I was inside for 15 minutes.
Somebody (le douchebag) took my tire and rim!
Left the mother fucking car up on a jack and just made
off with them.
Now this brings three things to my attention:
WHY JUST TAKE ONE? IF YOU ARE GONNA BE A THIEF DON'T
UNDER ACHIEVE.
Any jack-ass paying really high rent to live in "east"
Williamsburg can get off their hip high horse and eat
me because the shit is still Bush (what do tampons and Brooklyn have in common)wick is still the ghetto bitches. Nice to let the real estate agent sucka you.
Why take the cheap aluminum rim of a VW when there are all the fun spinners and shiny rims all up and down
the street.
Surely these must be worth more crack/cocaine/baby powder in street trade and make a lovely ashtray for mom.
Well at least they left three out of four lug bolts so I could put the spare on.
It went flat and the rim of it was destroyed of course, so i just got really drunk and got to ride around on a
motorcycle (B-O-O-T-A-Y).
Felt like i was in breakin 2, but white, not saving anything and really bad at break-dancing.
Well if any one sees a 12 yr old wearing a VW rim as a necklace, props to him for styling.
If you see an 'artist,' wearing the same accessory on the way to buy heroin for inspiration, after stopping an buying 300$ jeans with his dad's AMEX, tackle him for me we need to talk.
mother fucker
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
The Life and Times of A Fit Model or The Rise and Fall of Linda Price
Linda never thought she was perfect.
She never thought she was even close to perfect.
In fact she spent most of her life thinking she was just all right, average at best.
Her friends thought she was nuts to have any gripes about her apperance, particularly her figure. She was almost six feet tall with a perfect size “27 waist.
Which is why the whole thing seemed so much like crazy dream to Linda. A good friend worked as a buyer for a popular denim company and recommended her to do a couple of fit model jobs. Her friend, Angela had always given her the samples (who else with a waist that small had legs that long).
Linda said yes, of course, she loved fashion and it seemed like so much fun. Try on great clothes, possible freebies, not to mention the money. She would be making almost half her current weekly salary for 6 hours work.
When Linda arrived at the shoot the photographer was enchanted with her.
She moved naturally in front of the camera, with very little coaching. The insecurity and self doubt that plauged her was invisible to the camera, a rare thing.
“You are perfection,” he told her.
Perfection, she laughed to herself he’s nuts.
For hours though, he and everyone around her kept saying just that, as well as a barrage of other compliments and encouragements. Then they asked her back again, for a higher rate! They wanted to use some of her shots for buyers catalogue, not just for fit anymore.
She felt high as she left.
When she got home her back ached from sticking her ass out for butt shots and her feet hurt from wearing shoes that were too small. One small word echoed repeatedly in her head though “perfection”. The next day she woke up and went to her stressful job, the job she hated. The job that consumed her life where nothing ever went right and she broke out in rashes her doctor attributed to the stress. All day long that one word rang in her head “ perfection”.
The next Saturday she went back again, this time for a longer shoot with make-up and hair. They included her face in some full body shoots. This was all but unheard of for a fit model, so the photo assistant told her.
She should get and agent they said.
This could be a crossover career.
The designer came in and was, like all the others, beguiled. She wasn’t a “model” but there was something about the way the clothes fit her.
The make-up girl and the photographer asked her if she would like to go out that night. Linda was reluctant to go, but she accepted seeing the editorial models do the same. 'Crossover,' she thought, this is what models do.
Her back ached, one of the “real” models noticed and gave her some pills.
At the bar she had a couple of drinks and felt like she was floating. It must be the pills she thought. Nothing hurt at all anymore. Linda was hungry but she noticed none of the models ate. She asked them weren’t they hungry they hadn’t eaten all day. The one other fit model Carol took her to the bathroom. She handed her a bunch of brown pills. Diet pills.
“ We are fit models we have to stay perfect, we are anonymous bodies, stay friends with the designers and keep your waist tiny. You don't have a face, no recognition... well maybe you have a chance after today. If you do though then you need to be smaller then 'fit,' you need to be runway. They also keep you awake during the day. I have a friend who will write you a prescription he will also give you something for your back.”
“Thank you,” Linda said.
“Oh and Linda get and agent if you aren’t always around they will forget who you are.”
Linda stumbled back to the table, but they said I am perfection she thought petulantly. I need to be perfection.
The next day she called an agent.
The day after that she quit her job.
The money started rolling in. Linda was the most popular fit model out there.
After a week of taking the diet pills she was a size 24” and fit in even couture sample. This meant event the highest end designers could use her when their famous super-model muses were out of town on runway shows and high fashion shoots. She was going out every night. Carol became her partner in crime. Carol had been a fashion model but was now in her late thirties and although she still had the body her face spoke of the late nights and hard living.
Linda was exhausted.
Carol introduced her to cocaine. When Linda was high all her shyness disappeared all her exhaustion. She could smooze with the designers and book jobs. Her agent loved her because she did so little of the work herself.
Linda began to stay out drinking later and later.
It didn’t seem to matter every day they would yell.
“YOU ARE PERFECTION”
This life style hit fast and hard, like an asteroid slamming into the moon. Unlike the young teenage fashion models behaving this way, Linda had to book jobs twice weekly to support new life style. It soon began to take its toll. She was late for one job. Then another.
Her body began to bloat slightly, much like her ego from the excessive drinking. Soon she was a “29, no longer able to do couture.
In the high fashion world you are only as good as your last job. She soon found that she was not invited to the exclusive parties anymore. Linda took her drinking and drug use elsewhere, Carol was still her friend. Linda didn’t recognize Carol, as a wash up has been who was too wrecked to realized or care about taking someone else down with her.
Linda drank more and worked less.
She neglected her appearance; her fingernails once tidy were stained blue from deep pocket denim shots. She seemed distorted as her tight waistline expanded to a “32, a 36”. Soon her agent could hardly get her work. Even with the name she had made for her self in the business. Everyone knew she had become poison.
Her “friends” wouldn’t call her. Not even Angela who originally got her first job. No one wants to be associated with poison.
Her agent finally booked her a job.
Plus size separates for a catalogue. The kind mid-western housewives browse in dental offices. Linda didn’t answer her phone.
After twelve hours of trying her agent went over to her apartment. Large and luxurious, rented just one year ago. No answer.
The super unlocked the door for her.
Dead plants, bottles and a hungry cat.
Hanging in the middle was Linda. Her noose a pair of size “27 straight leg designer jeans.
She never thought she was even close to perfect.
In fact she spent most of her life thinking she was just all right, average at best.
Her friends thought she was nuts to have any gripes about her apperance, particularly her figure. She was almost six feet tall with a perfect size “27 waist.
Which is why the whole thing seemed so much like crazy dream to Linda. A good friend worked as a buyer for a popular denim company and recommended her to do a couple of fit model jobs. Her friend, Angela had always given her the samples (who else with a waist that small had legs that long).
Linda said yes, of course, she loved fashion and it seemed like so much fun. Try on great clothes, possible freebies, not to mention the money. She would be making almost half her current weekly salary for 6 hours work.
When Linda arrived at the shoot the photographer was enchanted with her.
She moved naturally in front of the camera, with very little coaching. The insecurity and self doubt that plauged her was invisible to the camera, a rare thing.
“You are perfection,” he told her.
Perfection, she laughed to herself he’s nuts.
For hours though, he and everyone around her kept saying just that, as well as a barrage of other compliments and encouragements. Then they asked her back again, for a higher rate! They wanted to use some of her shots for buyers catalogue, not just for fit anymore.
She felt high as she left.
When she got home her back ached from sticking her ass out for butt shots and her feet hurt from wearing shoes that were too small. One small word echoed repeatedly in her head though “perfection”. The next day she woke up and went to her stressful job, the job she hated. The job that consumed her life where nothing ever went right and she broke out in rashes her doctor attributed to the stress. All day long that one word rang in her head “ perfection”.
The next Saturday she went back again, this time for a longer shoot with make-up and hair. They included her face in some full body shoots. This was all but unheard of for a fit model, so the photo assistant told her.
She should get and agent they said.
This could be a crossover career.
The designer came in and was, like all the others, beguiled. She wasn’t a “model” but there was something about the way the clothes fit her.
The make-up girl and the photographer asked her if she would like to go out that night. Linda was reluctant to go, but she accepted seeing the editorial models do the same. 'Crossover,' she thought, this is what models do.
Her back ached, one of the “real” models noticed and gave her some pills.
At the bar she had a couple of drinks and felt like she was floating. It must be the pills she thought. Nothing hurt at all anymore. Linda was hungry but she noticed none of the models ate. She asked them weren’t they hungry they hadn’t eaten all day. The one other fit model Carol took her to the bathroom. She handed her a bunch of brown pills. Diet pills.
“ We are fit models we have to stay perfect, we are anonymous bodies, stay friends with the designers and keep your waist tiny. You don't have a face, no recognition... well maybe you have a chance after today. If you do though then you need to be smaller then 'fit,' you need to be runway. They also keep you awake during the day. I have a friend who will write you a prescription he will also give you something for your back.”
“Thank you,” Linda said.
“Oh and Linda get and agent if you aren’t always around they will forget who you are.”
Linda stumbled back to the table, but they said I am perfection she thought petulantly. I need to be perfection.
The next day she called an agent.
The day after that she quit her job.
The money started rolling in. Linda was the most popular fit model out there.
After a week of taking the diet pills she was a size 24” and fit in even couture sample. This meant event the highest end designers could use her when their famous super-model muses were out of town on runway shows and high fashion shoots. She was going out every night. Carol became her partner in crime. Carol had been a fashion model but was now in her late thirties and although she still had the body her face spoke of the late nights and hard living.
Linda was exhausted.
Carol introduced her to cocaine. When Linda was high all her shyness disappeared all her exhaustion. She could smooze with the designers and book jobs. Her agent loved her because she did so little of the work herself.
Linda began to stay out drinking later and later.
It didn’t seem to matter every day they would yell.
“YOU ARE PERFECTION”
This life style hit fast and hard, like an asteroid slamming into the moon. Unlike the young teenage fashion models behaving this way, Linda had to book jobs twice weekly to support new life style. It soon began to take its toll. She was late for one job. Then another.
Her body began to bloat slightly, much like her ego from the excessive drinking. Soon she was a “29, no longer able to do couture.
In the high fashion world you are only as good as your last job. She soon found that she was not invited to the exclusive parties anymore. Linda took her drinking and drug use elsewhere, Carol was still her friend. Linda didn’t recognize Carol, as a wash up has been who was too wrecked to realized or care about taking someone else down with her.
Linda drank more and worked less.
She neglected her appearance; her fingernails once tidy were stained blue from deep pocket denim shots. She seemed distorted as her tight waistline expanded to a “32, a 36”. Soon her agent could hardly get her work. Even with the name she had made for her self in the business. Everyone knew she had become poison.
Her “friends” wouldn’t call her. Not even Angela who originally got her first job. No one wants to be associated with poison.
Her agent finally booked her a job.
Plus size separates for a catalogue. The kind mid-western housewives browse in dental offices. Linda didn’t answer her phone.
After twelve hours of trying her agent went over to her apartment. Large and luxurious, rented just one year ago. No answer.
The super unlocked the door for her.
Dead plants, bottles and a hungry cat.
Hanging in the middle was Linda. Her noose a pair of size “27 straight leg designer jeans.
Stop talking to me like I am a dog. You are my headache.
Talk to me like you talk to the dog, I have a headache...
While trying to figure out why seemingly the comparable incompetence of every cab driver I have ever had seems to directly correlate to how drunk I am. I decided to do some mathematical exploration to see if perhaps there was an unknown equation, one I was not familiar with, an algorithim that held the explanation. Or even better an unfinished one which I could solve earning my place in the scientific hierarchy ( or at least bestowing on me the wisdom to choose a cab that could circumnavigate the five Boro's, with a map and specific turn by turn directions).
Never being particularly mathematically minded in the past I realized that I saw potential life changing equations all around me in my life that just needed to be explored. My life whisked into an egghead omelette could solve the world's (or at very least some of my own problems).
If you use more than one variable, go back and substitute known relationships for the additional variables. When it comes to solving the equation, you want to solve for just one variable. You can often rewrite all the variables in terms of just one. For example, if you let (A) represent the number of Sarah’s whiskeys and (B) represent a given cabby’s brains cells, but you know that Sarah has had four more whiskeys than cabbie has brain cells, then (A) can be replaced with (B)+4.
In conclusion no matter how deep into the Jameson I am, my cab driver is a douche bag and I am a fucking genius! Apparently for being able to read signs. like 44 Astoria blvd west looks very different than 41 GCP east and is also the difference between 15$ and 28$.
Obviously I shouldn't have to pay for his gross algebraic negligence. Unfortunately Achmed doesn't quite see this and I (A)+high heels= slip and fall squared.
After being called, what sounds something like a humpless camel (please Achmed it's a push up lets not exaggerate)? Tip is refused (B+4) >B=B-T.
All in all we have learned that
(a+w)<(s-$)= FUCK I was never any good at math
While trying to figure out why seemingly the comparable incompetence of every cab driver I have ever had seems to directly correlate to how drunk I am. I decided to do some mathematical exploration to see if perhaps there was an unknown equation, one I was not familiar with, an algorithim that held the explanation. Or even better an unfinished one which I could solve earning my place in the scientific hierarchy ( or at least bestowing on me the wisdom to choose a cab that could circumnavigate the five Boro's, with a map and specific turn by turn directions).
Never being particularly mathematically minded in the past I realized that I saw potential life changing equations all around me in my life that just needed to be explored. My life whisked into an egghead omelette could solve the world's (or at very least some of my own problems).
If you use more than one variable, go back and substitute known relationships for the additional variables. When it comes to solving the equation, you want to solve for just one variable. You can often rewrite all the variables in terms of just one. For example, if you let (A) represent the number of Sarah’s whiskeys and (B) represent a given cabby’s brains cells, but you know that Sarah has had four more whiskeys than cabbie has brain cells, then (A) can be replaced with (B)+4.
In conclusion no matter how deep into the Jameson I am, my cab driver is a douche bag and I am a fucking genius! Apparently for being able to read signs. like 44 Astoria blvd west looks very different than 41 GCP east and is also the difference between 15$ and 28$.
Obviously I shouldn't have to pay for his gross algebraic negligence. Unfortunately Achmed doesn't quite see this and I (A)+high heels= slip and fall squared.
After being called, what sounds something like a humpless camel (please Achmed it's a push up lets not exaggerate)? Tip is refused (B+4) >B=B-T.
All in all we have learned that
(a+w)<(s-$)= FUCK I was never any good at math
Monday, October 27, 2008
Something to think about
I'm watching a film staring Heath Ledger and I think about two weeks before he died. He bummed a ciggy off of me outside of my apartment and was humble and kind. As I walked away shivering with delight at his beauty, I thought ...man it would be really amazing to wake up beside that man every day. Maybe someday I can sit down with him and at least have small talk. I wish I would have done what I wanted to. Kidnap him and cuff him to my bed....what if I followed through with that plan?
Sunday, October 26, 2008
This rule of the broken heart
My life is succumbed to this: born, work, get fucked up and die. Though, I found this life through trivial means, it still makes me wonder how to get excited about any future endeavors. I finished a great high concept comedy with a writing partner that I don't know and I'm content with the effort. Normally, I would revel in this wonderful small feat that most of us only dream of but I'm stopped short. Stuck by the mundane details of mediocrity and still scared of the what the fuck happened syndrome. What the fuck happened syndrome? What is that do you wonder? Well, it's the eternal dream that encompasses what your heart felt as you took a journey to better yourself and ended up finding something less then stellar. In my pursuits for eternal greatness, I 'm not seeking anything less then redemption. I'm seeking something everyone wants to know, themselves. Through each re write that rears his ugly head, it's like an ex looking for a quick lay to forget the ex he never loved to begin with, I struggle. I gallivant with the masses. I drink for the ones that died, I drink for the ones that are better off then I'll ever be and I'm stuck. I am trapped in a mediocre job that doesn't know my talents or care to, an environment that I feel I'm maneuvering my way to the middle is unsettling at best. Yet, I have an eternal hope that one day, when I wake up in a house I own, that I can make a breakfast with comfort. I wake up today as I do every day, I stand on my gorgeous view of Los Angeles and thank who ever is out there that I am alive. That I have my faculties and a family missing me only too far away and I have the ability to change my course. It's coming, I feel the heat on my back. It's unlike monkey. I have enough of those burdens that I am trying to hinder. I am feeding the good dog. Who is the good dog you ask? Ask me when you're ready. I'd love to let you know.
Saturday, August 23, 2008
This thing called you and I
I am a fraud. I am a fake, a charlatan, imposter, phony and please don't make me pull out my thesaurus and start finding more words about who I am.
I’m the person who is sick to death with life but is making strides in improving it, in her own way. I’m intolerant and lackluster. I would rather watch a quality film then go out on a date, have coffee with a friend or go to any kind of sporting event. I usually find solace in booze but even that is getting boring. So the booze kick is now on hold indefinitely. See, that's the thing with me; when things become uninteresting or unappealing to me, I throw them away. I get them out of my life because they stopped serving a purpose. Will I go back? It's possible. Things have started organizing themselves. The universe usually takes care of that for me. The change has begun.
Seeing you on the elevator, I tried to ask you a question. It didn't work and it was because I had a massive crush on you. Seeing you made my heart skip a beat and my stomach sick. I tried to gain composure and I accomplished that, almost with ease and precision because that’s why I do when I have a crush. I go to great lengths to conceal how I feel and I do it. I don't think you noticed. I don't think you ever did or will. Actually, that's a relief to me. I wouldn't know how to act with you if I had you. Even being in the same room with you I feel your presence at 30 feet away from me. It's humbling and maddening and I don't enjoy it. It's that loss of control that maddens me. I am with the guys that are mediocre; they don't bring that out, my extreme vulnerability. They don't make my heart get excited, they are not very interesting or fun but they are safe. Safe. It's a sad world that I can't talk to you about how I feel and when I have spoken to you about anything through various lines of communication, I come off as commonplace, decrepit, and bonkers and that makes me scared and frustrated. What would happen if I got you alone? What if you enjoyed it? What if I did too? What if we were so happy it finally was there and so scared it was going to go away. I miss those feelings. Those feelings I don't think I ever really had anyway.
God I sound like a fucking psycho.
I’m the person who is sick to death with life but is making strides in improving it, in her own way. I’m intolerant and lackluster. I would rather watch a quality film then go out on a date, have coffee with a friend or go to any kind of sporting event. I usually find solace in booze but even that is getting boring. So the booze kick is now on hold indefinitely. See, that's the thing with me; when things become uninteresting or unappealing to me, I throw them away. I get them out of my life because they stopped serving a purpose. Will I go back? It's possible. Things have started organizing themselves. The universe usually takes care of that for me. The change has begun.
Seeing you on the elevator, I tried to ask you a question. It didn't work and it was because I had a massive crush on you. Seeing you made my heart skip a beat and my stomach sick. I tried to gain composure and I accomplished that, almost with ease and precision because that’s why I do when I have a crush. I go to great lengths to conceal how I feel and I do it. I don't think you noticed. I don't think you ever did or will. Actually, that's a relief to me. I wouldn't know how to act with you if I had you. Even being in the same room with you I feel your presence at 30 feet away from me. It's humbling and maddening and I don't enjoy it. It's that loss of control that maddens me. I am with the guys that are mediocre; they don't bring that out, my extreme vulnerability. They don't make my heart get excited, they are not very interesting or fun but they are safe. Safe. It's a sad world that I can't talk to you about how I feel and when I have spoken to you about anything through various lines of communication, I come off as commonplace, decrepit, and bonkers and that makes me scared and frustrated. What would happen if I got you alone? What if you enjoyed it? What if I did too? What if we were so happy it finally was there and so scared it was going to go away. I miss those feelings. Those feelings I don't think I ever really had anyway.
God I sound like a fucking psycho.
Monday, August 11, 2008
Treachery is the greatest sin
I have a real problem with Sienna Miller and the entire fiasco is that it seems that we as a public are reveling in other peoples heartbreak. I trusted John Edwards and really liked him. His mistress is not even attractive. His wife is riddled with cancer and he's fucking some low level troll on his campaign. Don't get me started on the Olympics and George Bush. I might as well put a gun in my mouth.
I'm at work and I'm at my wits end with my mediocre position in the company. I'm biting my lip to the point where I taste the blood and I can't hide my frustration but I am so desperate to do so.
So I seek refuge in you. I might go smoke and contemplate a future where stupid people are shipped off to an island to neve be heard from again. I find solace in that thought.
I'm at work and I'm at my wits end with my mediocre position in the company. I'm biting my lip to the point where I taste the blood and I can't hide my frustration but I am so desperate to do so.
So I seek refuge in you. I might go smoke and contemplate a future where stupid people are shipped off to an island to neve be heard from again. I find solace in that thought.
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
oh how true
"It isn't enough for your heart to break because everybody's heart is broken now."
Ginsberg, Allen
what if it shatters in your chest and all the little pieces absorb into your body causing waves of sharp pain that wash over you followed by troughs of numbing calm which are almost in there own way more disturbing.
Ginsberg, Allen
what if it shatters in your chest and all the little pieces absorb into your body causing waves of sharp pain that wash over you followed by troughs of numbing calm which are almost in there own way more disturbing.
Thursday, July 24, 2008
short list of people in tv commercials i want to strangle
I have always had an adverse reaction to the 'commercial family,' cheery mom (clearly taking the kids ritalin) who despite 4 children appears to be in her early 20's and a size 2, stocky, burly (aka fat) husband shocked by the high tech duster his wife has, 3 children who if examined closely seem to be of different racial backgrounds but whose sole purpose is to get either freakishly excited about the 'product,' or are sullen and angst only to be foiled by the housewife mother and strong paper towels.
ah, and the tween daughter appears to be older than her bouncy blonde mother, who in turn is freakishly attached to her blue collar fat men.
regardless of this specific, insane analytical breakdown of how this family prototype reflects nothing resembling reality despite the fact that they are all, say for instance, pummeling a neighbor over whose hotdog is plumper.
the people who irk me the most is not these mock degenerate families ( oh my god that is just like us, i watch because i identify), but the precipice of irk, the zenith of vexation is the the faux rock commercial, and the girl really excited about an inane object or product.
for example the time warner "i got cable" pseudo hip rocking jingle, which has such hubris that it seems to truly believe that i think that a real band did this or that douche-bags jingling will drive my ambition to animatedly talk on the phone in an apt. that clearly is 10,000$ a month.
digital phone will not do this for you.
cable will not either.
the next advertising induced homicidal impulse strikes like a cobra.
biting at the ankles of the dannon yogurt ladies. more insipid and misogynistic then any skin magazine, this duo of assholes, find that anything is merely a distraction from their yogurt.
their yogurt that they bring everywhere, like to weddings (open bar and 4 course meal abandoned and it's dazzling presence only a back drop for the yogurt.
a product which stayed cold in their bra or down their pants.
"better than never wearing a bridesmaid dress again good,"
not better than drowning you in your beloved yogurt.
compounded by my irrational anger directed at two commercial actresses who struck the holy tav advertising trinity.
i reoccurring role in a commercial.
making bank for being less appealing than a nude teddy ruxpin doll.
on to arm-pits, i watch network tv rarely, yet this image permeates every commercial break and like a parasite has imbued itself to all stations, local, network etc.
the most annoying person ever is freakishly excited about her deodorant.
so pumped in fact that she accosts strangers with hi-fives, salutes and any number of pit exposing actions.
i have seen out patients from psych wards behave like this,
when they goes off the meds.
any number of people in mentos commercials.
people who rinse out a sheet of paper towel for reuse.
assholes
ah, and the tween daughter appears to be older than her bouncy blonde mother, who in turn is freakishly attached to her blue collar fat men.
regardless of this specific, insane analytical breakdown of how this family prototype reflects nothing resembling reality despite the fact that they are all, say for instance, pummeling a neighbor over whose hotdog is plumper.
the people who irk me the most is not these mock degenerate families ( oh my god that is just like us, i watch because i identify), but the precipice of irk, the zenith of vexation is the the faux rock commercial, and the girl really excited about an inane object or product.
for example the time warner "i got cable" pseudo hip rocking jingle, which has such hubris that it seems to truly believe that i think that a real band did this or that douche-bags jingling will drive my ambition to animatedly talk on the phone in an apt. that clearly is 10,000$ a month.
digital phone will not do this for you.
cable will not either.
the next advertising induced homicidal impulse strikes like a cobra.
biting at the ankles of the dannon yogurt ladies. more insipid and misogynistic then any skin magazine, this duo of assholes, find that anything is merely a distraction from their yogurt.
their yogurt that they bring everywhere, like to weddings (open bar and 4 course meal abandoned and it's dazzling presence only a back drop for the yogurt.
a product which stayed cold in their bra or down their pants.
"better than never wearing a bridesmaid dress again good,"
not better than drowning you in your beloved yogurt.
compounded by my irrational anger directed at two commercial actresses who struck the holy tav advertising trinity.
i reoccurring role in a commercial.
making bank for being less appealing than a nude teddy ruxpin doll.
on to arm-pits, i watch network tv rarely, yet this image permeates every commercial break and like a parasite has imbued itself to all stations, local, network etc.
the most annoying person ever is freakishly excited about her deodorant.
so pumped in fact that she accosts strangers with hi-fives, salutes and any number of pit exposing actions.
i have seen out patients from psych wards behave like this,
when they goes off the meds.
any number of people in mentos commercials.
people who rinse out a sheet of paper towel for reuse.
assholes
and then the 1990's bit me in the ass...
1) back in school: check
2) moved back home: check
3) uncontrollable urge to dye hair with manic panic found in closet: check
4) offered 'e' pill by friend while drinking in basement on long island: check
yep it's 1999...
the pill is in the bottom of my purse, I am not quite sure what to do with it.
a friend who I have known for over a decade was musing about throwing a 1993 bbq to celebrate his moving to ny ( I think it's actually to celebrate his platonic man love for another mutual friend, who doesn't know his anniversary date with his girlfriend of 5 years, just his straight male bf, this is just conjecture.)
in 1993 I transfered in to public school (HHS go devils... this may be the first time I have uttered this) from a jewish parochial school on long island. clearly wanting to dress to impress this new brood of economically and racially diverse cohorts I carefully planned my first day of school outfit.
white denim GAP short shorts, a flannel sleeveless green plaid shirt tied at the waist and a choker made of fabric daisies.
hey weirdo, why do you remember that???
well deprecatory inner-monologue, because this was a new chapter of my life, rife with catholics and new friends, some of who are still my best gals to this very day. this was the first chapter in my personal new testament a gospel of teen angst, oddly dyed hair, blue christmas lights, smoking pot out of empty coke cans at carnivals, exile to guyville on repeat, half-assed vegetarianism, first kisses and heart breaking crushes.
and river phoenix, who my 10th grade year book is dedicated to (not formally) where on the first page the school has been x'd out with a sharpie and glue on top is headshot of river followed by an epitaph also in sharpie.
in his picture river is also wearing a sleeveless flannel.
maybe I was more on point then I knew?
2) moved back home: check
3) uncontrollable urge to dye hair with manic panic found in closet: check
4) offered 'e' pill by friend while drinking in basement on long island: check
yep it's 1999...
the pill is in the bottom of my purse, I am not quite sure what to do with it.
a friend who I have known for over a decade was musing about throwing a 1993 bbq to celebrate his moving to ny ( I think it's actually to celebrate his platonic man love for another mutual friend, who doesn't know his anniversary date with his girlfriend of 5 years, just his straight male bf, this is just conjecture.)
in 1993 I transfered in to public school (HHS go devils... this may be the first time I have uttered this) from a jewish parochial school on long island. clearly wanting to dress to impress this new brood of economically and racially diverse cohorts I carefully planned my first day of school outfit.
white denim GAP short shorts, a flannel sleeveless green plaid shirt tied at the waist and a choker made of fabric daisies.
hey weirdo, why do you remember that???
well deprecatory inner-monologue, because this was a new chapter of my life, rife with catholics and new friends, some of who are still my best gals to this very day. this was the first chapter in my personal new testament a gospel of teen angst, oddly dyed hair, blue christmas lights, smoking pot out of empty coke cans at carnivals, exile to guyville on repeat, half-assed vegetarianism, first kisses and heart breaking crushes.
and river phoenix, who my 10th grade year book is dedicated to (not formally) where on the first page the school has been x'd out with a sharpie and glue on top is headshot of river followed by an epitaph also in sharpie.
in his picture river is also wearing a sleeveless flannel.
maybe I was more on point then I knew?
Friday, July 18, 2008
Tuesday, July 1, 2008
My dreams involve me combing my hair
The funny thing about George Michael is that I loved him when I was a girl and I also had a thing for Boy George. I’ll Tumble For Ya, not written with a woman in mind. Father Figure, not for a girl either. I have finally left the days where I found gay men attractive in a sexual way. Quite honestly, I have not fancied a man without some sort of 5-o'clock shadow and a chip on his shoulder in almost long as I can remember. I take that back. David had a boulder on his shoulder and sounded a bit femme on the telephone. I still don't regret leaving him.
I am watching the World Trade Center episode of the Simpsons. It chills me for the bone. I really wish I had a pipe to smoke to relax me. Sarah, I told you today I will start smoking a pipe. I had one a long time ago and enjoyed it. I will purchase a wonderful Stanwell pipe filled with delicious cherry tobacco that reminds me of boarding school. That will be my next investment. I have to decide if I want to buy an Estate pipe or a New pipe. The idea of a stranger breaking in my pipe kind of scares me, but breaking in a new pipe is a pain in the ass. These are things I will contemplate throughout the evening. I will buy the pipe tomorrow along with some teeth whitener.
I wrote a 6-word story for a co-worker and new friend. Revenge is on the phone again. Hemingway always inspires me. His was as follows; for Sale: Baby Shoes. Never worn. I know, mine was better.
I am watching the World Trade Center episode of the Simpsons. It chills me for the bone. I really wish I had a pipe to smoke to relax me. Sarah, I told you today I will start smoking a pipe. I had one a long time ago and enjoyed it. I will purchase a wonderful Stanwell pipe filled with delicious cherry tobacco that reminds me of boarding school. That will be my next investment. I have to decide if I want to buy an Estate pipe or a New pipe. The idea of a stranger breaking in my pipe kind of scares me, but breaking in a new pipe is a pain in the ass. These are things I will contemplate throughout the evening. I will buy the pipe tomorrow along with some teeth whitener.
I wrote a 6-word story for a co-worker and new friend. Revenge is on the phone again. Hemingway always inspires me. His was as follows; for Sale: Baby Shoes. Never worn. I know, mine was better.
Saturday, June 28, 2008
Rolling...
I haven't heard someone say that in quite a while. It is a term I never really understood, supposedly it refers to the waves of sensation the drug MDMA gives you (thats E for all you street kids out there) is where the term comes from. I know the spazzy, pale, skinny kids who lived in their momma's basement I used to buy E from at parties though. I don't think any of them ever sat down long enough to really analyze the empirical data of their sensory experience.
" Oh man, this is like a beta wave of... fuck got a hair brush I can feel my teeth, I love my teeth, yo dude touch my teeth... yeah that's it...feel it."
In 1993 George Michael released a single that was a cover of "Papa was a Rolling Stone," it was 'fused' (heat source?) with the Seal song "Killer," I have not heard this. I may not even try to, some things are always better in your mind. For instance in my mind George Michael is wearing his "Choose Life," WHAM t-shirt 24-7, if he is cold he has on his leather motor-cycle jacket. Now I mean he is watering plants in that shirt, making eggs, on the can, painting, you name it. That is what George Michael wears and I will argue the point to the death with you.
" Oh man, this is like a beta wave of... fuck got a hair brush I can feel my teeth, I love my teeth, yo dude touch my teeth... yeah that's it...feel it."
In 1993 George Michael released a single that was a cover of "Papa was a Rolling Stone," it was 'fused' (heat source?) with the Seal song "Killer," I have not heard this. I may not even try to, some things are always better in your mind. For instance in my mind George Michael is wearing his "Choose Life," WHAM t-shirt 24-7, if he is cold he has on his leather motor-cycle jacket. Now I mean he is watering plants in that shirt, making eggs, on the can, painting, you name it. That is what George Michael wears and I will argue the point to the death with you.
The agony and the irony
I have been up dealing with druggies. One of my best friends is on the phone from Miami rolling and I have another one on my couch as I write thinking he will have a heart attack due to the consumption of cocaine and pills he injested this evening. I aspired to a quiet evening of cheap wine, The Smiths and writing. What went wrong? Oh, I think I know what went wrong, compassion.
Please allow me to excuse myself while I pretend to call 911.
Please allow me to excuse myself while I pretend to call 911.
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