go to this. i will be there. modelling underpants and a moustache.
don’t be a faaaaag.

i got this chapstick that tastes like the back of stickers when you lick them. december 10/00 12:34am sunday – everything’s blurry and sketchy. 7-12 lying facedown on the livingroom carpet. face imprinted with fluff. body numb. body exhausted. we are all born already fallen. i hate your neighbor’s dog. so hungry i could eat a packet of sugar. july 3 2000 Knightsbridge, London – short attention span. today i’m going to write the worst piece of literature and i’m okay with that. i can’t believe i flew all the way to the U fucking K to learn how to write. in room 1206. nice view the elevator does not go up to the twelfth floor. we get off at the eleventh and walk up a flight of stairs. all the toilets are retarded. i need to buy stamps. together we go mad. the water only gets hot if you pull on this string that hangs from the ceiling. i saw canadian geese in hyde park. the irony astounds me. i must purchase flip flops and peyote. everyone thinks we’re american. i did K and my legs went paralyzed. i just want a fucking month-long fling. these vicious one nite stands are so crap.

oh my god i just flooded my entire fucking basement arggggh!!!!! fuckds

fvgdkf bye

so i haven’t showered in awhile. do you think people are tired of seeing my boobs? went to the titty bar last nite and spent a jillion dollars and tried to get strippers to hang out with us. we were the most obnoxious fucks in the place. yay! i stole a pair of red mesh underpants today. and i bought new sexy red sheets. i am a sexahol that never has sex. believe me? no. i was going to be on this panel-thing tomorrow for muchmusic but i am not a lesbo feminist so they don’t need me blabbing my mouth off about jlo’s vagina and aguilera’s cuntyness. speaking of which, i am surprised we didn’t get slapped last nite. we were the meanest, most critical people ever. we booed like every girl except the one who gave us an extra lapdance grind and hooked u up with some other stuff. last nite reminded me of laura petrie and how she likes to give away all of her money to smart strippers.

my life is trash.

fuck, this page takes hours to load. i will fix this. maybe.

you guys need to keep reading raymi and laura and antidisestablishmentarian thank you.

Dear Douglas Coupland

i was waiting for the streetcar today, after my psychiatrist appointment and i overheard two girls and a woman with a walking-cast on her left leg, talking. one girl had pink hair like that pink girl and she was very rude to her mother and she radiated tons of attitude. it was disgusting. she spoke of being buzzed and other dumb things. i wondered where she lived. i wanted to tell her not to be mean to her mother and then i felt bad for being rude to my mother, and anyone i had ever been rude to. i was drinking a coffee and the sun was shining and it was on my face and i hated it and i loved it. and then i remembered that the tanning salon is closed on mondays.

now i am home in my room and it is all pink because i put up a new curtain and the sun shining through gives off this nice hue. like a boudoir. a boudoir for kindergardners. wait, how do i spell boudoir? whatever. that word is not important, anyways.

i hope you are being as human as you can possibly be.


Dear Douglas Coupland

Hi. I miss you. Do you miss me? i bought all families are psychotic a little while back but i am not finished reading it. i’m in the middle of reading 7 different books. some are these pamphlet-type things my psychiatrist gave me about depressive illness and bipolar shit. i’m seeing him tomorrow. i’m glad because i went out tonite and i wanted boys to talk to me and none of them did. this one guy had camouflage pants. but i’m glad he didn’t speak to me. i wanted to be close to someone really bad. anyone. i’m mad that i don’t have an email address for you or a phone number or a snail mail address. perhaps by the time you are 60 i will finally speak to you. i want to be your protege. really. sandra told me you were gay and i said no way and that it doesn’t matter.

several book reports in highschool i did on your books. generation x and microserfs. do you know how hard it is trying to explain to highschool tards the simplicity of your writing? really hard. i am related to jack kerouac. yah. i compared big sur to on the road and no one understood me but my teacher. it’s like trying to explain that feeling that christmas decorations and christmas lites give you and the feeling of christmas, in general.

like scrunched-up euphoria and happiness in the pit of your belly.

or a slip ‘n slide when you are 7 years old
and wearing a new fluorescent bathing suit.

why don’t people approach me?

Never give out your password or credit card number in an instant message conversation.

anti says:

shit i love falling alseep in all my clothes

r le minx says:


r le minx says:

me too

r le minx says:

i do it all the time and then i got out wearing the same clothes from the nite before

anti says:

we gotta get you this douglas guys email!

anti says:


r le minx says:

i know!

r le minx says:

i love him so much it hurts. my friend of a friend of douglas couplan says i am going to scare him away. but what does he know, he says. oh well. if it was meant to be, than it was. if not, oh well.

Dear Douglas Coupland

hi. hello. i have started writing this letter to you, in my head, over and over. and then i have stopped because i don’t know what i want to tell you. i feel i have to be as concise as insanely possible. i wanted to tell you what you mean to me. i wanted to tell you that i have read microserfs almost 12 times. do you ever reread books? i do. but only the ones i really liked because they speak to me. i write down passages in my journals, i write them on bathroom stalls and i repeat them in my head over and over until the words become my words, something i’ve said.

see, i can’t even finish this letter to you. i’ve been smoking weed all day, pretty much. i bought a mirror and a pair of shoes and i went splitz on the bill for breakfast. a late one. at 4pm.

i have to go now.


i want you to know that i love you, though.

at the joint – november 20-something

Being alone here makes me nervous. having to work at 12 makes me nervous, feeling rushed. drinking a double G&T with a stale lime and i have to go pee already. i want to ask these people for a job but i’m afraid to. looks like there’s enough staff here, working, standing around. being rejected is embarrassing and they might be gay so my charms won’t work on them. once i get to the bottom of this drink and have another i’ll ask for a job. i like this place. i’m kinda hiding back here, smoking by a stupid candle. i can’t even look up to see who is looking at me. i really fucking dig this funksoul music. this black lady is singing. to me. once i go to the bathroom everything will be better. i’m totally losing my fucking nerve. back from bathroom. looked in the mirror. i think i’m pretty enough to work here. i useto be so ballsy. i don’t remember if that’s true. perhaps i was just more obnoxious. but only with people who are stupider than me. i want to go and i want to stay. is everyone looking at me? why? because i am alone and stupid. who is the manager here? i am afraid. my pulse is a thousand beats per second. am i going to have a nervous breakdown everyfuckingplace i go to get a job? probably. this – this is my burden. marked like caine. maybe they want to speak to me. this guy, he’s cute. wants to speak to me. i’m convinced. he’s just nervous, intimidated. that or he’s gay.

ok there. i asked. the wrong guy. they’re all full. the manager isn’t even in. ihave no luck. none. zero. fuck me fuck me. i should just leave now without paying. probably a good idea. i’ve already had a zillion drinks. oh great i just ordered another. i’m superfucked. drunkly. my fantasies of working in this pretty place are over. i don’t like this place so much anymore. not doing so good at space impact II on my cell phone. i’m drunk already. 11:11pm. i won’t be outta here ’til 11:30 then i’ll be in a cab off to work. the slutfactory. must call for crazy appointment tomorrow! now i am hellbent on getting another job tho’ i don’t really want one or to look for one or give up all the ridiculous free time i have. i will NOT stay up ’til 8 in the morning tonite. goddammit. my god. i’m loaded. i need to drink up or i will never get out of here. i think i may have just got pen on my chin. this embarrasses me tho’ i cannot afford another trip to the bathroom just to see. tho’ i might because i am bored already. i hate the people over there at their shared table. all of them? yes. all of them. is that chefguy trying to read what i am writing? i think so. i do. i think i’m done writing for now. i close my book.

my neck is sore. my shoulders, my back. i am not going to approach people anymore. they will approach me. i am smoking another cigarette and it is good.

next day

coolhandluke and i both get nervous when we have to walk across a room so we scratch our heads or fiddle with our hair.

so i was gonna go out last nite before work but the place i like to eat and get sloshed at was packed so i walked away from it and walked up and down the street looking for another hot spot and everything sucked. it was friday nite. the skids are out, spilling out of cabs and phonebooths. ugggg. so i went to kfc to brown bag it over to work and asked the cute asian girl how she liked her job and she said it was easy and just near where she lived and i said once you leave this place you will realise how abusive the atmosphere is. you don’t need this minimum-wage bullshit. really.

she probably thought i was a lesbo.

i bumped into these girls i kinda know. the sister is the one who asked if i slept with her sister’s ex-bf at the art system party. she is an ice queen. i think the other sister hates me but apparently she thinks i am nice. there is more paranoia for you.

today i am going to buy a sexy curtain and go tothe tanning salon.

Laura Petrie is my bestest new york city friend. we finally have a shared blog. read it and you’ll see why we get along so well.


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.

TONY PIERCE rules. sometimes i actually believe his little dialogues with celebrities. it’s true. i’m quite gullible. i am. i like how he writes about extremely personal stuff and he has all these hot girl friends. i think his ex, ashley is a bit cheesy but, whatever. she’s american. i will write more later about tony. tony tony tony. yay.

my family hates me. they think im crazy and naked and going to slit my wrists. they only look at the pictures on my website, they don’t read it. they like to get together and discuss their fears. their friends email them and say, “raymi is going to be stalked and watched and kidnapped…bla bla” and then i get neurotic phonecalls and emails from my mum and she asks me for the zillionth time when my next crazy appointment is. you know guys, if you think i’m not aware of the possibilty of someone parked outside my house in a civic 24/7, you’re pretty daft. yes i think of how you will react to every picture i post or thing i write and i just don’t care anymore. i don’t. if i walked around caring so much about what my peers thought of me, my head would cave in. i know people who make it their personal goal to constantly please their parents and meet their standards. these people are stressed out, have ulcers, are extremely insecure and are never fully satisfied with the work they are producing. now, is this a good thing?

i am not going to wear a nice conservative dress and work in an office or keep all the things i love about life a secret and i am never ever going to censor myself. i am going to say and i am going to do things that will make you so confused, but it’s ok. i do this all the time. i am “offensive” – get use to it now or just forget i exist.

your daughter has breasts and an ass and a vagina and she likes to take pictures of herself, a hobby if you will, now somewhat out of hand, but still fun and funny and there is no need to sit around debating it.

save it for oprah.

places to consider

somehow i got a hit from this shitty christian blog. that would be pretty cool if they linked me in their most evilest links page or something. and then i got a hit from this weird asian place. talk about loving thyself to the extreme. this girl is like a postcard. serious. and then i forget how i found Naked House and i don’t care. i don’t read it. i can’t seem to get past fantasizing about a naked house. and then we have photos of friends from the beginning of time. some are pretty neat. you can pretend you actually know these lame-os. and then, my personal favorite, How to make a toga dot fucking com

this knob is the knobbiest knob who ever knobbed. “Then for the head, I take a wire coat hanger and shape it into a circle that will fit my head. Then I get plastic (or real) leaves and wrap it around the wire hanger, and then put it on my head. I think it’s called a laurel, or something like that. Looks cool.” one of the girls in the picture should not have been invited to the toga party because she is not wearing a toga and please, if you will, check out the first group photo. the old hag in the front row and to the left, she, is, my, girlfriend.

it’s true.

anti says:

yah my friends don’t get you either….

r le minx says:

well they can fuck off

anti says:

one quote, “why is that chick so naked?”

r le minx says:


r le minx says:

because i am pretty

anti says:

and they’re mostly asstards

r le minx says:


r le minx says:

why do you hang out with asstards