i will never forget the sound of dumptrucks full of rubble and the explosion when it happened. walking along 7th ave. that nite in park slope, the church doors were wide open, people were writing things on papers. everything was quiet. fighter jets went by a lot. i didn’t know because i was canadian. i didn’t cry. my boyfriend came home 4 hours later and we were mean to each other. i will never forget going onto the roof after seeing it on tv and thinking, i never see these things in real life and i am not suppose to. there are people on the street and they can’t see this and there are children in the church playground and they don’t know about this and i am taking pictures. this isn’t my home. so i don’t know what to feel. i interviewed therapists for a piece i was writing for canadian print mags and they told me i was going to be fucked up later on. i said i didn’t think so. they said i’d have nitemares. and i haven’t. but i do get this feeling when i see the pictures and when i see the news and the videos my heart tightens and i go back to that guy who jumped from the building when i was 4 years old and i think of the people who threw themselves from those burning buildings. the whole planet could explode and we could be suffocating under water and i wouldn’t care. but those people, those people were terrified.
i won’t forget being on the subway, every stall and clang, thinking it was the end.
asshole has a date. a never-ending date and this means i have no friends. i was invited and then uninvited to a party by three boys. three. they decided they wanted to bring someone who would actually have sex with them at the end of the nite and not go off and set the drapes on fire. asshole lives down the street from me and i haven’t seen him in months. we gossip on msn. that is all. we know the same people. we’ve fucked the same people. no wait. nevermind. asshole is an asshole is an asshole. he has this hot couple duo friends or whatever and i want to bone the boy-half of the duo. i see them all the time at fraud club and they are both skinny and have super cool style and wear jean jackets and are probably all shy and fucked up and that is irresistible. however, shy people are hard to take. they make me all neurotic and tense and flighty and then i’m like, ok i’m leaving now. bye. so i finally saw fubar and you know, i actually believed that the filmmaker died and it was all true and not a drama and i kept going, “ARE THEY REAL!?” “THAT IS SO DISTURBING!” and craig let me believe it the whole way thru and then he couldn’t take it anymore and said, “god raymi, it’s not real, lookit the credits..he’s an actor..”
i had more nitemares. but i forget them. i think it’s the weed. seriously.
craig gave a two year old the finger on the bus. hahaha.
that’s like flipping off an inanimate object. i can’t decide which feels better, though.
i am going to be in a lingerie underwear launch party thing. modelling, you guessed it, underwear. i get to keep ‘em too and walk around drinking beer. i am such a classy, classy lass. i’ll let you know the where’s and when’s like the day of so you can show up with your rifle and burlap sack.
i have a question. when you go out to a coffeeshop/bar/restaurant/laundry mat, are you reading your book and/or writing on your paper because you are a student and you really like doing those things or are you a neurotic piece of shit like me, and extremely self conscious and so, your book and papers are your shield from looking dumb and sad and pathetic? well, uh, yah. i probably shouldn’t but i do. i go out a lot. alone. and i chainsmoke at the bar and i get soused and i am a huge miserable failure at meeting people in the real world. you literally have to shake me and say, “i want to be your friend” before i think, “hey, they want to be my friend.” i say things i probably shouldn’t and i ask a lot of questions. i’m pretty gullible too. i use to be the cat’s ass and all proud and now when people look at me i think it is because i am a weirdo and not because i am pretty. i go somewhere, i sit in all the wrong places, i always go home with the wrong person, i don’t know how to read body language and i don’t stay for very long. i give off this never-ending fuck you vibe. why do you think i take so many cabs? i can’t wait for streetcars and the people near me when i am on them and the cars going past and people on the street looking at me. oh man. this is so david letterman. he has that phobia of people too. and he is like, david fucking letterman. bizarre. my psychiatrist told me it’s because i did coke. and now that i think of it, the paranoia began about the time i started in on the snuff-snuff. what a concept. i have trouble sleeping alone. i do. i’m currently experiencing a manic episode. it’s lasted almost a week now. i stay up real late, i wake up real early and i putter around doing everything and nothing and i spend spend spend. and i find people who don’t have money and i pay for them. this is one of the reasons why i think i don’t make a very good female-type person. i’ll list such suspicions soonly. soonly. good word.
there’s fk. we go out and get messed up. he comes over and smokes cigarettes with me and lets me sing my songs. and then the sun comes up and he goes home. to his girlfriend. he doesn’t go to his job sometimes. i think he should. he makes me think that my taste in music is the best. but it’s two years late. mehhh. hi fk.