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.
Saturday, June 30
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!
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.
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