i’m a people-addict.

i have to connect with everyone.

i really care about everything and i always have a story to tell that is somewhat relevant to what you are talking about and i will make it funny and after awhile you may get annoyed by my incessant-rambling and ADD so we take a break from each other and i spend my nites wandering around in the dark taking the same photographs until i bump into a familiar face and i smile at them and sometimes they don’t want to be smiled at

and then you will call me and i will say oh right now i am looking at a tree and there are all these crinkly leaves around and people are weirded-out by me ‘cos they are probably wondering why i am always there wearing flamboyant jackets

and you ask me if i am drunk and i say no, not yet, don’t interrupt i am telling you about a lamp post now and something someone said to me at lunch that day and a one-liner i remembered from a simpson’s episode a month ago and i ask you about your day and maybe we will rent a movie later on or meet up at a strip club and we’ll find my mittens and you say maybe you should wear a dress and i say, perhaps

and maybe i will show you videos of me dancing around an apartment to beastie boys wearing that russian hat that i wear and i tell you that there was one of me doing a cartwheel into a poker table but i erased it and you were amused and seem to be entertained by it, maybe addicted, like how i am addicted, people-addicted

and so there i am walking again because i don’t want to be alone in the house staring at the laundry i should be doing and the cat that is needy and the cigarettes that aren’t there for me to smoke so i go into town and watch color of money with the boys and think maybe i won’t drink today i have gotten this far so far but then we get a pitcher and i am playing the video games and eavesdropping on people’s football conversations

and i leave to go to another bar and i think all the way there i have no money absolutely no money i am just going in to say hi and then a bunch of entertaining depressing stuff happens because sunday is when the real-lonelies come out and adan walks in and i am all hey focker where are my mittens and conky sez you set him up the other nite and i am trying to talk to shawn about marketing and james is being drunk argumentative and pathetic and my fone is just not working i am waiting for it to ring so i can go watch ali g with you and then i am in trouble

shawn was asking why i was so tough and i said it was a defense-mechanism and i waved my arm around the room and said because these are the people i know, the only ones i know where i am living right now and they are all drunk or drinking and they are all male and it has been the case forever

so i have grown-accustom to it

and i told bryce we have an appointment this thursday and that i was nervous and excited about it because i wanted to come across as smart and he bought me a beer and i didn’t ask him to and i asked him how the smoking was coming along and he said great and i said great, thinking that he meant yes the quitting-smoking business and then he pulled out a pack of cigs and i clucked oh no and on and on and on.

some people may read this and shake their head and say their life is better, their party scene is less dark, happier, truthful, and the people in their circles are more real.

i call bullshit on that.

i love these people in this scene.

somebody’s got to.

watched the second half of the color of money and i told thom that he should start being a pool hustler and then i wished i had some crazy weird talent of my own that i could demonstrate in bars and people would place bets on me to do this talent and amaze everybody but all i could think of was that dice game and honestly, i don’t think that would go over so well in a pub, or that anyone would care to see some girl squatting down on the floor throwing dice and have people fall on top of her and so on. i just couldn’t get past throwing dice as my new enterprise and i felt really bad for myself but in a haha i am such a moron type-way.

and then i got over it.

then i thought i could sit there and draw people manic drawings for five dollars or something but then i would be too polite and say here have it for free and they would end up writing on the back anyway and i always draw the same thing over and over and over and it’s the same people and they will be like, we don’t want another picture and then i’ll draw them one anyway but it will be one of their face and a thought-bubble above their head and some immature insult in the thought-bubble like they are saying it about themself and i’ll go here you are stupid, here is the picture you didn’t want, shove it up your fookin’ ass!

and they say wow that one is the best picture you ever drew for me i love it and i say give me my money and they go well you said i could have it in my fookin’ ass and i say well i changed my mind i am selling it to your best friend instead to spite you and then i turn to the friend and the friend gives me a hug and a pity-look and i go home and beat someone with one of my journals.

nah.

i say look idjits i am an art-hustler, everyone over there was betting on me over this whole picture-nonsense, har har, get out of the bar.

i have the lamest fantasies.

oh and ps transmegacorp is getting all this raymitheminx traffic/business, dur, so everybody else who is smart and wants traffic too should be nice and email me and get me to advert your merch.

i need money so i can continue being a novelty.

double ps. i could beat anyone in megatouch 11up in any bar. that is my savante bar-talent.

we walkedaround in the sun to the library and i read two books to them and i talked to a little dog and i told them more things i will put into the drunk piece i will inevitably write from my deathbed, a how-to guide for serious alholism. one line was something like – all of a sudden i am hung over and you are talking and now i am leaving. we ate fancy sammiches and they played chess and i watched a little girl eat an ice cream cone and her gramma was knitting and i didn’t spill any of my sammich on the floor or the perrier. we watched the dave chappelle dvds. i laughed a lot.

i read The English Roses yesterday and i found that i identified with the one character Binah. she is all made fun of by the popular girls ‘cos they are jealous of her and then they have this gay dream where they go to her house and see her cleaning up after her blue-collar dad and making dinner and the popular girls realise they are worthless cunts and then they start doing binah’s chores for her. i suggest you go to a bookstore and read it for free like i did. madonna wrote it, she didn’t draw it. well maybe she did. anyway. binah is all lonely and wears knee socks and she is smart and i am kinda like that and as a defense-mechanism i make fun of myself and have a “sense of humor” about not having girlfriends to rely on and do my chores for me so i hang out with boys and get them to do my chores instead and talk to my mum while i roll my eyes and flip out about them talking because i am watching survivor and no my dad isn’t blue-collar like binah’s though if he were i would be fine by it. he works really hard at what he does and i do absolutely nothing whatsoever.

imagine if i were your daughter all of a sudden one day like if they made a reality show of me living with you for a week and you weren’t allowed to hit me when i pissed you off so you had to try and “fix” and “enlighten” and “mentor” me and make me into a “proper lady” – how long you imagine before you drowned yourself in a lake?

i want to go look at amish people today.

TOP TEN UNSAFE TOYS FOR CHRISTMAS

10. Junior Electrician Outlet Patrol

9. Hasbro’s Slippery Steps

8. Black & Decker Silly Driller

7. Roof Hanger Paratrooper Outfit

6. Remco’s Pocket Hive

5. Traffic Tag

4. Will It Burn? From Parker Brothers

3. Chimney Explorer

2. My First Ferret Farm

1. Ooh-You’re Blue!, the Hold-Your-Breath Game

TOP TEN NUMBERS BETWEEN ONE AND TEN

10. Seven

9. Four

8. Ten

7. Three

6. Eight and a half

5. Nine

4. Two

3. One

2. Eight

1. Five and Six (tie)

TOM BROKAW’S TOP TEN TURN-ONS

10. Long walks on the beach

9. A perfumed bath on a rainy afternoon

8. Raisa Gorbachev in a waitress uniform

7. Doing the news with no pants on

6. When they sneak some swear words into a PG movie

5. Connie Chung’s discarded makeup sponges

4. Slow dancing in the White House briefing room

3. Body Glitter

2. Hang-gliding nude over state prisons

1. Fat checkout girls who wear a ton of makeup

lists obviously stolen from Letterman’s book of top ten lists circa 1990.

watched fight club last nite, 2/3 of it, no, 3/4.

yes i have seen it before.

the way it was written is very douglas coupland, the script, very, i-hate-my-culture. it made me want to be cynical, more than i already am and walk around in a messed-up work shirt with blood on my lips.

feh.

something is wrong with my audioblogger thing-a-ling. there are ludes and ludes of mentalpatientraymi recordings out there that i am waiting on.

before fight club, mark and i were dancing around to tarantino songs and i started smoking a cig in a slow-motion cool way when the zed’s dead song came on and i brought up the you notice when a song is on everything gets cooler in the room discussion and we got to talking about it for awhile until some ole lady banged on his door for us having beastie boys videos blaring simultaneously with tarantino movie songs and he was like, i am going to be evicted and i said was that your first noise complaint ever? how old was she? was she mad? what was the expression on her face?

mark goes well, i cut her off before she could even tell me to turn down the music, i said, MUSIC TOO LOUD?

mark also said something wrong to an old guy in the elevator about how yeh he is new to the apartment and yes he is young and then we started laughing uncomfortably and exited the elevator and i said um did you really just tell that guy you were young where the fuck did that come from? mark says yeh i know, “Yes i am new to the planet and i am young!”

it’s ‘cos every tenant in the place is a hundred years old and their cars in the underground garage have thick dirty dust on ‘em and flat tires. the landlord is eighty and very nice and thinks i am a silly prostitute because i wear ridiculous furry winter hats and flamboyant jackets and i am always smiling awkward polite prostitute smiles at him because that is what julia roberts did in pretty woman ‘cos she knows she is not suppose to be in that fancy hotel.

me on the other hand, i know that everyone in mark’s apartment is old and i am not so old and that i have every right to be there and it is just a mistake that i am of the female-persuasion and i usually have a six-pack hidden under my jacket anyway so i figure if i smile and not say much, that makes me invisible?

ok i already forgot where i was going with this so, good morning, expect more posts all day long in-between me knitting the whole town fancy sweaters because that is what i do.

when you are a dirtbag, you do all of your laundry at the same time or you don’t do it at all. there is no such thing as separate wash loads for different-colored articles of clothing and fabric-materials and delicates. though, sometimes dirtbags are forced to do multiple loads simply because one cannot possibly fit everything into the washer all at once because the machine starts slam-dancing against the wall and screams up the stairs that it is going to make itself fall apart if you don’t turn it off and divy up your stank-ass loser clothes, post-effin’-haste.

when you are a dirtbag you have to sometimes make like you are not a dirtbag and you make everyone else feel awkward and uncomfortable because they make a point to shower everyday and make an effort not to have greasy hair and wear clean underwear but there you are walking around flaunting your i-don’t-give-a-crapness in their face and they are all, i hate him.

and there is this oh shit they know that i know that they know that i am a dirtbag orange-glow that floats all around you at your table and so you have to be loud and boisterous and make your i-don’t-give-a-crapness presence better known like excuse me everyone not sitting at my table, you should all be paying attention to over here RIGHT NOW because OVER HERE there is a lot of nihilistic-coolness happening.

shit.

dirtbag and hipster are two very, very close things, pretty much the same thing, almost, sort of.

equally annoying is what i mean. but what isn’t these days?

golf shirts, for example.

annoying.

though i wear them from time to time.

also.

people who hold doors open for other people just to make everyone in a coffeeshop feel bad for not holding the door, and basically making us all look like the assholes that we are, that, is considered annoying.

though when it is a friend of yours who does it, you are not allowed to be annoyed.

but, you are allowed to tell off your friend when they get back to your table and express that you are thoroughly-dissapointed in them for making everybody feel bad and that you think the only way in which to rectify the situation is to individually apologize to every person in the coffeeshop for being so damn selfish and to especially apologize to the person the door was held-open for in the first place because it is wrong to make one think they are allowed to gloat all day long about a random act of kindness that happened to them by way of fluke.

make sure you get this point across to your friend and that they fully understand that holding doors open for strangers is misleading, and very, very mean, cruel, and dangerous and you should chastise your friend about this for the rest of the day and make up elaborate stories about people getting hurt real bad and being forced to starve themselves and stand naked in the snow until your friend tells you to fuck off altogether.

and that’s when you say, “I’m bored. Quit boring me.”

haha.

ok back to dirtbags.

this was suppose to be a guide to dirtbags but i am annoyed thinking about the subject right now and i am sure you all know how to be a dirtbag anyway though a funny little guide i could put together easily enough for you but you would go, unnngh, that is SO annoying of her to tell ME how to be what i already am.

now i just want to write about things that i am annoyed by and say “pfft” after every sentence.

maybe i’ll do that later.

i am hanging out with eryn tonite. his ex-gf is a dumb tit and i will inevitably write all about this scandalous gossip because i am a busy-body and i feed off other people’s pain and anger and i get angry when they get angry because i come from the nation of RageAngeria.

now mark just called and was all should i go to this gramma’s house or that gramma’s house or should i stay in and read about dungeons&dragons and i said let’s all hang out together even though eryn doesn’t know it yet and you guys have never met and i am always the girl hanging out with the boys and making them be friends because that is just the way it is and if you ever see me out in public with a girl she is either my mum, related to me, or i just met her and we will prolly never hang out again unless pre-arranged by mutual friends and she never calls me and i think about her a lot.

i wrote there today, earlier, and this is a picture of a picture of me awhile ago. i am thinking about doing something spectacular with my hair soon. i’m growing bored of myself again. i am thinking of going to school. gasp. learning how to talk to people without nervously fiddling with a hair-elastic and staring at the floor school. learning how to be confident again, without alcohol. learning how to cope. learning how to be happy and how to appreciate what i’ve got and counting my blessings.

nah.

marketing/advertising is what i think i’ll do and i will still be shy and weird in the back and not talk to anyone.