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
Thursday, March 29
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!
The problem with canned soups
It’s 9 o’clock in the morning, and here are the things I’ve already done:
Woke up
Read a text message
Got out of bed
Prepared a glass of ice water
Filled BOTH ice trays
Signed for a Fed Ex package that isn’t even for me
Put on the Boston Hoodie
Turned on Amon Tobin (not sexually…I meant his music)
Started writing this list
p.s. I’ve also looked out the window several times to enjoy the still dew dabbled and newly verdant back yard view to my right. Eventually there will be a sunny day again, I’m sure, since this is Texas, a place most people misconceive to be made entirely of desert, not the deluvian Pacific Northwest.
p.s. The song Back From Space by the aforementioned Amon Tobin + said overcast and slightly moist weather conundrum = disquieting ambiance for the Candice.
I’m leaving on Tuesday for LA, a.k.a. Smoggy Chancre on a Festering Boil in Sunny California. I won’t have a camera (shucks) which is disappointing, not because of the visually stunning photo opportunities of transcendent resplendence I will be unable to exploit, but because I’ll be unable to appease my blog inspired interest in the documentation of generally everything I do. P.S. I have more pictures of the Tiffers on the toilet than you’d care to know about, and while this isn’t something that I’ve done per say, it is something that occurs in my life roughly 12-16 times a day, that affects me significantly, as the bathroom door is rarely closed. Just as an example.
The reason that I won’t have a camera is because I’ve offered, out of the supple pink goodness of my heart, to let my friend James take my camera on the Appalachian Trail with him. He is leaving on Tuesday as well. He will be gone for about 6 months. This means certain death for my camera. I have reconciled the morality of this in my mind, since my camera was diagnosed in early December with a terminal case of Pixelitus.
Pixelitus affects the pixels on the display screen of digital cameras. Pixels will, for reasons as yet undetermined by scientists, turn black in completely random areas. Depending on the designs that the dead pixels have created on the display screen, the effect of this condition can be devastating or quite hilarious. In the case of my camera, people in vertically snapped photos often have a pointy, Captain Morgan-esque goatee. That’s funny.
But despite the hilarity of the disease in the case of my camera, I’ve decided to utilize this opportunity to flaunt my generosity whilst creating a impregnable reason to get a newer, smaller, cuter camera, with a bigger, blackened pixel free display. Everyone wins.
But in the mean time, I will be buying Kodak single use cameras which complicates my life to a dizzying degree (not really) unless I can convince Trenton to let me borrow his camera, I promise I will take care of it, I’ve had my camera for 2 years, I am dependable.
Also, if seen gallivanting about LA, with the likes of people who are the likes of which I’ll be gallivanting about with in LA, with a bright yellow Kodak fun shot 3,000 or whatever the fuck, I would be judged. And since I’m Candice, I’m used to doing the judging. (Okay, I WILL still be judging, but that’s not the point.) Comments will be made about lack of outdoor plumbing, horses and wagons as transport, and the ubiquitous lack of anything, namely cameras, non-disposable in the hick state of Texas.
What if they don’t like me!?!
Sometimes when I fart it smells like a newly opened can of vegetable soup. I was going to say ‘generic brand of vegetable soup’ but that’s unfair. This is quality. This is Campbell’s.
Wednesday, March 21
Cirrhosis in 4 days
So delightfully hazy
Laughing and dancing
Dance with me
Nonsensical
I want to touch and
Let me draw you
Just let me
Please
We’re breathing
Sucking bubbles
Together
You know
I want to know
Let me know you
Let me love you
Turn that song off
Let me go
So ordinarily magic
Temporary
And changing
See?
Itslaughter grab it
If you grab and shake it
Let it work
Be free
The room is quick
It spins
And I want off
I have to see
If the rules of love apply
Or just
The rules of gravity
So easy
Not to notice
You sitting there
You touching me
Lights flicker fast
And falter
Let me up
You’re sputtering
The world falls down
I struggle up
Don’t laugh at me
Me me me me
Who brought the sun
I hate the sun
I hate you too
I just need sleep
Laughing and dancing
Dance with me
Nonsensical
I want to touch and
Let me draw you
Just let me
Please
We’re breathing
Sucking bubbles
Together
You know
I want to know
Let me know you
Let me love you
Turn that song off
Let me go
So ordinarily magic
Temporary
And changing
See?
Itslaughter grab it
If you grab and shake it
Let it work
Be free
The room is quick
It spins
And I want off
I have to see
If the rules of love apply
Or just
The rules of gravity
So easy
Not to notice
You sitting there
You touching me
Lights flicker fast
And falter
Let me up
You’re sputtering
The world falls down
I struggle up
Don’t laugh at me
Me me me me
Who brought the sun
I hate the sun
I hate you too
I just need sleep
Monday, March 19
Waiting...since I can't think of anything better right now
Are you sitting half dressed in your recently abandoned room, with a one eyed, not just dog, but pug?
Are you waiting to go some where?
Waiting to realize something, like Zing! and the answer appears, and you are delivered, the demons have been exorcised?
Waiting for someone to tell you what to do/say/wear/eat, hello Jesus I’m talking to you, p.s. I read your book, it sucks?
Waiting to go eat sushi with friends when you know you really need to be alone, even though you don’t want to be alone because you can’t shake the feeling of waiting?
Waiting for those compulsions to pass? No I don’t want a cigarette. No I don’t need a drink. I am aware these things do not solve problems. Or do they?
Are you waiting for that part Dayvan Cowboy for change your life again for the first time?
Are you waiting?
It’s not just the feeling of waiting for something you can’t define, just cannot put your finger on, something that exists only in another universe or dimension, or in a fabled garden, guarded by twirling swords. It’s the feeling of immobility, inability. Every opportunity exists, so no opportunity exists.
Meh… I suppose it’s all just a matter of perspective. And at this particular juncture in the space time continuum, the part of Negator will be played by Candice. Please turn off your cell phones and keep your kids quiet or so help me god I will smash them in their aurally chafing mouths. Fuck! I hate kids.
No but seriously.
I really don’t like kids at all; they aren’t even as cute as puppies. Fuck em. I’m having my tubes tied.
You’re welcome world.
I guess I just want what all waiters want; a good tip. Except I’m not that kind of waiter, besides if I was a culinary transport specialist, I would be dubbed either ‘waitress’ as I have tits and a vajayjay, or the more PC, non-gender-defining, but still inherently and obviously demeaning ‘server’.
“Here are your pancakes…I AIN’T YO BITCH!....sir….”
Again, seriously…
I guess I just want either an answer or an escape. A bottle of vodka or enlightenment. A cigarette or the Rosetta Stone. A roll or the key to the Saturday New York Times crossword puzzle…on Friday.
But it seems like I’m getting the answers in the Sunday paper, Sarah smoked the last cigarette, the liquor store is closed (*remember, it’s Sunday, and this is Texas), and the Buddha wrapped up all the enlightenment in his meditation mat and b-lined it out of this dimly lit shit hole and straight into Nirvana.
And the Oscar for most stellar performance in accurate portrayal of fictitious character created by girl whose blog no one reads, goes to…….Candice for her role as Negator!
Clapping, cheering, laughter, one rotten banana thrown, more clapping, all around general conviviality and satisfaction with the decision except from that one guy with the banana who’s being escorted out as we speak, don’t worry he’s being taken care of, I know a guy.
p.s. I also won a Pulitzer Prize for best ever usage, placement, construction, and clever delivery of run on sentences. It is on my mantle. Wearing a rhinestone tiara. Don’t ask.
It’s not just the feeling of waiting for something you can’t define, just cannot put your finger on, something that exists only in another universe or dimension, or in a fabled garden, guarded by twirling swords. It’s the feeling of immobility, inability. Every opportunity exists, so no opportunity exists.
Meh… I suppose it’s all just a matter of perspective. And at this particular juncture in the space time continuum, the part of Negator will be played by Candice. Please turn off your cell phones and keep your kids quiet or so help me god I will smash them in their aurally chafing mouths. Fuck! I hate kids.
No but seriously.
I really don’t like kids at all; they aren’t even as cute as puppies. Fuck em. I’m having my tubes tied.
You’re welcome world.
I guess I just want what all waiters want; a good tip. Except I’m not that kind of waiter, besides if I was a culinary transport specialist, I would be dubbed either ‘waitress’ as I have tits and a vajayjay, or the more PC, non-gender-defining, but still inherently and obviously demeaning ‘server’.
“Here are your pancakes…I AIN’T YO BITCH!....sir….”
Again, seriously…
I guess I just want either an answer or an escape. A bottle of vodka or enlightenment. A cigarette or the Rosetta Stone. A roll or the key to the Saturday New York Times crossword puzzle…on Friday.
But it seems like I’m getting the answers in the Sunday paper, Sarah smoked the last cigarette, the liquor store is closed (*remember, it’s Sunday, and this is Texas), and the Buddha wrapped up all the enlightenment in his meditation mat and b-lined it out of this dimly lit shit hole and straight into Nirvana.
And the Oscar for most stellar performance in accurate portrayal of fictitious character created by girl whose blog no one reads, goes to…….Candice for her role as Negator!
Clapping, cheering, laughter, one rotten banana thrown, more clapping, all around general conviviality and satisfaction with the decision except from that one guy with the banana who’s being escorted out as we speak, don’t worry he’s being taken care of, I know a guy.
p.s. I also won a Pulitzer Prize for best ever usage, placement, construction, and clever delivery of run on sentences. It is on my mantle. Wearing a rhinestone tiara. Don’t ask.
Thursday, March 8
When good coffee goes bad..
I am such an uber grumpy biotch today.
I made the Tiffers go away, I angered James with tactless abruptitude, I accidentally hit One Iris while I was sleeping.
Some one just walked in. I will kill them.
It was the Tiffers. I roasted her to ashes with my menacing death stare 9,000. I'm sorry Tiffers. Rise like a P-hoe-nix from your pile of charred remains, and go to sun your white ass in the back yard. Fire crotch!
I am utterly evil.
This is what you will become if you move to Austin and are allergic to anything at all. Don't do it. Try New Mexico. Everything is dead there so nothing can kill you. Except rattlesnakes.
Fuck it, I'm getting a bubble to live in.
We tried to lift our communal spirits earlier by going to Spiderhouse for coffee. We even brought One Iris who escaped by crawling under the less than secure fence and also she scratched my leg, but she is so cute and she always snores. I love her. Things seemed to be going along swimmingly; it's a beautiful day, we listened to Playground Love on the way over, Iris is a cycolps, we're going to have coffee. What could possibly go wrong?
Well, this'll teach you to count all your chickens' eggs before they hatch in one basket.
I order my large coffee (yes large, I deserve a special treat today) and prepare it with the utmost care, slowly stirring in the carefully apportioned unrefined sugar crystals, pouring in the thick, rich half & half in a circular fashion, the black coffee ribboned with white swirls of heaven as it gradually turns to mocha, and then to that perfect shade of caramel. The undulating, convoluting spectral steam rises from the ambrosial surface as I carry my prized fluid concoction to the table, where I plan to sip it contentedly in the soft, enveloping spring sunlight.
As I make myself comfortable in my tetanus infested, yet delightfully quirky retro chair, I reach for my coffee, skipping over the inhalation of the roasted bean aroma since I can't smell for shit right now, close my eyes in a relaxed anticipation, bring the cup to my lips, and take the first glorious sip. Ahhhhhhhh.....
Wait! No! Not 'ahhh....' at all. More like 'AHHH!'
I can't taste a god damn thing. Seriously nothing at all. That's when I realized why I couldn't taste the foulness that are my unbrushed teeth.
All the joy is gone from my life.
Some people eat to live, some people live to eat. And if you know me at all, you'll know that I am part of the latter group. Why has god not only given me horrendous allergies, but, to add insult to injury, taken away my means of indulging my one true passion; my sense of taste?
Take my eyes!
Take my nose! (oh wait you already did you mother fucker!)
Goddammit!
Nothing really interesting happened at all today, so I said to the Tiffers, "Do something interesting, " and she made a funny face. It was slightly interesting.
One thing though... We went on a bike ride this morning to get the blood flowing before breakfast you know, and One Iris rode in the basket of the front of my bike which the Tiffers was riding, and we passed by this guy with his dog who was both big, and shitting and I said, "That dog is taking a shit. DROP THAT DEUCE!" and his owner laughed and the Tiffers and I also laughed as we kept peddling by, but I was also a little embarrassed at being white trash. Either that or I'm 'delightfully tacky, yet unrefined' to borrow from Hooters.
I'm going to go refill my 'single use' Jack-in-the-Box styrofoam giganti-cup with ice water, and enjoy it thoroughly since water doesn't taste like anything and I can't taste anything, therefore we are soul mates.
Wednesday, March 7
Someone please smash me in the face now
Whatever you do, if you don't love to have a constantly running, red, chafed nose hole, and a continuously watering eye ball which is also red and your eye lid is veiny and chapped from wiping, and also your voice sounds like a retarded cartoon rabbit, and also you can't hear very well because your ears are pressurized, which means you can't really hear your stupid voice which your friends are snickering at over dinner, and also you can barely taste your food, and if you don't like to be hopped up on Benadryl strips that make your tongue first taste like disgusting and then make it numb all while not working at all except at making you a space cadet fuck tard, then for the love sweet baby jesus, DO NOT MOVE TO AUSTIN!
P.S. What culinary genuis thought of putting the fries ON the burger!?! My heart is either welling with joy, or seizing up from arterial plaque. It's hard to say which.
I'm sure we figured this out from my last entry, but I love Boards of Canada. Seriously. we are engaged
Note: I am listening to BOC and also I'm drugged up so I have nothing in my brain to write about since my brain is actually melting into the snot that is pouring forth abuntantly from my facial orifices.
P.S. What culinary genuis thought of putting the fries ON the burger!?! My heart is either welling with joy, or seizing up from arterial plaque. It's hard to say which.
I'm sure we figured this out from my last entry, but I love Boards of Canada. Seriously. we are engaged
Note: I am listening to BOC and also I'm drugged up so I have nothing in my brain to write about since my brain is actually melting into the snot that is pouring forth abuntantly from my facial orifices.
Dayvan Cowboy
The feeling I get when I see them, from any point in Austin, a huddle of giants in the hills.
Looking out over the ocean, at night, lights from the string of hotels and resorts blighting the beach shining behind my head, and the sea is that much darker. It is black as pitch. There is no moon. It is infinite, and I am so small. I am so very small. That is magic.
Falling back into a swimming pool, sinking to the bottom, weightless and nearly drowning as my air escapes, elevates, in a plume of a billion bubbles. Looking up. The sun. The quiet. And that would be a good way to die.
The sun setting from an airplane window, vivid on the curved horizon.
That song. What is that strange chord it strikes in me? The undeniable one I can't identify. I feel so 'mortal.' I feel....
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