a half irretrievable hours of my life completing today. It was super. More on that later. It is 1:39 a.m. what do you think I am some sort of heathen? Frick!
Monday, October 8
Reply to an "Anonymous" Commenter
Since receiving this “anonymous” comment:
“It is a sad thing to see,,,,families torn apart by anger and bitterness.....but you are the pot calling the kettle black!!! I have no pity for someone like you. But wait....maybe someone like you should be pitied. Someone that has no clue about anything. Do not ever think you know what went on....because you dont. We are glad we never have to see you. You are pathetic,” in response to this post, I’ve been doing a lot of back and forth deliberation in my mind on how to respond to it.
When I first signed into my blogger account, I was elated to find two unmoderated comments (nearly half my annual influx) awaiting my scrutinization and approval. As I read through this comment, as my pulse quickened, and my stomach rolled, I realized that this was my first piece of hate mail, which, I won’t lie, was pretty exciting. But when I got to the end of this ridiculous rant of retaliation, I realized that despite first appearances, this commenter wasn’t anonymous. It was my ex-stepmother.
Not from just some brief, mid-life-crisis marriage between my dad and some one twenty years his senior. No, this is the Ruthie mentioned in the entry I’ve linked. The one towards whom, along with my dad, I’ve harbored bitter feelings regarding my sorry adolescence, but was actually beginning to forgive when the pettiness of such grudges bludgeoned me in the head with my Grandmother’s death. I have known this woman since I was two. She acted as my mother until I moved out of my parent’s house when I was sixteen.
So naturally I was a bit shaken up by the comment. I smoked my first cigarette of the day at 5 o’clock in the evening after reading it. I even shed a few tears.
As I’m sure you have noticed, I have absolutely no problem with airing my personal business right here on my very own cozy little blog. I could tell you a multitude of things to convince you of, not just my ex-stepmother’s mistakes (we aren’t talking about my dad here), but her evilness as well. I could insult her, belittle, and berate her. I could be mean, very very mean. And believe me, in the days since I received the comment, I have written countless searing retorts in my mind. But after no small amount of reasoning with my self, and an even not smaller amount of reasoning from Cris, I’ve decided against that. Actually, Cris doesn’t even think I should respond, but to me, this isn’t some random insult from an internet surfer who has exhausted their supply of porn. This is someone who has impacted my life severely, and despite the positive connotation of the word ‘impacted’, I do not mean it that way. I mean that, although I won’t be mean, I don’t care about being the bigger person. I care that this ‘anonymous’ hater know how things really are.
So here goes:
One big thing…bitterness and anger didn’t destroy our family. Lies did. Your lies. You know what I’m talking about.
Second, even if my family had been destroyed by bitterness and anger, what’s it to ya? You removed yourself from my family when you cheated on my dad and left him for some one else’s husband. I know you’re thinking to yourself, “She doesn’t know what went on. Todd cheated on me too.” Well, I did know. Hello, I did live with both of you, and it isn’t as if you quietly discussed all of your problems behind the locked doors of your bedroom, though some times you did yell through them. No, you screamed about them, daily. And don’t believe for a second that I’m in the dark about things that went on in our house. I know more than you think.
Also, as a quick aside, and I know I’m being a little mean here, but what the hey? Isn’t it interesting how quickly you ceased to be considered family despite your many years involved in it, and how my mom is still considered family by my dad’s family despite her many years absent? Very interesting. Very telling.
Thirdly, you say I don’t know what went on. Even if that were true, it’s completely moot, since I do know that despite adult situations that children can’t understand, there is a right way that kids should be treated. They should come first; they should be educated, if not in school, then in the home school you withdrew them from public school to be in; they shouldn’t be withheld from their education in order to raise their younger siblings, clean the house and do the laundry. These things seem simple enough, and yet you failed to accomplish them in raising your first round of kids. I hope you’ve grown up for Tori and Julia. Maybe some day you’ll grow up enough to understand and admit that despite what you went through, how you did Melody and me was wrong.
Lastly, and this is last just because I don’t really feel like devoting too much more energy to this, either you are severely mentally deficient, or you didn’t actually read the posting to which you so rudely replied. I was trying to let go of petty grudges and bitterness because I saw, in the face of a loved one’s death, that they don’t fucking matter. I guess I had overestimated you in imagining that maybe time and mortality, or even your religion that teaches compassion and forgiveness, had done the same. Well, that’s all blown to hell. I don’t forgive you. I don’t because you don’t even admit you were wrong, and being the person that you are, that everyone knows you are (trust me on that one), you never will.
So maybe I am the kind of person who should be pitied. I had a lousy past with some lousy people in it. Now I’m happy, healthy, in love, in school, and I don’t allow those kinds of people, people like you, to be a part a part of my life. Please, pity me. My life sucks.
“It is a sad thing to see,,,,families torn apart by anger and bitterness.....but you are the pot calling the kettle black!!! I have no pity for someone like you. But wait....maybe someone like you should be pitied. Someone that has no clue about anything. Do not ever think you know what went on....because you dont. We are glad we never have to see you. You are pathetic,” in response to this post, I’ve been doing a lot of back and forth deliberation in my mind on how to respond to it.
When I first signed into my blogger account, I was elated to find two unmoderated comments (nearly half my annual influx) awaiting my scrutinization and approval. As I read through this comment, as my pulse quickened, and my stomach rolled, I realized that this was my first piece of hate mail, which, I won’t lie, was pretty exciting. But when I got to the end of this ridiculous rant of retaliation, I realized that despite first appearances, this commenter wasn’t anonymous. It was my ex-stepmother.
Not from just some brief, mid-life-crisis marriage between my dad and some one twenty years his senior. No, this is the Ruthie mentioned in the entry I’ve linked. The one towards whom, along with my dad, I’ve harbored bitter feelings regarding my sorry adolescence, but was actually beginning to forgive when the pettiness of such grudges bludgeoned me in the head with my Grandmother’s death. I have known this woman since I was two. She acted as my mother until I moved out of my parent’s house when I was sixteen.
So naturally I was a bit shaken up by the comment. I smoked my first cigarette of the day at 5 o’clock in the evening after reading it. I even shed a few tears.
As I’m sure you have noticed, I have absolutely no problem with airing my personal business right here on my very own cozy little blog. I could tell you a multitude of things to convince you of, not just my ex-stepmother’s mistakes (we aren’t talking about my dad here), but her evilness as well. I could insult her, belittle, and berate her. I could be mean, very very mean. And believe me, in the days since I received the comment, I have written countless searing retorts in my mind. But after no small amount of reasoning with my self, and an even not smaller amount of reasoning from Cris, I’ve decided against that. Actually, Cris doesn’t even think I should respond, but to me, this isn’t some random insult from an internet surfer who has exhausted their supply of porn. This is someone who has impacted my life severely, and despite the positive connotation of the word ‘impacted’, I do not mean it that way. I mean that, although I won’t be mean, I don’t care about being the bigger person. I care that this ‘anonymous’ hater know how things really are.
So here goes:
One big thing…bitterness and anger didn’t destroy our family. Lies did. Your lies. You know what I’m talking about.
Second, even if my family had been destroyed by bitterness and anger, what’s it to ya? You removed yourself from my family when you cheated on my dad and left him for some one else’s husband. I know you’re thinking to yourself, “She doesn’t know what went on. Todd cheated on me too.” Well, I did know. Hello, I did live with both of you, and it isn’t as if you quietly discussed all of your problems behind the locked doors of your bedroom, though some times you did yell through them. No, you screamed about them, daily. And don’t believe for a second that I’m in the dark about things that went on in our house. I know more than you think.
Also, as a quick aside, and I know I’m being a little mean here, but what the hey? Isn’t it interesting how quickly you ceased to be considered family despite your many years involved in it, and how my mom is still considered family by my dad’s family despite her many years absent? Very interesting. Very telling.
Thirdly, you say I don’t know what went on. Even if that were true, it’s completely moot, since I do know that despite adult situations that children can’t understand, there is a right way that kids should be treated. They should come first; they should be educated, if not in school, then in the home school you withdrew them from public school to be in; they shouldn’t be withheld from their education in order to raise their younger siblings, clean the house and do the laundry. These things seem simple enough, and yet you failed to accomplish them in raising your first round of kids. I hope you’ve grown up for Tori and Julia. Maybe some day you’ll grow up enough to understand and admit that despite what you went through, how you did Melody and me was wrong.
Lastly, and this is last just because I don’t really feel like devoting too much more energy to this, either you are severely mentally deficient, or you didn’t actually read the posting to which you so rudely replied. I was trying to let go of petty grudges and bitterness because I saw, in the face of a loved one’s death, that they don’t fucking matter. I guess I had overestimated you in imagining that maybe time and mortality, or even your religion that teaches compassion and forgiveness, had done the same. Well, that’s all blown to hell. I don’t forgive you. I don’t because you don’t even admit you were wrong, and being the person that you are, that everyone knows you are (trust me on that one), you never will.
So maybe I am the kind of person who should be pitied. I had a lousy past with some lousy people in it. Now I’m happy, healthy, in love, in school, and I don’t allow those kinds of people, people like you, to be a part a part of my life. Please, pity me. My life sucks.
Thursday, September 27
I'm a Catholic now!
When did I become so obsessed with doing the right things, instead of the fun thing?
Come to think of it, when did I start believing in right and wrong?
At what point did I become so concerned with karmic redress that I can scarcely take a step without fear of harming an amoeba and the consequences that action would incur?
Well, I think that my mind is, and always has been, teeter-tottering on the edge of crazy, and now my birth control is finally taking its toll. Will I have to say 'sayonara' to my boobies?
I don't kid myself into believing I was the picture of happiness prior to my prophylactic, but seriously it's seriously gotten worse.
So, either I'll soon either be subjecting my womb to the constant onslaught of my boyfriend's splooge with out defenses, or I'll be dragging my weepy, guilt ridden, plagued with purposelessness ass to some church or another everyday, praying for forgivness of the sin of, well, my life....
Okay...More on this fascinating topic later...
I have class in 6 minutes and I NEED a cigarette....
(That'll be 10 Hail Marys and 5 Our Fathers)
SHIT!
Come to think of it, when did I start believing in right and wrong?
At what point did I become so concerned with karmic redress that I can scarcely take a step without fear of harming an amoeba and the consequences that action would incur?
Well, I think that my mind is, and always has been, teeter-tottering on the edge of crazy, and now my birth control is finally taking its toll. Will I have to say 'sayonara' to my boobies?
I don't kid myself into believing I was the picture of happiness prior to my prophylactic, but seriously it's seriously gotten worse.
So, either I'll soon either be subjecting my womb to the constant onslaught of my boyfriend's splooge with out defenses, or I'll be dragging my weepy, guilt ridden, plagued with purposelessness ass to some church or another everyday, praying for forgivness of the sin of, well, my life....
Okay...More on this fascinating topic later...
I have class in 6 minutes and I NEED a cigarette....
(That'll be 10 Hail Marys and 5 Our Fathers)
SHIT!
Sorry
So I have a few minutes before I have to head to class to go and get edumacated, so I thought I'd write something severely missing the mark of awesome.
I spent the better part of 2 hours today writing a paper, so I'm like what the frick am I doing?
I'm smearing crap on my computer screen and hitting send. I have devolved.
I always have to reintroduce myself to my blog by putting down some inanity. This is said token inanity. Revel in it.
Here is the scoop:
I am fat
I live with Cris
I'm getting learned
I'm bartending now
Blah
This is my life in a nutshell.
Oh my god I'm so depressed (except the part about Cris, he rules) that I want to go eat compulsively.
Fart.
I spent the better part of 2 hours today writing a paper, so I'm like what the frick am I doing?
I'm smearing crap on my computer screen and hitting send. I have devolved.
I always have to reintroduce myself to my blog by putting down some inanity. This is said token inanity. Revel in it.
Here is the scoop:
I am fat
I live with Cris
I'm getting learned
I'm bartending now
Blah
This is my life in a nutshell.
Oh my god I'm so depressed (except the part about Cris, he rules) that I want to go eat compulsively.
Fart.
Tuesday, September 11
To Sarah Lula
I am writing you this, here, because I have been a douche and neglected you for too long.
I guess this is my attempt at amends.
I guess that with time, your awesomeness has faded (only in my memory darling) due to your absence, which at first devesteted me, then faded to a dull ache, and finally, to normalcy.
Trust me, I know you're still awesome, probably even more awesome than the last time I saw you (almost a year ago! Jeezus!). But without your company as a constant reminder, it is on the back burner.
I hate long distance relationships.
I want to come and visit you, but now I am a poor bartending college student. I ate two packets of instant oatmeal yesterday, with half and half because I don't have any milk, because I am stuck in the bowels of poverty. The only thing lower is Ramen noodles.
OMG, I just looked at a sugar packet and a neat little brown stamp says MAUI! WTF?
I want to tell you to move back, but that would be ridonkulous because, duh, I should move there, to Hawaii.
I lost my momentum.
I just wanted to say that I do still love you, even though I suck at showing it....
I guess you'll have to accept me as the massive turd that I am...
Or not...
But I love you and think you're amazing, and miss hearing you sing anyway....
I guess this is my attempt at amends.
I guess that with time, your awesomeness has faded (only in my memory darling) due to your absence, which at first devesteted me, then faded to a dull ache, and finally, to normalcy.
Trust me, I know you're still awesome, probably even more awesome than the last time I saw you (almost a year ago! Jeezus!). But without your company as a constant reminder, it is on the back burner.
I hate long distance relationships.
I want to come and visit you, but now I am a poor bartending college student. I ate two packets of instant oatmeal yesterday, with half and half because I don't have any milk, because I am stuck in the bowels of poverty. The only thing lower is Ramen noodles.
OMG, I just looked at a sugar packet and a neat little brown stamp says MAUI! WTF?
I want to tell you to move back, but that would be ridonkulous because, duh, I should move there, to Hawaii.
I lost my momentum.
I just wanted to say that I do still love you, even though I suck at showing it....
I guess you'll have to accept me as the massive turd that I am...
Or not...
But I love you and think you're amazing, and miss hearing you sing anyway....
Thursday, August 30
Curry is a spastic
Let me rephrase that. Curry is a sporadic spastic. She can accelerate to speeds topping 20 mph in our 300 square foot, heavily furnished living room. She does this for about 45 seconds, then stops abruptly, to stare meditatively, before ravishing her stuffing hemorrhaging Playboy bunny pillow.
Repeat.
It’s a vicious cycle.
If she does something out of the repetitive ordinary, I’ll report. Until then, I’m bored with her.
Although, right now, she’s engaged in her meditative stare, with said bunny pillow, dangling from her lower canine. The pillow is half her size. It’s funny.
She is so annoying to me today, I want to annihilate her, she’s been following me around everywhere, getting in my way as I’m trying to figure out where my things will go, wiping her wet nose on me, trying to take me out by kicking my leg pit with her surprisingly powerful paw.
Maybe I should get another dog for her to chew on, or even for reciprocal chewing, so she can leave me the frick alone. Plus she stinks like sweetly sour wet old dog vaj.
I prolly should wash her.
Repeat.
It’s a vicious cycle.
If she does something out of the repetitive ordinary, I’ll report. Until then, I’m bored with her.
Although, right now, she’s engaged in her meditative stare, with said bunny pillow, dangling from her lower canine. The pillow is half her size. It’s funny.
She is so annoying to me today, I want to annihilate her, she’s been following me around everywhere, getting in my way as I’m trying to figure out where my things will go, wiping her wet nose on me, trying to take me out by kicking my leg pit with her surprisingly powerful paw.
Maybe I should get another dog for her to chew on, or even for reciprocal chewing, so she can leave me the frick alone. Plus she stinks like sweetly sour wet old dog vaj.
I prolly should wash her.
A really awesome poem I wrote all by myself
Why is the rustling of a newspaper just back up noise to ignore
Have you ever noticed the minor sounds of life around you
Made them major
Given them center stage
The whisper of carpet collapsing beneath your feet
The sound of your fingertips brushing your lover’s arm
The squish of water passing through your throat
You know, no one does
I don’t
The whole newspaper thing, I stumbled on by accident
It was a deafeningly silent mid day, mid week moment
On my back porch
I had grown tired of the crossword puzzle making me feel like an idiot
And had opted to flip the page
To tackle the word jumble
I had no choice but to notice the rustle
(Do the Rustle!)
It was not a zen moment
Not a second of enlightenment
A glimpse into the true nature of things
The Buddha nature
A haiku
It was a happenstance
And as is in my nature, I
For the sake of my pompous pontification
Hopped up onto my pedestal
And said,
“blah blah blah”
I’m a douche
Have you ever noticed the minor sounds of life around you
Made them major
Given them center stage
The whisper of carpet collapsing beneath your feet
The sound of your fingertips brushing your lover’s arm
The squish of water passing through your throat
You know, no one does
I don’t
The whole newspaper thing, I stumbled on by accident
It was a deafeningly silent mid day, mid week moment
On my back porch
I had grown tired of the crossword puzzle making me feel like an idiot
And had opted to flip the page
To tackle the word jumble
I had no choice but to notice the rustle
(Do the Rustle!)
It was not a zen moment
Not a second of enlightenment
A glimpse into the true nature of things
The Buddha nature
A haiku
It was a happenstance
And as is in my nature, I
For the sake of my pompous pontification
Hopped up onto my pedestal
And said,
“blah blah blah”
I’m a douche
Saturday, August 25
I am so blessed
Hello
I am depressed because of the whole slew of problems that I have right now which are that I have a job where I make no money, despite the fact that I am both pretty and smart, I owe roughly one million dollars to everyone and the mites in their beds, and all my problems basically boil down to money, the owing and absence of it, the shitty nature of normal job having, and how the old way of life is no longer an option.
I am depressed.
But at least I have his face to see, and his body to hug. He doesn’t dissolve my problems for me, but offers me a temporary respite from them.
And by ‘He’ I mean Jesus. That boy can really spoon!
One other thing which is actually good, but feels really bad right now is that I quit smoking although I did cheat last night since I worked all day and made 60 dollars, got a $133 ticket, and a flat tire, and this little cunt I work with was all like, ‘you have to find one last honey’, and also telling me that I had to roll 65 sets of silverware, despite the fact that I only had 4 tables, one of which didn’t even use silverware because it was Cris and Adam and they were just getting drunk.
Here are the reasons I shouldn’t be smoking:
1) It’s expensive
2) I feel asthmatic when I run, and I want to be in shape and healthy and have a nice body and also look good, so I’ll at least have that even though I’m a standard American who is poor and in debt
3) Cancer
4) Yellow teeth
5) Global warming
6) Wrinkly face (I am vain)
7) Coughing up loogies made even more disgusting by the fact that they have been made brown by tar and smut and rat poison
So after that, I don’t really feel any better about my life, but at least I feel more like an asshole for feeling so sorry for myself about stupid little problems since I am a huge baby.
All I want to do is live in a modest cabin on a cliff over looking the sea and spend my time on metal sculpture, culinary experimentations, herb gardening, writing, and blowing my man. Is that too much to fucking ask!?!
I don’t want a Bentley. I don’t want 24’s. I don’t want a pool in the shape of a dollar sign. Gucci and Prada, I don’t want a lotta. I don’t want any. Just cozy sweaters, a fireplace, a tea kettle, a library I’ll never exhaust, an ocean to swim in, even if it’s too cold to swim in, some friends, and most especially a Cris, but only one who spells his name without an ‘h’ and who ignores ‘I before e except after c’.
Also I don’t want to pay taxes.
I was just looking around trying to think of what I’d write next, holding my jaw in my hands, when I realized, my face feels really small. Great! I have an abnormally small head. Something else to feel self conscious about! Whoopeeeeee!
I am depressed because of the whole slew of problems that I have right now which are that I have a job where I make no money, despite the fact that I am both pretty and smart, I owe roughly one million dollars to everyone and the mites in their beds, and all my problems basically boil down to money, the owing and absence of it, the shitty nature of normal job having, and how the old way of life is no longer an option.
I am depressed.
But at least I have his face to see, and his body to hug. He doesn’t dissolve my problems for me, but offers me a temporary respite from them.
And by ‘He’ I mean Jesus. That boy can really spoon!
One other thing which is actually good, but feels really bad right now is that I quit smoking although I did cheat last night since I worked all day and made 60 dollars, got a $133 ticket, and a flat tire, and this little cunt I work with was all like, ‘you have to find one last honey’, and also telling me that I had to roll 65 sets of silverware, despite the fact that I only had 4 tables, one of which didn’t even use silverware because it was Cris and Adam and they were just getting drunk.
Here are the reasons I shouldn’t be smoking:
1) It’s expensive
2) I feel asthmatic when I run, and I want to be in shape and healthy and have a nice body and also look good, so I’ll at least have that even though I’m a standard American who is poor and in debt
3) Cancer
4) Yellow teeth
5) Global warming
6) Wrinkly face (I am vain)
7) Coughing up loogies made even more disgusting by the fact that they have been made brown by tar and smut and rat poison
So after that, I don’t really feel any better about my life, but at least I feel more like an asshole for feeling so sorry for myself about stupid little problems since I am a huge baby.
All I want to do is live in a modest cabin on a cliff over looking the sea and spend my time on metal sculpture, culinary experimentations, herb gardening, writing, and blowing my man. Is that too much to fucking ask!?!
I don’t want a Bentley. I don’t want 24’s. I don’t want a pool in the shape of a dollar sign. Gucci and Prada, I don’t want a lotta. I don’t want any. Just cozy sweaters, a fireplace, a tea kettle, a library I’ll never exhaust, an ocean to swim in, even if it’s too cold to swim in, some friends, and most especially a Cris, but only one who spells his name without an ‘h’ and who ignores ‘I before e except after c’.
Also I don’t want to pay taxes.
I was just looking around trying to think of what I’d write next, holding my jaw in my hands, when I realized, my face feels really small. Great! I have an abnormally small head. Something else to feel self conscious about! Whoopeeeeee!
Wednesday, July 18
Ranting and Rambling
I’ve just solicited Cris for writing topic suggestions since I seem to be at a writers block impasse.
I’m scanning the apartment for ideas… dog? No. Rubbing alcohol? Nope. Young Frankenstein? I don’t think so. The pleasant texture of Cris’ green fleece blankey? Maybe.
The sensation of it against my skin is quite sweet and mollifying, ala softly cooed lullabies. It’s verdant chromatics urge the mind via the eye to primordial reminiscences, to a time of primary and secondary colors, to an invertebrate era of slitherings and coilings and unfurlings in the muck. The crude stitching of the hem, sewn haphazardly as though by a dilettante seamstress/er (that is funny), reminds me of my own ridiculous if endearing attempts at cut up hippy dress pillow making. Those were the days.
Good man that he is, Cris has sent along a few ideas for possible writing fodder.
One: The best moment of your life.
Two: The coolest person/place you’ve come to know.
Three: The best out of body experience you’ve had.
Four: The best dream.
*note: The syntax and abbreviated spelling oft used in text messages for space efficiency have been changed to an arrangement more suitable for prose of the Candice variety. The intended meaning remains intact.
*note: That was gay.
So let’s start with suggestion numero uno, as it instantly invokes a memory very close to my heart.
Uh, wait no.
It’s quite a task to examine the plethora of pieces that constitute the tapestry of a life, and say, ‘this is the best one.’ Good moments, bad moments, ecstatic moments, devastations are all fluid in the mind. The subjective status of an event in your mind is so based in context, of not only the situation in which it occurred, but also, and possibly more importantly, of the vantage point in time you are in your life, looking back at it. What can seem at the time to be a calamitous affair in your life, can ripple into repercussions that change your life for the better, get you out of, no matter how uncomfortably at the time, a very bad situation, teach your something that will resound resplendently throughout your life. Also, the opposite is true.
Love turning sour, even violent. Love that you discover was never love at all. A pill you popped. A risk you took. A risk you didn’t take. I don’t know.
The point is the importance of perspective. The point is a Zen koan. But I’m guessing I’m being too nit picky, and completely ignoring the obvious implication of the suggestion, which is to say, at what moment in your life were you the most awe struck by revelation, the most in love, the most in love with life, the most affected, but mostly, the happiest?
I couldn’t choose one because there is a best moment for a variety categories. I cannot choose my overall favorite. It does not exist.
So here’s a list, in no significant order:
The way my heart jumped/fluttered the first time I saw Cris, how I’d never felt that way in an instant, and now I realize that I loved him from then.
In the lake at Pace Bend, at night, the glow in the dark football, with Cris.
The lunch break on Owen’s birthday boat trip around Kho Phangnan, on that little beach, when it started to pour that frigid rain, and I went into the sea, alone, and floated.
The first time I heard Dayvan Cowboy.
Eleven years old, playing soccer in the parking lot, in the rain.
Eating at that Mexican restaurant in Renton, WA with Toni and James, and meeting that other part of me, that superior, that eternal part of me.
Spending last weekend with Cris, alone.
The night Sarah, Tiffany and I rolled, watched that miraculous sunrise by the hot tub, and went to Bull Creek the next day, completely fearless, saying ‘Fuck it!’ Doing anything we felt, back flips off the rope swing, swimming fully clothed in the perfect water.
That night on UT campus with James, at the fountain, at the clock tower.
The first time I saw the Milky Way, in New Mexico.
I can’t even think of anything right now. Now I’m just starting to think of times in my life I’ve loved, which have been a lot. If this exercise hasn’t been a good writing diversion, it’s at least been a good positive light shedding microscope through which to view my life, helping me to get my head out of the cracked dirt of my negative desert, and realize that my life is teeming with magical moments. Over all, it’s pretty damn good.
All these ideas about the necessity for goals, ambitions, accomplishments are for naught if you aren’t enjoying your life. If I had to choose, completely outside of the context of societal expectations and definitions of what it means to be successful, between the chilled out life of a happy vagabond, drifting, going with the flow, creating an existence of small magical memories, and that of a ‘successful’, celebrated, decorated, accomplished, revered who ever, but missing out on all those things that make life life, I’m think I’d choose the former.
When you die, your achievements die with you. Unless you happen to be one of those people who have ineluctably altered the course of human history. Then your accomplishments get to die when a cataclysmic comet strikes the earth, wiping out any evidence that humanity ever existed. Or if not that, then when the sun blows up. It’s all for nothing when you try and envision the ‘grand scheme of things.’
All we have is our tiny mite of a life on the giant self swallowing snake of the all. We have a century if we’re lucky (or very unlucky, depending on how you look at it). We mean nothing. Your Master’s degree means nothing, your car mean nothing, your 4th grade Spelling Bee championship means nothing, your National Geographic collection means nothing, all the books you’ve read, the buildings you’ve built, the asses you’ve beaten, the clothing you’ve procured, it all means nothing. It is all transitory. The only person it matters to, is you. And the only way it really matters, is if it made you happy. If it enriched your life experience, if you get a flutter in your guts when you think back on it, if you did it because you wanted to, because you truly loved to.
Oh my god, I’m so preachy. But seriously, who am I preaching to? Myself? Well maybe I need to fucking hear it from time to time.
Maybe I’m taking things too seriously.
Who put this ‘do something with your life’ idea into my head? You can’t help but do something with your life. It doesn’t matter what it is, as long as you’re happy.
And duh! Nothing is impossible. And not like ‘you can do anything.’ Like, nothing doesn’t even exist. There is always something. And by nothing being labeled, it becomes something. It is a paradox.
We won’t get into that.
As a quick aside, Curry is the cutest thing that’s ever existed, she is laying on her back on the floor, spread eagle, vajayjay black and pointy, mouth hanging open in a maniacal dog smile, chewing on her makeshift nylon rope leash. When I peeked over the chair to see what she was doing, she just froze, eyes bulging out, and stared at me. Filarious!
Watching cheetahs run on tv is exhausting.
I’m scanning the apartment for ideas… dog? No. Rubbing alcohol? Nope. Young Frankenstein? I don’t think so. The pleasant texture of Cris’ green fleece blankey? Maybe.
The sensation of it against my skin is quite sweet and mollifying, ala softly cooed lullabies. It’s verdant chromatics urge the mind via the eye to primordial reminiscences, to a time of primary and secondary colors, to an invertebrate era of slitherings and coilings and unfurlings in the muck. The crude stitching of the hem, sewn haphazardly as though by a dilettante seamstress/er (that is funny), reminds me of my own ridiculous if endearing attempts at cut up hippy dress pillow making. Those were the days.
Good man that he is, Cris has sent along a few ideas for possible writing fodder.
One: The best moment of your life.
Two: The coolest person/place you’ve come to know.
Three: The best out of body experience you’ve had.
Four: The best dream.
*note: The syntax and abbreviated spelling oft used in text messages for space efficiency have been changed to an arrangement more suitable for prose of the Candice variety. The intended meaning remains intact.
*note: That was gay.
So let’s start with suggestion numero uno, as it instantly invokes a memory very close to my heart.
Uh, wait no.
It’s quite a task to examine the plethora of pieces that constitute the tapestry of a life, and say, ‘this is the best one.’ Good moments, bad moments, ecstatic moments, devastations are all fluid in the mind. The subjective status of an event in your mind is so based in context, of not only the situation in which it occurred, but also, and possibly more importantly, of the vantage point in time you are in your life, looking back at it. What can seem at the time to be a calamitous affair in your life, can ripple into repercussions that change your life for the better, get you out of, no matter how uncomfortably at the time, a very bad situation, teach your something that will resound resplendently throughout your life. Also, the opposite is true.
Love turning sour, even violent. Love that you discover was never love at all. A pill you popped. A risk you took. A risk you didn’t take. I don’t know.
The point is the importance of perspective. The point is a Zen koan. But I’m guessing I’m being too nit picky, and completely ignoring the obvious implication of the suggestion, which is to say, at what moment in your life were you the most awe struck by revelation, the most in love, the most in love with life, the most affected, but mostly, the happiest?
I couldn’t choose one because there is a best moment for a variety categories. I cannot choose my overall favorite. It does not exist.
So here’s a list, in no significant order:
The way my heart jumped/fluttered the first time I saw Cris, how I’d never felt that way in an instant, and now I realize that I loved him from then.
In the lake at Pace Bend, at night, the glow in the dark football, with Cris.
The lunch break on Owen’s birthday boat trip around Kho Phangnan, on that little beach, when it started to pour that frigid rain, and I went into the sea, alone, and floated.
The first time I heard Dayvan Cowboy.
Eleven years old, playing soccer in the parking lot, in the rain.
Eating at that Mexican restaurant in Renton, WA with Toni and James, and meeting that other part of me, that superior, that eternal part of me.
Spending last weekend with Cris, alone.
The night Sarah, Tiffany and I rolled, watched that miraculous sunrise by the hot tub, and went to Bull Creek the next day, completely fearless, saying ‘Fuck it!’ Doing anything we felt, back flips off the rope swing, swimming fully clothed in the perfect water.
That night on UT campus with James, at the fountain, at the clock tower.
The first time I saw the Milky Way, in New Mexico.
I can’t even think of anything right now. Now I’m just starting to think of times in my life I’ve loved, which have been a lot. If this exercise hasn’t been a good writing diversion, it’s at least been a good positive light shedding microscope through which to view my life, helping me to get my head out of the cracked dirt of my negative desert, and realize that my life is teeming with magical moments. Over all, it’s pretty damn good.
All these ideas about the necessity for goals, ambitions, accomplishments are for naught if you aren’t enjoying your life. If I had to choose, completely outside of the context of societal expectations and definitions of what it means to be successful, between the chilled out life of a happy vagabond, drifting, going with the flow, creating an existence of small magical memories, and that of a ‘successful’, celebrated, decorated, accomplished, revered who ever, but missing out on all those things that make life life, I’m think I’d choose the former.
When you die, your achievements die with you. Unless you happen to be one of those people who have ineluctably altered the course of human history. Then your accomplishments get to die when a cataclysmic comet strikes the earth, wiping out any evidence that humanity ever existed. Or if not that, then when the sun blows up. It’s all for nothing when you try and envision the ‘grand scheme of things.’
All we have is our tiny mite of a life on the giant self swallowing snake of the all. We have a century if we’re lucky (or very unlucky, depending on how you look at it). We mean nothing. Your Master’s degree means nothing, your car mean nothing, your 4th grade Spelling Bee championship means nothing, your National Geographic collection means nothing, all the books you’ve read, the buildings you’ve built, the asses you’ve beaten, the clothing you’ve procured, it all means nothing. It is all transitory. The only person it matters to, is you. And the only way it really matters, is if it made you happy. If it enriched your life experience, if you get a flutter in your guts when you think back on it, if you did it because you wanted to, because you truly loved to.
Oh my god, I’m so preachy. But seriously, who am I preaching to? Myself? Well maybe I need to fucking hear it from time to time.
Maybe I’m taking things too seriously.
Who put this ‘do something with your life’ idea into my head? You can’t help but do something with your life. It doesn’t matter what it is, as long as you’re happy.
And duh! Nothing is impossible. And not like ‘you can do anything.’ Like, nothing doesn’t even exist. There is always something. And by nothing being labeled, it becomes something. It is a paradox.
We won’t get into that.
As a quick aside, Curry is the cutest thing that’s ever existed, she is laying on her back on the floor, spread eagle, vajayjay black and pointy, mouth hanging open in a maniacal dog smile, chewing on her makeshift nylon rope leash. When I peeked over the chair to see what she was doing, she just froze, eyes bulging out, and stared at me. Filarious!
Watching cheetahs run on tv is exhausting.
Saturday, June 30
Songs by Six Fingered Men (p.s. this is serious shit)
Are there really songs that can only be played by six fingered men?
Are there really tones in a man’s voice, inaudible to the feminine ear?
Is there a yogi somewhere, naked, hidden in the frigid Himalayas, unaware of his own levitation?
The relativity of the speed of light…
The guttural utterances in a whale song, a song they will remember, always…
To love.
Is to love to sacrifice?
To admit you are smaller, less important than the love you would do anything, give up anything, understand anything for. Is that love?
I am looking at this pinky on this hand attached to this arm dangling from this body housing this soul, and I’m thinking ‘I would give this up for you. I would give it to you. It is given. It is yours.’ And I believe.
Water seven miles deep. Water so thick with itself, not even light can pass through. That’s transformation. The metamorphosis of a liquid that is solid in our mind. Things are never what they seem.
But I believe.
I was dressed in the old ways of my old days to match the old things, the feelings I used to feel which felt the same. I was walking out of a gas station, two packs of cigarettes in my hand, feeling very nihilistic indeed, but the sky stopped me, abruptly. And I would be poeticizing, but not exaggerating to say, that the luminescent polychromatic clouds unfastened themselves in the most revelatory of ways, and hidden in the darkening blue behind, God revealed its face to me. Life was. Life was so much bigger than me. And I believed.
Anne Sexton said, “Need is not quite belief.”
But belief is need. It is answered to. It is not to be reckoned with. It is to be stood in awe of. Genuflected in awe of, because it is nothing and it is everything. Because it is nothing, it is everything.
And I believed.
They say that when a suicidal resigns them self to their imminent auto-facilitated demise, a deep and complete peace over takes them, envelopes them in the pacification of a drama nearly spent. Problems disappear, because problems will soon disappear. Problems always disappear. So why can’t we live in an eternal state of pre-suicide? A state of near death? A state of impending release?
Because we are not resigned.
Are there really tones in a man’s voice, inaudible to the feminine ear?
Is there a yogi somewhere, naked, hidden in the frigid Himalayas, unaware of his own levitation?
The relativity of the speed of light…
The guttural utterances in a whale song, a song they will remember, always…
To love.
Is to love to sacrifice?
To admit you are smaller, less important than the love you would do anything, give up anything, understand anything for. Is that love?
I am looking at this pinky on this hand attached to this arm dangling from this body housing this soul, and I’m thinking ‘I would give this up for you. I would give it to you. It is given. It is yours.’ And I believe.
Water seven miles deep. Water so thick with itself, not even light can pass through. That’s transformation. The metamorphosis of a liquid that is solid in our mind. Things are never what they seem.
But I believe.
I was dressed in the old ways of my old days to match the old things, the feelings I used to feel which felt the same. I was walking out of a gas station, two packs of cigarettes in my hand, feeling very nihilistic indeed, but the sky stopped me, abruptly. And I would be poeticizing, but not exaggerating to say, that the luminescent polychromatic clouds unfastened themselves in the most revelatory of ways, and hidden in the darkening blue behind, God revealed its face to me. Life was. Life was so much bigger than me. And I believed.
Anne Sexton said, “Need is not quite belief.”
But belief is need. It is answered to. It is not to be reckoned with. It is to be stood in awe of. Genuflected in awe of, because it is nothing and it is everything. Because it is nothing, it is everything.
And I believed.
They say that when a suicidal resigns them self to their imminent auto-facilitated demise, a deep and complete peace over takes them, envelopes them in the pacification of a drama nearly spent. Problems disappear, because problems will soon disappear. Problems always disappear. So why can’t we live in an eternal state of pre-suicide? A state of near death? A state of impending release?
Because we are not resigned.
Wednesday, May 23
White Girls Can't Dance
I am fully aware, as I’m sure you also are, that when I say this, I’m lying, but I’m never drinking again.
Especially not vodka and red bull. Thank sweet baby Jesus that I was dancing around, harassing the DJ to play songs that he conveniently never got around to playing after promising me that he’d ‘make me happy’. The excuse for this abhorrent deceitfulness was that he had to play music that would ‘make white girls dance.’ I was like, ‘Yo man, I’m a white girl, and I’ve been dancing all night. Now play my motherfucking song!’ to which he responded, ‘Well, you’re different.’ And all I could say was ‘true’ since I’m a bad bitch.
But all joking aside folks, I can’t imagine why a DJ would ever want to be responsible (he’ll burn in hell) for the dancing of the majority of white girls. I’m sure that if you’ve ever been out to a club where dancing occurs, you have bore witness to the debacle that is the inebriated Caucasian female.
It’s like, suddenly they all think they’re Beyonce and start, very uncoordinatedly, gyrating around, thrusting their hips forward (ladies, we are the catchers, not the pitchers. This movement should only be done in jest) leaning back with their eyes closed in some sort of self satisfied seizure, until they nearly fall, while all the men in the club look on thinking a) why didn’t we go to a strip club? b) oh yeah, because we’re broke and wouldn’t be able to pull anyhow and c) which of these wasted rhythmless idiots am I going to help stumble to my bed, for some good, condomless fucking?
Yeah so. I’m one of the 50 white girls in the universe who is awesome at dancing.
And the moral of the story is…DJ’s everywhere should always play whatever song I request, because you don’t want white girls to dance, you want THIS white girl to dance, especially to her motherfucking song.
Okay, enough ego trip for one morning.
Especially not vodka and red bull. Thank sweet baby Jesus that I was dancing around, harassing the DJ to play songs that he conveniently never got around to playing after promising me that he’d ‘make me happy’. The excuse for this abhorrent deceitfulness was that he had to play music that would ‘make white girls dance.’ I was like, ‘Yo man, I’m a white girl, and I’ve been dancing all night. Now play my motherfucking song!’ to which he responded, ‘Well, you’re different.’ And all I could say was ‘true’ since I’m a bad bitch.
But all joking aside folks, I can’t imagine why a DJ would ever want to be responsible (he’ll burn in hell) for the dancing of the majority of white girls. I’m sure that if you’ve ever been out to a club where dancing occurs, you have bore witness to the debacle that is the inebriated Caucasian female.
It’s like, suddenly they all think they’re Beyonce and start, very uncoordinatedly, gyrating around, thrusting their hips forward (ladies, we are the catchers, not the pitchers. This movement should only be done in jest) leaning back with their eyes closed in some sort of self satisfied seizure, until they nearly fall, while all the men in the club look on thinking a) why didn’t we go to a strip club? b) oh yeah, because we’re broke and wouldn’t be able to pull anyhow and c) which of these wasted rhythmless idiots am I going to help stumble to my bed, for some good, condomless fucking?
Yeah so. I’m one of the 50 white girls in the universe who is awesome at dancing.
And the moral of the story is…DJ’s everywhere should always play whatever song I request, because you don’t want white girls to dance, you want THIS white girl to dance, especially to her motherfucking song.
Okay, enough ego trip for one morning.
Thursday, May 17
Have you ever awoken from a second hangover of the day sleeping binge, and realized that, more than anything, you need Fruit Loops?
What I’d do in this situation is drink 3 massive glasses of milk (it’s 1% and organic give me a break) and go back to sleep.
I’ve been severely under the alcoholic lake rat influence of the Tiffers lately. We recently discovered Red Bud Island, and have been taking the dog. It’s beautiful there, but somehow booze manages to sneak itself into our back pack, and forces us to smuggle its contraband ass in. If that’s not bad enough, in a ballsy yet successful move, far too much of it somehow slips unnoticed past our mouths, into our stomachs, inebriating us severely. I can assure you that, had we the resources or the wiles to catch this wicked perpetrator, we would. We’re doing our best.
Really quickly, let me demonstrate to you how drunk I was yesterday…
I did 2 back flips off the dock. Need I say more?
Yeah, so I hate vodka, have an unsatisfied Fruit Loop craving, and as I’m sure has been extremely noticed, I’ve been a super slacker about my blog. I’ll blame the last part on Drew. You mudda fucka.
Here is my confession.
I haven’t read a book since I’ve been back from my trip, which was February 3rd. I’ve begun to notice my faltering vocabulary. I am so ashamed.
On a happy note, I almost have enough money to go to England and visit Joey da Briz, first and foremost, and Martynez and B if she’ll have me since I suck at keeping up with correspondence, and maybe James and Rachel if I can make it up north to wherever they live. It’s funny, because when I’m thinking that it’ll be such a long journey to get up north, and oh geez will I be able to afford it, I always forget that England is roughly the size of Houston. That’s Filarious.
I’ll probably be going mid June. Holla! I’m not sure how long I’ll be staying. Maybe 3 weeks. Longer if I’m able to work there.
Also, on another happy note, I’ve recently come back into contact with a couple of good friends with whom I had, in one case, had a falling out with, and in the other case, just kind of let the relationship atrophy. So, amends have been, or are in the process of being made, and I think that’s just swell.
I think I have pink eye.
Here are the signs:
My eye is pink.
So don’t fuck with me or I’ll look at you. Seriously.
OMG I so totally don’t even care about writing at the moment.
What I’d do in this situation is drink 3 massive glasses of milk (it’s 1% and organic give me a break) and go back to sleep.
I’ve been severely under the alcoholic lake rat influence of the Tiffers lately. We recently discovered Red Bud Island, and have been taking the dog. It’s beautiful there, but somehow booze manages to sneak itself into our back pack, and forces us to smuggle its contraband ass in. If that’s not bad enough, in a ballsy yet successful move, far too much of it somehow slips unnoticed past our mouths, into our stomachs, inebriating us severely. I can assure you that, had we the resources or the wiles to catch this wicked perpetrator, we would. We’re doing our best.
Really quickly, let me demonstrate to you how drunk I was yesterday…
I did 2 back flips off the dock. Need I say more?
Yeah, so I hate vodka, have an unsatisfied Fruit Loop craving, and as I’m sure has been extremely noticed, I’ve been a super slacker about my blog. I’ll blame the last part on Drew. You mudda fucka.
Here is my confession.
I haven’t read a book since I’ve been back from my trip, which was February 3rd. I’ve begun to notice my faltering vocabulary. I am so ashamed.
On a happy note, I almost have enough money to go to England and visit Joey da Briz, first and foremost, and Martynez and B if she’ll have me since I suck at keeping up with correspondence, and maybe James and Rachel if I can make it up north to wherever they live. It’s funny, because when I’m thinking that it’ll be such a long journey to get up north, and oh geez will I be able to afford it, I always forget that England is roughly the size of Houston. That’s Filarious.
I’ll probably be going mid June. Holla! I’m not sure how long I’ll be staying. Maybe 3 weeks. Longer if I’m able to work there.
Also, on another happy note, I’ve recently come back into contact with a couple of good friends with whom I had, in one case, had a falling out with, and in the other case, just kind of let the relationship atrophy. So, amends have been, or are in the process of being made, and I think that’s just swell.
I think I have pink eye.
Here are the signs:
My eye is pink.
So don’t fuck with me or I’ll look at you. Seriously.
OMG I so totally don’t even care about writing at the moment.
p.s. Incomplete photo data. Sorry. Internet sucks.
Monday, May 7
The Oddest Thing
When I was driving the very long and contrastingly both harrowing and monotonous drive home from my Aunt’s house in Leander, I realized I was having some car problems. Each time I’d shift, the engine would sputter, and the car would lurch back and forth, and for some reason, my top speed was 50 mph, despite how heavily I thought I was stepping on the gas.
Now this predicament was quite grave, especially given the state I was in. I couldn’t help but to be, not necessarily unreasonably paranoid.
As I chugged along, my mind racing at the catastrophic possibilities of what could be in store for me and my defective vehicle, of what would happen to The Tiffers and me, were we to actually be stranded in BFE, with only pick up driving good ol’ boys to come to our aid, it struck me…
Every time I’m driving high, my car fucks up, starts acting all funny.
Fuck me!
Now this predicament was quite grave, especially given the state I was in. I couldn’t help but to be, not necessarily unreasonably paranoid.
As I chugged along, my mind racing at the catastrophic possibilities of what could be in store for me and my defective vehicle, of what would happen to The Tiffers and me, were we to actually be stranded in BFE, with only pick up driving good ol’ boys to come to our aid, it struck me…
Every time I’m driving high, my car fucks up, starts acting all funny.
Fuck me!
Sunday, April 29
Eeyore's 44th and it's dire repercussions
I’ve been sick all day with liquid shit, short lived and sporadic, yet severe stomach pains, body aches and a head ache. It’s been a feat for me to even get to the bathroom from my bed, and as anyone who has been to my house knows, that ain’t far.
Yesterday was Eeyore’s 44th birthday. Needless to say, plenty of weed was both smoked and eaten, loads of beer consumed, and work was skipped.
The Tiffers and I went out in our bikini tops and skirts, in an attempt to blend with the overwhelming scantily clad hippy atmosphere. Soon, said bikini tops were traded in on free abstract ‘booby paintings’. We both now know what it’s like to be a celebrity, if even only for our bared breasts.
Every couple of minutes, someone would approach us asking to take our picture, followed by at least 3 other opportunists, who had been too chicken to ask in the first place, but were inspired by the first brave stranger’s foot in the metaphorical door. Eventually it occurred to me (I am slow) that rather than asking, “Can I take your picture?” they should have been asking, “Can I take a picture of your tits so I can either a) go home and wank off to it, b) post it on my soft core porn website for a meager profit, or c) all of the above?”
But alas, no one was so forthcoming.
So Dayvan Cowboy just came on, magically, and now I’m thinking, despite today’s intensive diarrhea and friends, I probably should go to work tonight, to not only make up for the past two nights I’ve missed, but to also pay myself back for the $50 I borrowed from my savings. I hope I don’t shart on anyone.
Holy fuck the guilt is setting in.
I have to get out of here. I’m working every day from now on.
I will write during the day, obsessively check my email, exhaust the dog by taking her on some sort of walk or adventure, drink coffee, maybe bathe, and probably not clean my house.
Sounds like a plan.
OH MY GOD ADVIL WILL YOU PLEASE WORK ALREADY MY HEAD IS IMPLODING!
So The Tiffers is out with some guy named Billy who she met yesterday at Eeyore’s. He’s from either LA or NY (same dif, both initials), here for, I dunno, a Free Hugs campaign. At least that’s what he was doing when she met him.
And so, I am stuck at home, internet-less, and car-less. Also, Curry pissed on the mattress pad thing in the living room, twice, and so I am depriving her of love. Living things should not be allowed around me.
Who has a hot tub I can move into?
I’m pretty sure that, if someone were to agree to bring me food and water, I could, quite happily, live out the rest of my days soaking in one. Especially considering that I am fully comfortable stewing in a warm vat of my own piss. (Note: I will poo over the side, into a receptacle provided by the owner of the hot tub. Or not. Whatever floats your boat.)
Okay I had a rest, and DanActive, and there’re some tasty and nutritious Ramen noodles cooking up on the stove. I am brand new! Can life possibly get any better?
Question: Why does my stolen internet no longer work, ever?
Question 2: Why am I sweating like a Jew in Germany?
Question 3: Was that offensive?
Question 4: Do I give a fuck?
I guess that if you like me, you have to learn to embrace my more unpalatable qualities, such as indiscriminate bigotry (oxymoron), a grievous hated for children, and a complete lack of manners or courtesy regarding my nauseating flatulence.
Also, the endless discussion of shit.
But trust son, trust, the rewards are totally worth whatever trauma you might endure.
Por Exemplo: I often make up really hilarious lyrics, inspired by what ever I happen to be doing at the moment, or poo. That is entertaining. I’ll probably never ask you to borrow money. Also, I’m always willing to help you out in whatever way you need/I can, providing it’s convenient for me. I’m a true giver. And lastly, but not leastly, I know the difference between ‘your’ and ‘you’re’, ‘to’ ‘too’ and ‘two’, and also ‘there’ ‘their’ and ‘they’re’. In my book, that is a priceless quality.
Now the decision is in your hands, and I’m sure that, despite any of the many racist jokes I tell or laugh at, you’ll follow the lead of 97% of Earth’s population, make the right decision, and choose to adore me. (It’s hardly avoidable. The other 3% consist entirely of retards and pedophiles. You don’t really want to join up with that lot, now do you?)
Ramen noodles are soooo good! I already feel a fresh shart coming on! Thank you Asia!
Yesterday was Eeyore’s 44th birthday. Needless to say, plenty of weed was both smoked and eaten, loads of beer consumed, and work was skipped.
The Tiffers and I went out in our bikini tops and skirts, in an attempt to blend with the overwhelming scantily clad hippy atmosphere. Soon, said bikini tops were traded in on free abstract ‘booby paintings’. We both now know what it’s like to be a celebrity, if even only for our bared breasts.
Every couple of minutes, someone would approach us asking to take our picture, followed by at least 3 other opportunists, who had been too chicken to ask in the first place, but were inspired by the first brave stranger’s foot in the metaphorical door. Eventually it occurred to me (I am slow) that rather than asking, “Can I take your picture?” they should have been asking, “Can I take a picture of your tits so I can either a) go home and wank off to it, b) post it on my soft core porn website for a meager profit, or c) all of the above?”
But alas, no one was so forthcoming.
So Dayvan Cowboy just came on, magically, and now I’m thinking, despite today’s intensive diarrhea and friends, I probably should go to work tonight, to not only make up for the past two nights I’ve missed, but to also pay myself back for the $50 I borrowed from my savings. I hope I don’t shart on anyone.
Holy fuck the guilt is setting in.
I have to get out of here. I’m working every day from now on.
I will write during the day, obsessively check my email, exhaust the dog by taking her on some sort of walk or adventure, drink coffee, maybe bathe, and probably not clean my house.
Sounds like a plan.
OH MY GOD ADVIL WILL YOU PLEASE WORK ALREADY MY HEAD IS IMPLODING!
So The Tiffers is out with some guy named Billy who she met yesterday at Eeyore’s. He’s from either LA or NY (same dif, both initials), here for, I dunno, a Free Hugs campaign. At least that’s what he was doing when she met him.
And so, I am stuck at home, internet-less, and car-less. Also, Curry pissed on the mattress pad thing in the living room, twice, and so I am depriving her of love. Living things should not be allowed around me.
Who has a hot tub I can move into?
I’m pretty sure that, if someone were to agree to bring me food and water, I could, quite happily, live out the rest of my days soaking in one. Especially considering that I am fully comfortable stewing in a warm vat of my own piss. (Note: I will poo over the side, into a receptacle provided by the owner of the hot tub. Or not. Whatever floats your boat.)
Okay I had a rest, and DanActive, and there’re some tasty and nutritious Ramen noodles cooking up on the stove. I am brand new! Can life possibly get any better?
Question: Why does my stolen internet no longer work, ever?
Question 2: Why am I sweating like a Jew in Germany?
Question 3: Was that offensive?
Question 4: Do I give a fuck?
I guess that if you like me, you have to learn to embrace my more unpalatable qualities, such as indiscriminate bigotry (oxymoron), a grievous hated for children, and a complete lack of manners or courtesy regarding my nauseating flatulence.
Also, the endless discussion of shit.
But trust son, trust, the rewards are totally worth whatever trauma you might endure.
Por Exemplo: I often make up really hilarious lyrics, inspired by what ever I happen to be doing at the moment, or poo. That is entertaining. I’ll probably never ask you to borrow money. Also, I’m always willing to help you out in whatever way you need/I can, providing it’s convenient for me. I’m a true giver. And lastly, but not leastly, I know the difference between ‘your’ and ‘you’re’, ‘to’ ‘too’ and ‘two’, and also ‘there’ ‘their’ and ‘they’re’. In my book, that is a priceless quality.
Now the decision is in your hands, and I’m sure that, despite any of the many racist jokes I tell or laugh at, you’ll follow the lead of 97% of Earth’s population, make the right decision, and choose to adore me. (It’s hardly avoidable. The other 3% consist entirely of retards and pedophiles. You don’t really want to join up with that lot, now do you?)
Ramen noodles are soooo good! I already feel a fresh shart coming on! Thank you Asia!
Saturday, April 28
Soon I'll be getting my camera. Begin the festivities!
I’m wondering, do rappers write their lyrics on a laptop, or by hand on envelopes, ala 8-Mile?
So far, the two uni-verse (heh), chorus-less rap songs I’ve written, have been by hand, in sharp black ink from a felt tip pen, in the saddest excuse for an educated adult’s penmanship possible. If you are a/know any rappers, please enlighten me.
Well, one thought leads to another, as thoughts are wont to do, and now I’m sitting here, wondering if all song writers write their lyrics on their laptops. P.s. or desk tops, I’m not one to discriminate. Either way, if it is true that most do, or even some, I feel, for no logical reason, that it takes away some of the romanticism of the musical process.
But I’m a hypocrite, since, although I’m not writing lyrics at present, I am writing something on my laptop.
Topic change.
How am I going to go to work tonight? I am on the verge of suicide (joking, but seriously) and I did 100 lunges and this must be PMS because right now I’m not feeling motivated by either England or a small Peruvian man in a colorful woven poncho, what is wrong with me?
I like to write about completely esoteric things. Things which only I, and a maximum of one other person can understand.
(Completely esoteric paragraph removed for content. Not quite esoteric enough.)
Why do I need a Snicker’s so severely at this moment? I mean, I would probably kill you for one. But then I get to thinking about my 100 lunges and the futility of all that suffering if I succumb to the Snicker’s siren. Fuck you and your candy bar! I’ll kill you for tempting me. You want me to get fat!
Have I mentioned today that I love corn tortillas? It has been proven scientifically * that if you prefer flour tortillas to corn, you will burn in hell eternally.
*See July 1998 issue of Scientific Mexican-Catholic
Jesus (Hey Zeus) Christos, I am Filarious. Time to treat myself with another tortilla of the corn variety. Maybe I’ll throw in a little partially hydrogenated artery clogging butter substitute and some texturally pleasing heart of iceberg lettuce (I can see James cringing now) for posterity.
I’ve discovered that I can effectively stave off my tendencies toward self annihilation by writing constantly. And when I say constantly, I mean with breaks for corn tortilla eating, of course.
If you have a vagina and functioning ovaries, you know what I mean.
And when I say you know what I mean, I’m referring to self/other than self destructive inclinations. Like every thought is wretched and leads to another thought, at least equally as wretched, and they all connect together like a web with a giant frothing demon spider sitting smumpously in the center, or the circle of life from the Lion King, only really extremely sucky. Also, you want everyone to die. And you want Snicker’s. And, oddly enough, some cock, really, really, really friggin’ badly.
So this is my present state, and I’m supposed to go and make $300 tonight. I can do it. I’m a big brave dog.
If I make $300 tonight, then I’ll have $500 for England, and if my calculations are accurate, that’s roughly ¼ of what I need.
You couldn’t be a better playa than me, even if you fucked everyday of the week.
Holla!
Suddenly I’m feeling inspired. Like, ‘yeah, hello, I am a playa, and a skilled pimp to boot. Life is better than it was 1 minute ago.’
Also, I’ve quit my job at Embassy Suites. They don’t know it yet, but they will when I don’t show up ever again. The only thing I worry about is how I’m going to get my phat paycheck (I’m only half joking) and retain an iota of my dignity. Fucking hell, I should have left that note yesterday.
The thing about real jobs that I just can’t manage to wrap my superior and quite capable mind around is the whole giving a fuck thing. People there actually give a fuck about whether the salt and pepper shakers were collected from the tables the night before, or if you’re wearing 5 non-functioning wrist watches. They care enough to work 1 million (70) hours a week. Okay people, it’s a hotel, it doesn’t fucking matter, why don’t you go and do some soul searching and find something real to do with your life, instead of worrying whether I’m delivering food to a table in the manner you prefer. Go on a spirit vision quest or save some leatherback turtles for fucks sake. No body should care about what some sauced up douche bag business travelers think about their place settings, or whether there are 30 sets of rolled silverware at any given time.
Oh my god I think the mind numbing ‘dumb’ infection I got from that job is actually starting to clear up.
Writing, you are my penicillin and my probiotic.
So far, the two uni-verse (heh), chorus-less rap songs I’ve written, have been by hand, in sharp black ink from a felt tip pen, in the saddest excuse for an educated adult’s penmanship possible. If you are a/know any rappers, please enlighten me.
Well, one thought leads to another, as thoughts are wont to do, and now I’m sitting here, wondering if all song writers write their lyrics on their laptops. P.s. or desk tops, I’m not one to discriminate. Either way, if it is true that most do, or even some, I feel, for no logical reason, that it takes away some of the romanticism of the musical process.
But I’m a hypocrite, since, although I’m not writing lyrics at present, I am writing something on my laptop.
Topic change.
How am I going to go to work tonight? I am on the verge of suicide (joking, but seriously) and I did 100 lunges and this must be PMS because right now I’m not feeling motivated by either England or a small Peruvian man in a colorful woven poncho, what is wrong with me?
I like to write about completely esoteric things. Things which only I, and a maximum of one other person can understand.
(Completely esoteric paragraph removed for content. Not quite esoteric enough.)
Why do I need a Snicker’s so severely at this moment? I mean, I would probably kill you for one. But then I get to thinking about my 100 lunges and the futility of all that suffering if I succumb to the Snicker’s siren. Fuck you and your candy bar! I’ll kill you for tempting me. You want me to get fat!
Have I mentioned today that I love corn tortillas? It has been proven scientifically * that if you prefer flour tortillas to corn, you will burn in hell eternally.
*See July 1998 issue of Scientific Mexican-Catholic
Jesus (Hey Zeus) Christos, I am Filarious. Time to treat myself with another tortilla of the corn variety. Maybe I’ll throw in a little partially hydrogenated artery clogging butter substitute and some texturally pleasing heart of iceberg lettuce (I can see James cringing now) for posterity.
I’ve discovered that I can effectively stave off my tendencies toward self annihilation by writing constantly. And when I say constantly, I mean with breaks for corn tortilla eating, of course.
If you have a vagina and functioning ovaries, you know what I mean.
And when I say you know what I mean, I’m referring to self/other than self destructive inclinations. Like every thought is wretched and leads to another thought, at least equally as wretched, and they all connect together like a web with a giant frothing demon spider sitting smumpously in the center, or the circle of life from the Lion King, only really extremely sucky. Also, you want everyone to die. And you want Snicker’s. And, oddly enough, some cock, really, really, really friggin’ badly.
So this is my present state, and I’m supposed to go and make $300 tonight. I can do it. I’m a big brave dog.
If I make $300 tonight, then I’ll have $500 for England, and if my calculations are accurate, that’s roughly ¼ of what I need.
You couldn’t be a better playa than me, even if you fucked everyday of the week.
Holla!
Suddenly I’m feeling inspired. Like, ‘yeah, hello, I am a playa, and a skilled pimp to boot. Life is better than it was 1 minute ago.’
Also, I’ve quit my job at Embassy Suites. They don’t know it yet, but they will when I don’t show up ever again. The only thing I worry about is how I’m going to get my phat paycheck (I’m only half joking) and retain an iota of my dignity. Fucking hell, I should have left that note yesterday.
The thing about real jobs that I just can’t manage to wrap my superior and quite capable mind around is the whole giving a fuck thing. People there actually give a fuck about whether the salt and pepper shakers were collected from the tables the night before, or if you’re wearing 5 non-functioning wrist watches. They care enough to work 1 million (70) hours a week. Okay people, it’s a hotel, it doesn’t fucking matter, why don’t you go and do some soul searching and find something real to do with your life, instead of worrying whether I’m delivering food to a table in the manner you prefer. Go on a spirit vision quest or save some leatherback turtles for fucks sake. No body should care about what some sauced up douche bag business travelers think about their place settings, or whether there are 30 sets of rolled silverware at any given time.
Oh my god I think the mind numbing ‘dumb’ infection I got from that job is actually starting to clear up.
Writing, you are my penicillin and my probiotic.
Friday, April 27
Compulsive Eaters Anonymous (Your secret's safe with us.)
In my post work, residue of smoke and sexual frustration removing shower last night, I accidentally washed all of the jotted ideas from my left hand on purpose. I just wanted to be clean of it all, but as a result, I’ve left myself orphaned to the Siberian wasteland of early morning idea desolation.
Don’t worry, I’ve devised a plan:
Since in the last two days, I’ve become inordinately fond of bullet points, here’s is a list of what I’m pretty sure was on my hand.
-Heart of Darkness (Wanna read it.)
-Something Wicked This Way Comes (Ditto.)
-Raunchy (this was a t-shirt idea, contrived while high and drunk. While I do believe that this word is highly under used, as a t-shirt slogan, on second thought, I reckon it falls into the annoyingly sassy “Brat/My boyfriend won’t care because he won’t know” classification of shirts worn by early adolescent girls who, despite any legal repercussions, you’d cream your pants to punch in the face.)
-Robo Man (This was another high/drunk thing, which I don’t recall the context of, so it was probably also a t-shirt idea. I am basically just a walking well of, mostly retarded, unmade t-shirts.)
-Little Monsters (Have you seen this fucking movie!?! I haven’t since I was roughly, I dunno, 10, maybe 12, but T-rust me, I do intend to see it again, and soon. Here’s a brief refresher: Monster world under bed, protagonist is taken into it, deceived into believing that it’s nice there, antagonist turns out to be bad (duh) with ill intent toward the protagonist. Good shit. Trust son, trust.)
That’s it. Maybe I’ll turn this into a blog composed entirely of bullet points listing words scribbled on my hand.
I know you just wet your panties.
Don’t be ashamed. So did I.
p.s. The bullets did not translate from Word. That, combined with me being too lazy to want to retype everything again, equals dashes instead of the bullets I profess to love so much.
I haven’t really written in about 2 weeks or maybe more (fuck you Embassy Suites) and now I suck at it, I’m going to put my head in an oven.
Wednesday, April 25
I am so fired
Oh my Holy Bejeezus I am such a loser since I haven't written anything in infinity years.
It looks like I'm going to have to bring you all up to date with only the most essential of anecdotes and facteloids.
It looks like I'm going to have to bring you all up to date with only the most essential of anecdotes and facteloids.
- Right now I'm at Kerbey Lane, post breakfast, and need I mention, post coffee. A few minutes ago I had to go and drop my customary coffee induced deuce, and would you believe, one of the two stalls in the ladies room in this shithole is 'Out of Service', so I was forced to perform a veritable symphony of flatulation and splashes for the next restroom patron, who was kind enough to wait, very quietly, just outside the stall door. Whilst in this situation, I was faced with a dilemma of cosmic proportions. Do I go ahead and do the, trust me, very necessary courtesy flush, and give myself away, or do I fore go the courtesy flush, and pollute the restroom with my noxious shit vapors, and give myself away? I'm sure you're quivering with anticipation to know which I chose, which I'll tell you right now, was the former. Trust me, it was the most altruistic option. I was not finished.
- Goddammit what the fuck am I talking about?
- I went to New York, lost my luggage on the way there, was stuck with only highwater jammy jews to wear, became deathly ill (i exaggerate), and had to spend the night in the Atlanta airport, coughing and sweating on everyone, due to weather delays (what the fuck is a Northeaster, holy mary mother of god, I'm from Texas for fucks sake). Needless to say the trip was a success. Seriously, it was great. Seriously. Le sigh. Shout out to Joey da Briz.
- I just had an acid flashback.
- I am gay for doing a shout out. Literally homosexual.
- I am a bargain hunting expert, since I got tennies (orange and blue awesomeness), 6 t-shirts, and a belt, all for $9.20. Genuflect at my perfectly formed feet.
Okay, I also have a blog entry which I wrote on the airplane to Cleveland, sitting safely and patiently in my very attractive journal which I made, but I am too lazy to do all dat bull shit.
So now I may go home and brush my teeth.
I am disgusting.
Monday, April 9
I’m finding that already, the mind numbing repetitiveness of the ‘normal’ working world, is affecting the tenacity of my neural connections.
Since I’ve started my new job(s), about the only sentences I can think in, are in question form, and they all invariably have to do with the retrieval of a food or beverage for some ‘guest’ or another.
Here are fabricated conversations to demonstrate my current predicament:
The Tiffers: “I’m hungry. What do you want to do for food?”
Me: “Well, the steak is very delicious, but my personal favorite is the smothered chicken.”
or
Ba-rett: “Come over to watch The Office. I’m making sushi.”
Me: “Well, would you like to start off with a cocktail, or maybe a coffee?”
or
Cashier at the Chinese people store down the street: “Your change is $1.68.”
Me: “That’s it!?! You greedy cunt! What did you want me to do for you? Suck your cock? Look, why don’t you just keep this… obviously you need it more than I do?”
Cashier at the Chinese people store down the street: :::looking quite perplexed::: “what the…”
So I’ve decided that I need to be more efficient in spare time usage, in order to counter the intelligence eliminating effects of the service industry. I’ll probably start reading philosophy or something.
Don’t worry, I won’t talk about it. Except to Martynez. I know how much he enjoys that.
I wrote everything prior to this as a prologue to what follows:
My brain is stupid.
One funny thing. I met Ba-rett and his sister Lauren at the Elephant Room a few nights ago for audio/visual jazz observation and beer enjoyment. Some how, as always seems to happen in jazz bars, the movie Spaceballs came up.
Turns out, it’s an old favorite of both Ba-rett’s and mine. We were rehashing over some of our favorite parts, which means, since I’m have an abnormally deplorable ability for movie line retention, even for a girl, I was basically listening to Ba-rett, saying, ‘OH YEAH!’ and laughing. But that’s beside the point.
The point is, one line we (he) remembered was when Dark Helmet says, “Evil will always win, because good is dumb.”
That’s hilarious. I’ll probably be getting it tattooed on my rippling bicep, just under the picture of Rick Moranis’ glasses laden face I had copied from the ‘Honey, I Shrunk The Kids!’ VHS cover, a couple years back.
I have a period pimple on my right cheek which is changing the landscape of my face, so now I have one really high and distinguished cheek bone. You are halfway jealous.
Also, I now have a 9 week old puppy named Curry, who is part Chow and part mutt, and also a spaz. She is being crazy in my house and she wants to bite everything, including me, all the time, puppies are stupid. I would post pictures of her, but I don’t have a camera or money anymore, so c’est la vie, and it sucks, sometimes. Just trust me, she is the cutest puppy that’s ever existed.
Ugh, it’s freezing and rainy and it’s April. What the fuck, is this England or something?
Note: To any English readers, sorry but your country is known to be cold and rainy. We know that this is the reason that, in general, despite their more serious dispositions, English people are more smarter-er than Americans. You have more time for reading by fires and drinking tea.
(See how dumb my brain is since I’m both a server and an American? I said ‘more smarter-er’. Case closed.)
OH MY HOLY FUCKING HELL! ICE IS FALLING FROM THE SKY AND LANDING ON A VARIETY OF THINGS IN, NOT ONLY MY YARD, BUT ALSO OTHER PEOPLES, AND IT’S MAKING NOISES! ARMAGEDDON!
Either that or sleet.
Must I repeat, it is April. What the fuck?
It’s been in the 90’s in January here before. This is wack yo!
p.s. I’m sick and I’m pretty sure it’s either typhoid or strep throat or the weather, but my neck is hot and my throat hurts so much that every time I swallow, it’s an event. I’d like to add here that Chloraseptic is DA MAN! I probably need to sleep.
Since I’ve started my new job(s), about the only sentences I can think in, are in question form, and they all invariably have to do with the retrieval of a food or beverage for some ‘guest’ or another.
Here are fabricated conversations to demonstrate my current predicament:
The Tiffers: “I’m hungry. What do you want to do for food?”
Me: “Well, the steak is very delicious, but my personal favorite is the smothered chicken.”
or
Ba-rett: “Come over to watch The Office. I’m making sushi.”
Me: “Well, would you like to start off with a cocktail, or maybe a coffee?”
or
Cashier at the Chinese people store down the street: “Your change is $1.68.”
Me: “That’s it!?! You greedy cunt! What did you want me to do for you? Suck your cock? Look, why don’t you just keep this… obviously you need it more than I do?”
Cashier at the Chinese people store down the street: :::looking quite perplexed::: “what the…”
So I’ve decided that I need to be more efficient in spare time usage, in order to counter the intelligence eliminating effects of the service industry. I’ll probably start reading philosophy or something.
Don’t worry, I won’t talk about it. Except to Martynez. I know how much he enjoys that.
I wrote everything prior to this as a prologue to what follows:
My brain is stupid.
One funny thing. I met Ba-rett and his sister Lauren at the Elephant Room a few nights ago for audio/visual jazz observation and beer enjoyment. Some how, as always seems to happen in jazz bars, the movie Spaceballs came up.
Turns out, it’s an old favorite of both Ba-rett’s and mine. We were rehashing over some of our favorite parts, which means, since I’m have an abnormally deplorable ability for movie line retention, even for a girl, I was basically listening to Ba-rett, saying, ‘OH YEAH!’ and laughing. But that’s beside the point.
The point is, one line we (he) remembered was when Dark Helmet says, “Evil will always win, because good is dumb.”
That’s hilarious. I’ll probably be getting it tattooed on my rippling bicep, just under the picture of Rick Moranis’ glasses laden face I had copied from the ‘Honey, I Shrunk The Kids!’ VHS cover, a couple years back.
I have a period pimple on my right cheek which is changing the landscape of my face, so now I have one really high and distinguished cheek bone. You are halfway jealous.
Also, I now have a 9 week old puppy named Curry, who is part Chow and part mutt, and also a spaz. She is being crazy in my house and she wants to bite everything, including me, all the time, puppies are stupid. I would post pictures of her, but I don’t have a camera or money anymore, so c’est la vie, and it sucks, sometimes. Just trust me, she is the cutest puppy that’s ever existed.
Ugh, it’s freezing and rainy and it’s April. What the fuck, is this England or something?
Note: To any English readers, sorry but your country is known to be cold and rainy. We know that this is the reason that, in general, despite their more serious dispositions, English people are more smarter-er than Americans. You have more time for reading by fires and drinking tea.
(See how dumb my brain is since I’m both a server and an American? I said ‘more smarter-er’. Case closed.)
OH MY HOLY FUCKING HELL! ICE IS FALLING FROM THE SKY AND LANDING ON A VARIETY OF THINGS IN, NOT ONLY MY YARD, BUT ALSO OTHER PEOPLES, AND IT’S MAKING NOISES! ARMAGEDDON!
Either that or sleet.
Must I repeat, it is April. What the fuck?
It’s been in the 90’s in January here before. This is wack yo!
p.s. I’m sick and I’m pretty sure it’s either typhoid or strep throat or the weather, but my neck is hot and my throat hurts so much that every time I swallow, it’s an event. I’d like to add here that Chloraseptic is DA MAN! I probably need to sleep.
Wednesday, April 4
it's a ginger bread MAN you cunt
So I’m pretty much the most productive person in the world.
I did indeed get a job which I’m going to start in about an hour. I’m studying algebra so I can spend less money at school than I have to on topics unrelated to my area of study. I acquired the new Air album, Pocket Symphony (Thanks Ba-rett), which I’ve been dutifully, and happily listening to for the past couple of hours.
Yesterday was my Auntie and Uncle’s 20th anniversary. To celebrate, the Tiffers and I drove out to Leander (a.k.a. BFE) baring gifts of Elgin Sausage and flowers, and were very helpful and productive, punctuated with country music video watching (you suck Auntie!) and napping.
Diverging from the normal cooking, followed by gorging, followed by ‘vegetating in front of the boob tube’ (thank you Grandma for that delightful phrase), we had a lovely interactive evening of decorating the porch with borrowed Christmas lights, cooking up a ‘real nice’ Southern style BBQ feast, feasting on said feast, all topped off with a delectable (if I do say so myself) tres leches made by moi.
Also, my sister Melody, with whom I haven’t seen or spoken to in at least 6 months, was there, and we had a nice catching up time, and the exchange was equal and riveting, we are both very awesome in our lives as different as they are, and she was lovely, and I helped her very nominally on her English paper. Like always, we reminisced about the good old days.
And when I say the good old days, I mean the days of our adolescence when Mel would revel in torturing me in a variety of minor yet effective ways.
Por exemplo: Imagine a baby pink, satin hemmed, fuzzy blanket, under which you have slept since near infancy.
Imagine you are 13, and very interested in only yourself, writing depressed, pre-suicide/obsessed with Craig teenager poetry, and reading.
Imagine you have a sister, a mere month and two days younger than you, who is completely intolerant of your need for solitude and the pursuance of the arts, who needs attention in order to cope with the boredom of your home life situation.
What do you think follows?
Right you are. Your sister pulls tic tac size pieces of your baby pink fuzzy blanket, balls them up, sticks them, one at a time into her nostril, plugs the other nostril, and pushes her air out with such force in your direction, that the snot contaminated fuzz ball has no choice but to land somewhere on your person.
Now imagine this happening daily, multiple times, and then congratulate me on how well adjusted I am, considering.
Exemplo numero dos: Let me begin by enlightening you with some vital info about me of which you were probably unaware; I cannnot poo unless I am reading something. I will not. Even if I'm touching cloth, having to employ every gluteal muscle in order to stave off immediate pooing, I will, until I have something in my hands to read.
Sometimes this presents problems, like at restaurants or in public restrooms in general (I can't tell you how many times I've read my voter registration card, even the parts in Spanish), but I usually suss something out, even if it means resorting to counting bathroom floor tiles.
That said...
This has been going on for my entire literate life. So again, imagine you are 13, and you've just spent 45 minutes, post-defecation, unwiped and on the toilet, reading (or rereading, I should say) The Far Side Gallery 3.
Imagine that, true to form, sitting for an extended period on the blood-circulation-hindering toilet seat has, once again, rendered your legs asleep and useless. You know that as soon as you make any attempts at movement, you will be incapacitated with pins and needles, shooting and tingling throughout both of your legs.
What do you do? WHAT DO YOU DO?
You run to your bed as quickly as humanly possible, lie as still as humanly possible, and tell your meddling sister as sternly as humanly possible (considering your current predicament) that if she touches/moves you or the bed, she will suffer the consequences. The keyword being 'suffer'.
But both of you know, and acknowledge with a shared look, that you are in no position to 'administer justice'.
So in another attention getting attempt, your sister does what any turd of a sibling would do, which is to repeatedly poke your legs, whilst laughing maniacally.
I just have to say, it's not only a miracle I survived, it's a miracle I'm able to consort with this monster of a woman, and reminisce, in good humour, about those darkest of days.
So, I'm a Quack's right now, and I just eavesdropped something which I absolutely HAVE to share.
A woman, picking out baked goods with her kids, just called a ginger bread man, a GINGER BREAD PERSON!.............. TWICE!!!!!
THIS WAS CONSCIOUSLY DONE!
OH MY HOLY FUCKING GOD WHAT HAS THIS WORLD COME TO WHEN YOU THINK CHILDREN'S PERCEPTION OF GENDER EQUALITY WILL BE DAMAGED BY CALLING A 'GINGER BREAD MAN' A 'GINGER BREAD MAN'? I WANT TO VOMIT, I'M ACTUALLY DRY HEAVING, I'M SO SICK WITH POLITICAL CORRECTNESS INFECTION I THINK I'M LITERALLY GOING TO DIE! I WANT TO GO PUNCH THAT HO IN THE HEAD UNTIL SHE SCREAMS FUCK AND CUNT AND BITCH AND OTHER GENDER OFFENDING SLURS!
So fucking gay, I swear to god.
There are probably about 17 total minutes in any given year when I regret living in Austin. This took up about 3 of my annual allotment. The other 14 or so are usually reserved for August, and have to do with my cars a/c not working.
I did indeed get a job which I’m going to start in about an hour. I’m studying algebra so I can spend less money at school than I have to on topics unrelated to my area of study. I acquired the new Air album, Pocket Symphony (Thanks Ba-rett), which I’ve been dutifully, and happily listening to for the past couple of hours.
Yesterday was my Auntie and Uncle’s 20th anniversary. To celebrate, the Tiffers and I drove out to Leander (a.k.a. BFE) baring gifts of Elgin Sausage and flowers, and were very helpful and productive, punctuated with country music video watching (you suck Auntie!) and napping.
Diverging from the normal cooking, followed by gorging, followed by ‘vegetating in front of the boob tube’ (thank you Grandma for that delightful phrase), we had a lovely interactive evening of decorating the porch with borrowed Christmas lights, cooking up a ‘real nice’ Southern style BBQ feast, feasting on said feast, all topped off with a delectable (if I do say so myself) tres leches made by moi.
Also, my sister Melody, with whom I haven’t seen or spoken to in at least 6 months, was there, and we had a nice catching up time, and the exchange was equal and riveting, we are both very awesome in our lives as different as they are, and she was lovely, and I helped her very nominally on her English paper. Like always, we reminisced about the good old days.
And when I say the good old days, I mean the days of our adolescence when Mel would revel in torturing me in a variety of minor yet effective ways.
Por exemplo: Imagine a baby pink, satin hemmed, fuzzy blanket, under which you have slept since near infancy.
Imagine you are 13, and very interested in only yourself, writing depressed, pre-suicide/obsessed with Craig teenager poetry, and reading.
Imagine you have a sister, a mere month and two days younger than you, who is completely intolerant of your need for solitude and the pursuance of the arts, who needs attention in order to cope with the boredom of your home life situation.
What do you think follows?
Right you are. Your sister pulls tic tac size pieces of your baby pink fuzzy blanket, balls them up, sticks them, one at a time into her nostril, plugs the other nostril, and pushes her air out with such force in your direction, that the snot contaminated fuzz ball has no choice but to land somewhere on your person.
Now imagine this happening daily, multiple times, and then congratulate me on how well adjusted I am, considering.
Exemplo numero dos: Let me begin by enlightening you with some vital info about me of which you were probably unaware; I cannnot poo unless I am reading something. I will not. Even if I'm touching cloth, having to employ every gluteal muscle in order to stave off immediate pooing, I will, until I have something in my hands to read.
Sometimes this presents problems, like at restaurants or in public restrooms in general (I can't tell you how many times I've read my voter registration card, even the parts in Spanish), but I usually suss something out, even if it means resorting to counting bathroom floor tiles.
That said...
This has been going on for my entire literate life. So again, imagine you are 13, and you've just spent 45 minutes, post-defecation, unwiped and on the toilet, reading (or rereading, I should say) The Far Side Gallery 3.
Imagine that, true to form, sitting for an extended period on the blood-circulation-hindering toilet seat has, once again, rendered your legs asleep and useless. You know that as soon as you make any attempts at movement, you will be incapacitated with pins and needles, shooting and tingling throughout both of your legs.
What do you do? WHAT DO YOU DO?
You run to your bed as quickly as humanly possible, lie as still as humanly possible, and tell your meddling sister as sternly as humanly possible (considering your current predicament) that if she touches/moves you or the bed, she will suffer the consequences. The keyword being 'suffer'.
But both of you know, and acknowledge with a shared look, that you are in no position to 'administer justice'.
So in another attention getting attempt, your sister does what any turd of a sibling would do, which is to repeatedly poke your legs, whilst laughing maniacally.
I just have to say, it's not only a miracle I survived, it's a miracle I'm able to consort with this monster of a woman, and reminisce, in good humour, about those darkest of days.
So, I'm a Quack's right now, and I just eavesdropped something which I absolutely HAVE to share.
A woman, picking out baked goods with her kids, just called a ginger bread man, a GINGER BREAD PERSON!.............. TWICE!!!!!
THIS WAS CONSCIOUSLY DONE!
OH MY HOLY FUCKING GOD WHAT HAS THIS WORLD COME TO WHEN YOU THINK CHILDREN'S PERCEPTION OF GENDER EQUALITY WILL BE DAMAGED BY CALLING A 'GINGER BREAD MAN' A 'GINGER BREAD MAN'? I WANT TO VOMIT, I'M ACTUALLY DRY HEAVING, I'M SO SICK WITH POLITICAL CORRECTNESS INFECTION I THINK I'M LITERALLY GOING TO DIE! I WANT TO GO PUNCH THAT HO IN THE HEAD UNTIL SHE SCREAMS FUCK AND CUNT AND BITCH AND OTHER GENDER OFFENDING SLURS!
So fucking gay, I swear to god.
There are probably about 17 total minutes in any given year when I regret living in Austin. This took up about 3 of my annual allotment. The other 14 or so are usually reserved for August, and have to do with my cars a/c not working.
Of the Gummy Bear debacle
If you eat one red and one green gummy bear, simultaneously, it is an oral-gasm. I’ve just considered the possibility of eating two reds and two greens at the same time, and while as far as proportions go, this still works, I think the achievement of oral-gasm would be impeded by the difficulty of mastication. The effort is too distracting. The out come of any numbers higher than this is too obvious for me to even bother describing.
By the time I’m done writing this entry, I will have officially polished off an entire 5 oz., 3 serving, 450 calorie bag of Haribo Gold-Bears gummy candy. That is, within a 4 hour period.
p.s. Yellow gummy bears are gross. They taste like lemon fresh floor cleaner but I ate them anyway since I am a glutton.
A bit ago, I had a midday nap dream about saltwater taffy, and when I woke up, I knew I had to have gummy bears. So, I actually got up, and walked all the way (3 ½ blocks) to Walgreens to procure some.
Not only was the sating of the craving everything I had imagined it to be, but I got a free, bonus jaw muscle, iron pumping session. I’m gonna be so ripped up!
I was just thinking, and this is important…if I were drinking a refreshing and tasty cold beverage of the flavored-with-packaged-powder variety, and it was really delicious, and my thirst was very quenched by it and I was invigorated, and then someone tells me that instead of mixing the powder with water, they has mixed it with piss and added ice, I don’t think I’d be mad. I don’t even think I’d stop drinking it. (Note: please don’t ever do this.)
In the previous paragraph I was demonstrating how laid back and carefree I am, and also how I’m funny and don’t hold grudges longer than my inebriation lasts, and I always let things go after I’ve scratched the shit out of your drivers side door with my key, consequently stabbing myself under the fingernail with a chip of said paint. p.s. it really hurts when that happens.
As that old guy said in Way of the Gun, “Karma’s only justice without the satisfaction.”
The message there is, don’t just sit around and wait for some one or something, i.e. the cosmos, to take care of your shit for you. You have to be proactive in your approach. So get off your ass and go, in the words of my buddy Martynez, ‘administer some justice.”
Eating so many gummy bears made my tummy yucky. I feel vomity.
By the time I’m done writing this entry, I will have officially polished off an entire 5 oz., 3 serving, 450 calorie bag of Haribo Gold-Bears gummy candy. That is, within a 4 hour period.
p.s. Yellow gummy bears are gross. They taste like lemon fresh floor cleaner but I ate them anyway since I am a glutton.
A bit ago, I had a midday nap dream about saltwater taffy, and when I woke up, I knew I had to have gummy bears. So, I actually got up, and walked all the way (3 ½ blocks) to Walgreens to procure some.
Not only was the sating of the craving everything I had imagined it to be, but I got a free, bonus jaw muscle, iron pumping session. I’m gonna be so ripped up!
I was just thinking, and this is important…if I were drinking a refreshing and tasty cold beverage of the flavored-with-packaged-powder variety, and it was really delicious, and my thirst was very quenched by it and I was invigorated, and then someone tells me that instead of mixing the powder with water, they has mixed it with piss and added ice, I don’t think I’d be mad. I don’t even think I’d stop drinking it. (Note: please don’t ever do this.)
In the previous paragraph I was demonstrating how laid back and carefree I am, and also how I’m funny and don’t hold grudges longer than my inebriation lasts, and I always let things go after I’ve scratched the shit out of your drivers side door with my key, consequently stabbing myself under the fingernail with a chip of said paint. p.s. it really hurts when that happens.
As that old guy said in Way of the Gun, “Karma’s only justice without the satisfaction.”
The message there is, don’t just sit around and wait for some one or something, i.e. the cosmos, to take care of your shit for you. You have to be proactive in your approach. So get off your ass and go, in the words of my buddy Martynez, ‘administer some justice.”
Eating so many gummy bears made my tummy yucky. I feel vomity.
Thursday, March 29
Somewhere in Ohio
she's sitting by the window
smoking
in our non-smoking room
the street light
behind her glowing
the snow covered rooftop
still snowing
blowing up
and down
again
before stopping softly
on the parking lot
she's in just a t-shirt
and panties
she wants to say things
i know she wants to
right now
i want to say things too
smoking
in our non-smoking room
the street light
behind her glowing
the snow covered rooftop
still snowing
blowing up
and down
again
before stopping softly
on the parking lot
she's in just a t-shirt
and panties
she wants to say things
i know she wants to
right now
i want to say things too
Sometimes it feels good to hold your breath until it hurts.
This can be taken literally, or as a metaphor.
Either way, it is equally true.
Sometimes the temptation to imitate drowning is very powerful.
Sometimes.
To be still in the turbid water, beneath a turbulent surface.
The similarities in oceans and lakes.
They are both made of the same things.
In theory they are siblings. In practicality, they are siblings. Fraternal twins. Of the same womb.
The difference between oceans and lakes.
In the ocean, at its edge, you are finite, and small, you are crushed by its…something. You are nothing, but die at peace. It is heavy. The water is thick. It is the water. It is your provenance. You are resigned.
The release as you’re compacted.
In a lake you jump from decks and float easily in the light water. You play and sip lemonade, surrounded by trees or mountains or desert.
The point is, you are surrounded. Landlocked.
That is safe.
The moon pulls more than the waters, more than the tides. The moon pulls you back to the rim of infinity, to long for that serene and bubbling death.
The moon tugs your heart or whatever body part you defy in order to stay away.
Have you ever missed anything this much?
This can be taken literally, or as a metaphor.
Either way, it is equally true.
Sometimes the temptation to imitate drowning is very powerful.
Sometimes.
To be still in the turbid water, beneath a turbulent surface.
The similarities in oceans and lakes.
They are both made of the same things.
In theory they are siblings. In practicality, they are siblings. Fraternal twins. Of the same womb.
The difference between oceans and lakes.
In the ocean, at its edge, you are finite, and small, you are crushed by its…something. You are nothing, but die at peace. It is heavy. The water is thick. It is the water. It is your provenance. You are resigned.
The release as you’re compacted.
In a lake you jump from decks and float easily in the light water. You play and sip lemonade, surrounded by trees or mountains or desert.
The point is, you are surrounded. Landlocked.
That is safe.
The moon pulls more than the waters, more than the tides. The moon pulls you back to the rim of infinity, to long for that serene and bubbling death.
The moon tugs your heart or whatever body part you defy in order to stay away.
Have you ever missed anything this much?
ten thous and hurts ledge end
As I predicted yesterday in a moment of precognitive clarity, I went out to get a job today. I probably got one, but I don’t want to say ‘I definitely have this job’ just incase I don’t, but I definitely have this job. I’ll soon be working at the Embassy Suites, meeting rappers and past their prime rockers i.e. Bon Jovi, getting a minor discount on my meals while at work, and two, yes you heard correctly, TWO paid fifteen minute breaks per shift.
Holla! Whatevs, it’s better than the ‘other’ job.
In the event that any of you are wondering what the ‘other’ job is that I’m referring to, I’ll enlighten you; I was a cocaine importer/distributor king pin ala Escobar, only more bettuh-uh because it’s me.
I know you’re thinking, “Candice, how could you ever want to leave a life of coke addicted, yet beautiful women, insincere friendships based on fear, deception, and lucrative opportunities, and rock bottom discounted drugs at your disposal?” (I’m sure I transcribed your thoughts verbatim there) to which I reply, “see the first paragraph where I mention the TWO fifteen minute breaks I’ll be receiving, then go ahead and feel embarrassed at even thinking of asking such a ridiculous question.”
I have to pee promptly.
I’m going over to my friend Jen’s house in a bit for Thai curry and general conviviality and Southeast Asian reminiscence. I’m bringing her some nail polish I got from freecycle, for free duh, so she can make more of her amazing paintings that I’m sure you just saw when you clicked on the link that is her name. CLICK IT!
She doesn’t know she’s about to receive 20+ bottles of nail polish. No idea. She is so going to diarrhea her thong in excitement!
I’m listening to Air’s 10,000 HZ Legend. It’s phenomenal. Listen to it.
My favorite is Lucky and Unhappy…ahhhhhh! It’s soooo good. It’s the kind of song that makes you feel really alive, or like you’re about to die. I reckon that’s the same feeling.
Also Wonder Milky Bitch kicks ass. I don’t necessarily like the title, but it does this ‘nyer, nyer’ thing. If you listen, you will know what I’m talking about. It makes you feel like you are in So I Married An Axe Murderer at the Poets Corner, and it’s storming and you are being moved by mahogany wood, sweet pipe tobacco smoke, and introspective spoken word poetry. You are also wearing a beret. It is awesome.
Okay, now it is tomorrow from what you just read which was yesterday from what you are presently reading. Here's the clencher...I'm still listening to 10,000 HZ Legend. I'm not going to kick Boards of Canada out of their presitigous position on the throne of Candice's favorite of all favorites. But I now dub Air queen of this fair land.
I'm going to tell you something now, which is a scientifically proven fact: EVERY song on that album is beautiful/amazing/haunting/gut wrenching/life changing.
If you disagree, you disagree with both science and god, who, for once in history, have their stories straight. But even more importantly, you disagree with me, and that I cannot abide.
Here are the lyrics to Lucky and Unhappy:
do I need? / destiny
do I need? / schedule life
do I need? / venus joy
do I need? / recess lines
lucky and unhappy
vote for a freestyle life
lucky and unhappy
driving on the freeway flash line
do I feel? / helium dreams
do I feel? / fresh impacts
do I feel? / hot joy nights
do I feel? / jessica
lucky and unhappy
vote for the freestlye life
lucky and unhappy
driving on the freeway flash line
You have to hear it, if I ever told you to do anything, even more important than not to try and breathe underwater because that may actually work (don't be a cynic), I'm telling you, if you want to get into heaven or attain Nirvana or even get a tax refund this year, listen to this song please, it's not like any of you even left me comments for my birthday (except the Tiffers) so do this one thing for me, it will change your religion.
You know what I just learned? Air is on their first North American tour in 3 years, and since god hates me, they don't seem to be coming anywhere near Texas. Actually, they have a date in Arizona, but from Austin to Phoenix is nearly 1,000 miles, and incase you weren't able to glean this bit of information from the fact that I was looking for a job, I am poor.
This is Soviet Russia!
The governement doesn't love me. Contact your local congressman and urge him/her to vote for Air to come to Texas (they probably aren't coming because, hello, this is Texas, and there are loads of Bush supporters here, and Bush supporters, i.e. war mongers, hate the French, but earth to Air, I don't hate the French since I am liberal and also French by descent), or at least ask them to loan me some money to get to Phoenix.
Preserve the armistice!
Viva la Revolucion!
Holla! Whatevs, it’s better than the ‘other’ job.
In the event that any of you are wondering what the ‘other’ job is that I’m referring to, I’ll enlighten you; I was a cocaine importer/distributor king pin ala Escobar, only more bettuh-uh because it’s me.
I know you’re thinking, “Candice, how could you ever want to leave a life of coke addicted, yet beautiful women, insincere friendships based on fear, deception, and lucrative opportunities, and rock bottom discounted drugs at your disposal?” (I’m sure I transcribed your thoughts verbatim there) to which I reply, “see the first paragraph where I mention the TWO fifteen minute breaks I’ll be receiving, then go ahead and feel embarrassed at even thinking of asking such a ridiculous question.”
I have to pee promptly.
I’m going over to my friend Jen’s house in a bit for Thai curry and general conviviality and Southeast Asian reminiscence. I’m bringing her some nail polish I got from freecycle, for free duh, so she can make more of her amazing paintings that I’m sure you just saw when you clicked on the link that is her name. CLICK IT!
She doesn’t know she’s about to receive 20+ bottles of nail polish. No idea. She is so going to diarrhea her thong in excitement!
I’m listening to Air’s 10,000 HZ Legend. It’s phenomenal. Listen to it.
My favorite is Lucky and Unhappy…ahhhhhh! It’s soooo good. It’s the kind of song that makes you feel really alive, or like you’re about to die. I reckon that’s the same feeling.
Also Wonder Milky Bitch kicks ass. I don’t necessarily like the title, but it does this ‘nyer, nyer’ thing. If you listen, you will know what I’m talking about. It makes you feel like you are in So I Married An Axe Murderer at the Poets Corner, and it’s storming and you are being moved by mahogany wood, sweet pipe tobacco smoke, and introspective spoken word poetry. You are also wearing a beret. It is awesome.
Okay, now it is tomorrow from what you just read which was yesterday from what you are presently reading. Here's the clencher...I'm still listening to 10,000 HZ Legend. I'm not going to kick Boards of Canada out of their presitigous position on the throne of Candice's favorite of all favorites. But I now dub Air queen of this fair land.
I'm going to tell you something now, which is a scientifically proven fact: EVERY song on that album is beautiful/amazing/haunting/gut wrenching/life changing.
If you disagree, you disagree with both science and god, who, for once in history, have their stories straight. But even more importantly, you disagree with me, and that I cannot abide.
Here are the lyrics to Lucky and Unhappy:
do I need? / destiny
do I need? / schedule life
do I need? / venus joy
do I need? / recess lines
lucky and unhappy
vote for a freestyle life
lucky and unhappy
driving on the freeway flash line
do I feel? / helium dreams
do I feel? / fresh impacts
do I feel? / hot joy nights
do I feel? / jessica
lucky and unhappy
vote for the freestlye life
lucky and unhappy
driving on the freeway flash line
You have to hear it, if I ever told you to do anything, even more important than not to try and breathe underwater because that may actually work (don't be a cynic), I'm telling you, if you want to get into heaven or attain Nirvana or even get a tax refund this year, listen to this song please, it's not like any of you even left me comments for my birthday (except the Tiffers) so do this one thing for me, it will change your religion.
You know what I just learned? Air is on their first North American tour in 3 years, and since god hates me, they don't seem to be coming anywhere near Texas. Actually, they have a date in Arizona, but from Austin to Phoenix is nearly 1,000 miles, and incase you weren't able to glean this bit of information from the fact that I was looking for a job, I am poor.
This is Soviet Russia!
The governement doesn't love me. Contact your local congressman and urge him/her to vote for Air to come to Texas (they probably aren't coming because, hello, this is Texas, and there are loads of Bush supporters here, and Bush supporters, i.e. war mongers, hate the French, but earth to Air, I don't hate the French since I am liberal and also French by descent), or at least ask them to loan me some money to get to Phoenix.
Preserve the armistice!
Viva la Revolucion!
Tuesday, March 27
The truth about allergies and nonmovement
As mentioned in a previous entry, the Tiffers shits quite prolifically. As a testament to the veracity of this claim, today we were forced to cut our visit to Quack’s short so as to allow her to relieve her hyperactive bowels in the comfort of our own bathroom. Not to mention, a woman and her so very atrociously ugly I couldn’t even pretend to smile (I’m on DayQuil) baby had commandeered the single stall ladies room just as the Tiffers’ colon began to agitate her.
So as the Tiffers is defecating, as usual, with the door wide open, I realize that the cause to my current allergy situation is in all likeliness, the copious amounts of poop granules floating about the air of our habitation.
Here is the conversation that followed:
The Tiffers: “My poo stinks.”
Me: ::sneeze:: “Ewwww…” ::attempted but failed sneeze:: (look into the light
goddammit!)
The Tiffers: “Hey, you shit too!:
Me: “If by ‘shit’ you mean that rose petals fall out of my butt hole, then yes.”
::eyes water profusely::
We are so ZANY!
We should be on Nickelodeon…
p.s. I realize that I made no correlation between the stench of the Tiffers poo and my allergies. C'est la vie. C'est l'amour.
Now time for interesting (seriously) discoveries I've made.
Not moving people make moving people uncomfortable, I’ve determined. Like meditating people, or people in comas, or people paralyzed with rage, or dead people, or mummies, or even people who are closing their eyes, listening to a song, headphones on, expressionless. You have to wonder, “what’s going on in there?”
Truth be told, when I’m in anyone of the aforementioned states, I’m often made uncomfortable by my own self, and the possibilities of what could be going on in my mind. I’m made further uncomfortable by the idea that other people are looking at my face, being made uncomfortable by my motionlessness, wondering what’s going on in my stationary head.
I’m thinking it’s best to just stay active. I’ve actually developed a nervous twitch, which is fast becoming involuntary, in order to maintain an air of movement, even while in a state of stasis. Such an altruist. I nominate myself to be the recipient of some sort of annually bestowed humanitarian award.
I am a twat.
I enjoy mustard, head rubs, and insulting myself with colloquial synonyms for ‘vagina’.
Holla!
So as the Tiffers is defecating, as usual, with the door wide open, I realize that the cause to my current allergy situation is in all likeliness, the copious amounts of poop granules floating about the air of our habitation.
Here is the conversation that followed:
The Tiffers: “My poo stinks.”
Me: ::sneeze:: “Ewwww…” ::attempted but failed sneeze:: (look into the light
goddammit!)
The Tiffers: “Hey, you shit too!:
Me: “If by ‘shit’ you mean that rose petals fall out of my butt hole, then yes.”
::eyes water profusely::
We are so ZANY!
We should be on Nickelodeon…
p.s. I realize that I made no correlation between the stench of the Tiffers poo and my allergies. C'est la vie. C'est l'amour.
Now time for interesting (seriously) discoveries I've made.
Not moving people make moving people uncomfortable, I’ve determined. Like meditating people, or people in comas, or people paralyzed with rage, or dead people, or mummies, or even people who are closing their eyes, listening to a song, headphones on, expressionless. You have to wonder, “what’s going on in there?”
Truth be told, when I’m in anyone of the aforementioned states, I’m often made uncomfortable by my own self, and the possibilities of what could be going on in my mind. I’m made further uncomfortable by the idea that other people are looking at my face, being made uncomfortable by my motionlessness, wondering what’s going on in my stationary head.
I’m thinking it’s best to just stay active. I’ve actually developed a nervous twitch, which is fast becoming involuntary, in order to maintain an air of movement, even while in a state of stasis. Such an altruist. I nominate myself to be the recipient of some sort of annually bestowed humanitarian award.
I am a twat.
I enjoy mustard, head rubs, and insulting myself with colloquial synonyms for ‘vagina’.
Holla!
Emos exposed! and other lessons I've learned today...
You cannot assume that all hipsters, emos, but primarily attendees of funky retro styled coffee shops who have, in my opinion, ugly, premature comb over hair-dos, are also intellectuals. It is just a style. It is just a beverage. Neither have any bearing on the state of ones over all mental prowess.
I know it can be misleading, but trust me, they aren’t all conversing about philosophy , and the flaws in Kierkegaard’s discourse in God’s awesomeness (this bullshitting, brought to you, directly from my ass), over their steaming cups of unenhanced black coffee, expounding revelatory rhetoric between drags off their brown imported cigarettes.
Book covers should be illegal. We should all go naked. Though I’m sure we’d find some way of styling our pubic hair in order to accurately express our true inner being.
I’d be a Jerry Curl. Do you want to be friends with me?
Well, really there is only the one lesson, but an invaluable one I’d say. I’m sure I could contrive some more for your reading pleasure, but since I’m literally dying of a runny nose, and leaking eye, I can’t be bothered.
I am not a lesbian.
BBQ is good fresh, as leftovers, for breakfast, as a sexual additive, as a surrogate mother, for oneseys, as an obscure and probably inaccurate Lord of the Rings reference, and especially when covered in Stubb’s sauce, but especially especially when you’ve found an entire to go box of it, that you didn’t purchase, in your fridge, and the person who did purchase it, left this morning to go on the Appalachian Trail for 6 months, so obviously he’ll have no further use for it. Score!
Oh my god allergies get out of my life you aren’t welcome, doesn’t that make you uncomfortable enough to make you leave, are you drunk and indifferent?
It’s just occurred to me that whatever I’ve just written is severely disjointed and incoherent. Sorry.
I’m going to go out and find a job tomorrow. That’s all I really want to say about that since it wounds me deeply that my carefree days of going to work whenever I want and traveling for 3 months at a time are over because I obviously wouldn’t want to put my career at Chili’s (as an example of course) in detriment.
But yeah, wish me luck. I’m going to work all the time, and I’m on 6 days of not drinking and over 2 weeks of not smoking, and I’m going to go practice math right now (never could get that addition thing down), and also I’m going to write faux travel articles which will be posted here. The reason they will be ‘faux’ is because I’m not going to travel anywhere, but I’ll write them about Austin, and they’ll most likely suck since I don’t actually know how to write proper travel articles, but that’s why I need practice, so this time I’m serious, leave me comments and give critique you fools. Goddammit!
Look what you made me do! Dammit you know it hurts me more than it hurts you! Now come here, give me a hug. Don’t ever make me do that again, ok? I love you. Now run along and play.
Maybe my first article will be about my back yard. It seems to me that if you can make an eighth of an acre of over grown, cigarette ridden, corroding chain link fence encompassed, central Austin ground seem interesting, you can pretty much do anything.
I’m a little nervous, since writing with focus, as opposed to stream of consciousness jibber jabber, is a bit more challenging. But seeing as how I’m a border line uber genius, I doubt there will be any real problem, apart from me actually having to be awake to write the article.
See, I just implied that what I usually do is so elementary for me, I can, and usually do, write it in my sleep. I didn’t say this to make anyone feel inadequate in the language mastery department. I said this because it is true, and if you are pickled with envy at this moment, that’s just because you have low self esteem, you confuse there/their/they’re, you’re probably eating an olive right now (comparable to a chunk of Satan’s fetid rotting molar), and you should probably see a shrink and work out your mom issues. p.s. no, it isn’t normal to have those kinds of dreams.
Now that I’ve elevated my ego astronomically, by humiliating my entire imaginary fan base, I’m off to have coffee, and learn how to add numbers together, to make bigger numbers.
I know it can be misleading, but trust me, they aren’t all conversing about philosophy , and the flaws in Kierkegaard’s discourse in God’s awesomeness (this bullshitting, brought to you, directly from my ass), over their steaming cups of unenhanced black coffee, expounding revelatory rhetoric between drags off their brown imported cigarettes.
Book covers should be illegal. We should all go naked. Though I’m sure we’d find some way of styling our pubic hair in order to accurately express our true inner being.
I’d be a Jerry Curl. Do you want to be friends with me?
Well, really there is only the one lesson, but an invaluable one I’d say. I’m sure I could contrive some more for your reading pleasure, but since I’m literally dying of a runny nose, and leaking eye, I can’t be bothered.
I am not a lesbian.
BBQ is good fresh, as leftovers, for breakfast, as a sexual additive, as a surrogate mother, for oneseys, as an obscure and probably inaccurate Lord of the Rings reference, and especially when covered in Stubb’s sauce, but especially especially when you’ve found an entire to go box of it, that you didn’t purchase, in your fridge, and the person who did purchase it, left this morning to go on the Appalachian Trail for 6 months, so obviously he’ll have no further use for it. Score!
Oh my god allergies get out of my life you aren’t welcome, doesn’t that make you uncomfortable enough to make you leave, are you drunk and indifferent?
It’s just occurred to me that whatever I’ve just written is severely disjointed and incoherent. Sorry.
I’m going to go out and find a job tomorrow. That’s all I really want to say about that since it wounds me deeply that my carefree days of going to work whenever I want and traveling for 3 months at a time are over because I obviously wouldn’t want to put my career at Chili’s (as an example of course) in detriment.
But yeah, wish me luck. I’m going to work all the time, and I’m on 6 days of not drinking and over 2 weeks of not smoking, and I’m going to go practice math right now (never could get that addition thing down), and also I’m going to write faux travel articles which will be posted here. The reason they will be ‘faux’ is because I’m not going to travel anywhere, but I’ll write them about Austin, and they’ll most likely suck since I don’t actually know how to write proper travel articles, but that’s why I need practice, so this time I’m serious, leave me comments and give critique you fools. Goddammit!
Look what you made me do! Dammit you know it hurts me more than it hurts you! Now come here, give me a hug. Don’t ever make me do that again, ok? I love you. Now run along and play.
Maybe my first article will be about my back yard. It seems to me that if you can make an eighth of an acre of over grown, cigarette ridden, corroding chain link fence encompassed, central Austin ground seem interesting, you can pretty much do anything.
I’m a little nervous, since writing with focus, as opposed to stream of consciousness jibber jabber, is a bit more challenging. But seeing as how I’m a border line uber genius, I doubt there will be any real problem, apart from me actually having to be awake to write the article.
See, I just implied that what I usually do is so elementary for me, I can, and usually do, write it in my sleep. I didn’t say this to make anyone feel inadequate in the language mastery department. I said this because it is true, and if you are pickled with envy at this moment, that’s just because you have low self esteem, you confuse there/their/they’re, you’re probably eating an olive right now (comparable to a chunk of Satan’s fetid rotting molar), and you should probably see a shrink and work out your mom issues. p.s. no, it isn’t normal to have those kinds of dreams.
Now that I’ve elevated my ego astronomically, by humiliating my entire imaginary fan base, I’m off to have coffee, and learn how to add numbers together, to make bigger numbers.
Friday, March 23
relieving sinus congestion in theory since just a few minutes ago
Oh my god this has never happened before in the history of human kind I am posting for the second time in one day, just hours after my last mind alteringly magniloquent post, only this time I have to say something.
I can't find my camera today so, either:
a) My bitch ass friends took my camera last night, with out asking and I will kill them slowly with a dull potato peeler, or maybe just make a couple of snotty with a tinge of pouty comments about how they have officially ruined my life, and compromised the quality of today’s literary endeavors.
b) I pulled a Tiffers. By this I mean, I made a stationary pass with my eyes around the room, barely turning my neck, lifting nothing, and finding nothing, all the while, growing increasingly morose and resentful of my theiving friends, plotting their eliminations by rusted kitchen implements, or verbal battery.
c) A and B were actually the only two possibilities.
d)I have these really weird little lumpy things inside my bottom lip, and now that I mention it, also my top lip, that I've always had and I've always chewed on for fun or boredom or if I don't have gum, do you have them too, are they cancer? Chew on your tumors if you've got em! HOLLA!
e) Encyclopedia
A lot of times I have things to write about, but sometimes, i.e. now, I don't so I just start writing things and then I erase them, and they are condemned to the annals of temporary computer space wastage, but don't worry they go to heaven for they have been redeemed.
I wrote part of a song about Jesus. It's still under construction, but I'm sure, with the good Lord's blessing, they rest of it will be as beautiful and inspired as what you're about to read.
Quick addendum: I'd like you to bear in mind that this is not the ideal medium for relaying this piece of music (ha ha music is mucis for a dyslexic). Imagine, if you will, the following piece vocalized in my angelic tenor, with a very slight twist of Cartman.
Enjoy...
Verse: Jesus is my best friend
His face is beautiful
He makes me eggs and bacon
He is so super cool
Chorus: Oh Jesus Jesus
Oh Jesus Jesus
Merry Christmas Jesus
Jiggity Jesus Jew
Verse: Jesus wrote the bible
Comforting the poor
Nuclear technology
Miracles galore
Repeat Chorus
That's all I've got so far.
If any one has any input of any kind, groovy, because I think I've included everything I've ever thought about Jesus in that song. I even embellished a little.
One really funny aside... If you replace the 'N' in nuclear wth an 'M', you get MUCLEAR! Am I the only one who thinks I just hit on a gold mine idea. I'm going to need some chemists to collaborate with on this, but I think I just coined the term for the next big thing in congestion alleviation.
I even have the catch phrase. "Blow sinus congestion away with Muclear technology. Muclear (by SE Johnson Wax)"
Oh my BeJeezus! I am a motherfucking GENIUS!
I can't find my camera today so, either:
a) My bitch ass friends took my camera last night, with out asking and I will kill them slowly with a dull potato peeler, or maybe just make a couple of snotty with a tinge of pouty comments about how they have officially ruined my life, and compromised the quality of today’s literary endeavors.
b) I pulled a Tiffers. By this I mean, I made a stationary pass with my eyes around the room, barely turning my neck, lifting nothing, and finding nothing, all the while, growing increasingly morose and resentful of my theiving friends, plotting their eliminations by rusted kitchen implements, or verbal battery.
c) A and B were actually the only two possibilities.
d)I have these really weird little lumpy things inside my bottom lip, and now that I mention it, also my top lip, that I've always had and I've always chewed on for fun or boredom or if I don't have gum, do you have them too, are they cancer? Chew on your tumors if you've got em! HOLLA!
e) Encyclopedia
A lot of times I have things to write about, but sometimes, i.e. now, I don't so I just start writing things and then I erase them, and they are condemned to the annals of temporary computer space wastage, but don't worry they go to heaven for they have been redeemed.
I wrote part of a song about Jesus. It's still under construction, but I'm sure, with the good Lord's blessing, they rest of it will be as beautiful and inspired as what you're about to read.
Quick addendum: I'd like you to bear in mind that this is not the ideal medium for relaying this piece of music (ha ha music is mucis for a dyslexic). Imagine, if you will, the following piece vocalized in my angelic tenor, with a very slight twist of Cartman.
Enjoy...
Verse: Jesus is my best friend
His face is beautiful
He makes me eggs and bacon
He is so super cool
Chorus: Oh Jesus Jesus
Oh Jesus Jesus
Merry Christmas Jesus
Jiggity Jesus Jew
Verse: Jesus wrote the bible
Comforting the poor
Nuclear technology
Miracles galore
Repeat Chorus
That's all I've got so far.
If any one has any input of any kind, groovy, because I think I've included everything I've ever thought about Jesus in that song. I even embellished a little.
One really funny aside... If you replace the 'N' in nuclear wth an 'M', you get MUCLEAR! Am I the only one who thinks I just hit on a gold mine idea. I'm going to need some chemists to collaborate with on this, but I think I just coined the term for the next big thing in congestion alleviation.
I even have the catch phrase. "Blow sinus congestion away with Muclear technology. Muclear (by SE Johnson Wax)"
Oh my BeJeezus! I am a motherfucking GENIUS!
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