I know I fucked it up and he is never ever ever going to write back. It�s already almost 24 hours later and he still hasn�t responded.
There is no hope for me.
I could be going to Honest Ed�s or to Ikea but I can�t even picture myself outside of this apartment at any time today.
Not even if the building was on fire.
It�s like I have been fasting everyday, all day until eleven pm eleven at nite and then I eat and stay up �til 7 or 9 am and then I sleep and do it again and again and THAT is why I weigh about 120lbs. I am 5�9 and should be weighing at least, AT LEAST 138lbs.
Yes.
But I really like being skinny. I wish I was skinnier just so I could be a fucking supermodel and step on other people, like fat girls who hate me, fuck them!
I don�t care if I am not tall enough, Posh spice did some runway modelling and she is like an elf. When I am famous I am walking down a fucking runway and I am spitting on everyone who looks at me in a bad way.
my face is white because i am micheal jackson. no. i fall asleep wearing make-up all the time and i always forget that when i fall out of bed and walk directly to the tanning salon so my body is brown and my face is from interview with the vampire.
what do i want to tell you first today?
oh right, ok, so the adult website in-which i use to show my vagina for, those guys took it upon themselves to hack the eff out of my last paycheck, my hours, my shifts, saying i was late here and there..bla bla. it was all very amusing and hilarious, we stood around sharing a laugh or two and i was like, boy, this is a wonderful place of employment i am so glad i worked here and you guys really took care of me. and so i waved goodbye cheerfully and said lets have a coffee, some day.
just wait.
these are the things i would like to do today but i know i won’t:
comb my hair.
go to the tanning salon
watch the rest of minority report (i know i will do this)
go to honest ed’s
go to ikea
go to my apartment and pick up all packages, letters, junk mail and the stash of hundred dollar bills between my futon and its frame and then go straight to private eye’s in niagara falls.
go to the movies because it is tuesday cheap nite
i am bored of this list already.
i bought a new hat from the market, yesterday. it is interesting looking.
i wrote an electronic message to douglas coupland for real.
i will post what i wrote. hmm, maybe not. only if he responds.
i have to watch tv and think about boys now.
if that swollen members/nelly furtado breath song isn’t your newest most favourite song, i can’t ever be your friend. never.
we skipped out on the bill tonite, they screwed up our order, we were arguing over the three drunks who kept looking at me funny, we just walked out of there, ten minutes after three in the morning and i don’t think we’ll go back. im glad i was informed about the not-paying just after getting into the automible because my awareness of doing a bad thing would make me obvious and dumb and then i’d go to jail. their latkas weren’t so bad. along with the ice water. the nite before i almost punched this guy in the face. long history of deep-seeded contempt for 50 per cent of the people in that room. i don’t need to go back for another 6 months. a girl confronted me in the bathroom. she is dating an ex-flame of mine. i have never had someone say to my face that they were jealous of me, like really jealous. i wish i wasn’t so baked. i’d have enjoyed it more. what else. went to a loud dirty bar full of students hidden in a corner of north york city. if they ever want to intverview/write about me again it has to be downtown. if i wasn’t in a hurry to get to the place in-where i was to punch out that guy, i would have stayed way longer and consumed more barrel beer. i have some flyers to post for some events happening soon where you might see my tits or chin hairs, something. i have a crazy appointment tomorrow, 1 15pm but before that i have to go have my hair washed and styled so my friend can get his license so he can be a stylist person.
ok i have been collecting “raymi jerk off delite” photos. ten of them for each package. each package is different. if you want a sneak preview you have to send me five dollars. upon doing that i will send you the slew of ten shots to your liking. i specialize in butt, nipple, crotch (not open vagina) and other miscellaneous tantalizing poses. keep ‘em for yerself, put em on the web, sell ‘em on ebay, i don’t care. email me or donate or conact me. i haven’t decided on prices yet. i just tried jerking off to myself, i had some in a zoom in/out picture viewer and by the time i got to the 6th shot i was spent. i have never jerked off to myself before. it was by accident. i’m so lazy i cant even go to the bed or the shower or the couch. i’ve been having masturbation frenzied sprees the last four days. i’m like, “TAKE THAT CLITORIS!” my ribs ache and my thighs, my whole body tightens up. it’s my only excercise.
found the illest of loft spaces. hello hello new life. haha. sorry coolhandluke. you will die when i show you pictures of it. i’m no longer suppose to show booby pictures, i’ll stop don’t worry. next project is “other people” or “people in raymi’s circle of trust.” yes.
“this place is better than cocaine.”
i don’t even want to tell you where it is. oh boy.
i can’t even sit still.
and i am baked all of a sudden and my chapstick ran out and my mind is reeling at all the new posibilities that this new space can be used for, im talking 24/7 raymi reality loft show and rent it out to movie makers and dinner parties and a claw bathtub!! excuse me while i jump out a window. high ceilings, breakfast nook that looks out onto a balcony patio, french doors, all open-concept, two bedroom, laundry, fuck fuck FUCK.
i’m fucking hungry and starving and learning that adderall with no food, equals exactly what i wanted it to. surpassing hunger because this place is too messy to cook and there are no food implements to use. haha.
i like going back and forth from my laptop to the mac machine thing in my pajama bottoms and flip flops and no shirt and sweaty armpits. did you know i stubbed my left toe, the one beside the big one and i think the nail might fall off. i don’t care about that, it’s not so important. it just hurts when i walk and i hobble a bit.
we drank neo citran and had a coma from 930am-320pm and everything else was put on hold.
i might be moving to a studio loft big open-concept place like you see in the movies.
i will be twenty years old in seventy-one days. i think i am ok with the idea of that now. i was masturbating and i said, “i am almost twenty years old. that pussy is almost twenty years old. i should tell people i am twenty years old. i like that number.”
and then there is my book which i have not added to in four weeks and i realise that when i publish it i can put on the back that i was 18-19 years old when i wrote it and then i will feel superior to all other beings.
thank you jdh for the pill. i am flying now. i’m not even hungry anymore. i know i make people cringe when i say dark things. my psychiatrist thinks i might have ADHD after i told him everything i did over the past 4 weeks and i didn’t lie about one single thing. not one. rather, i told it all and did not cover anything up. i see him again monday, 1:15pm and i will be there on time with a coffee to hold in my hand so i dont fidget with my hat or my hair or fingernails.
wuh wuh wuhhhhh…guess what happens when you type raymitheminx.com?
boink!
each day
i’m
ge t t ing
b ette r
and
bett er
so write raymitheminx.com on bathroom stalls and toilet paper rolls, ok?
so my book is about my life and all the things i don’t tell you here and something more. i’m just trying to be a pioneer and have a nice looking little thing to store away with all my adventures so i can move on to the next chapter of my life. i use to fantasize about my journals being found in parks or wherever and then being telephoned and told that i am brilliant and interesting and worth having the world know about me. i think i’m doing all the things i was meant to be doing on this earth. anything different wouldn’t seem right.
MONDO magazine wrote about me. i’m going to their release party tomorrow. somewhere near York university, the rooster something pub. now i have to go look at more photos and maybe shower or make it look like i had a shower and then go meet parkdalemiddleton for drinks and food or hash fuck i need to go to the tanning salon and go get my money and go go go go go.
Douglas Coupland, i saw you on a commercial for this canadian awards thing. i screamed and everyone went, what? we were sitting in this junky-style livingroom with a hole in the wooden floor and the room was all slanted and i said, “DOUGLAS COUPLAND!?” and no one knew except for one, who you were. but i couldn’t talk about it because no one understands me and i kept saying, ok i’ll take that tranquilizer now, no NOW, ok in a minute because sometimes when i get to talking it’s like i can’t stop and i am even annoyed at myself. but one guy was nice and said, no what you are saying is interesting, tell me more. i couldn’t tell if he just wanted to fuck me. i don’t trust many people.
so i heard you have that thing, you know what it’s called? “Poverty mentality” except yours is different. you spend and spend and spend but you save and save and save. you are never broke and you are never rich.
what the fuck are you talking about? next you’ll be telling me i have white-guilt.
no no no, no.
“i don’t have time for this mickey mouse, bullshit.”
hey, that was pretty good. i see you have been watching that professional movie, huh?
yes. i can recite the whole script, every scene. it’s up there with the big lebowski for me.
what’s your obsession with that movie all about?
well, it takes maybe two to four viewings to get all the little parts and then maybe ten after that to appreciate them and then maybe watch it two times a week over bong hits, with a friend of course, for the rest of your life. i think i like it ’cause my mum my dad and my brother hated it. that and every line is hilarious.
and why now the professional?
come on. twelve year old natalie portman smokes cigarettes, wears a green bomber jacket and that french guy teaches her how to kill people and he buys her a pink dress and falls in love with her.
oh right, that.
exactly.
so i heard you spent 32 dollars on laundry.
they do a good job. they fold it for you. they eat they sleep and they live laundry. i don’t have time for that, well, i do but you know, i can barely toast bagels or hold pint glasses without them falling out of my hands.
why are you so sad?
i am never satisfied with what i am doing, my work, my creative endeavours, it is never good enough and seems everyone thinks i should be doing something else, like school or some sort of formal training.
why are you so sad?
nothing exciting ever happens to me like, red carpet runway walks or 6am flights to cuba and salmon cream cheese mousse spread on my crostini…
that mousse goes rancid pretty fast.
i know.
what does sadness feel like?
well the sad part is easy, it’s the worrying about being sad that kills me. like, uh oh, when this is over, i’m going to be sad again.
you don’t look so fucking sad to me, you know. fat girls are allowed to be sad, handicapped people, opressed people, foster kids..etc etc
yah i know, that’s why this bites so much – there’s no physical affliction.
what makes you happy?
theme parks and rollercoasters, convertible rides wearing cowboy hats, castles, owning a helicopter, rainbows…
yes but that was from this guy who lives in my part of town, someone who belongs there, you know, the rich part. what the fuck does he know?
he was the only other guy?
yes.
do you pose for your photos?
some.
well, there you go.
i see what you mean.
so you are no longer a porno model?
this is true.
how do you feel about that?
liberated.
ok.
sure.
what are you going to do now?
network my laptop to a bigger machine, finish my book, stop lying to my psychiatrist, punch holes in walls, make raymi-in-action videos, i dunno, collect social assistance.
Ok i think i figured out what friend of perry, over at whateverthemuff was trying to tell me
:sidenote: must find thing that takes down into print every word i say, when i say it no matter how stupid it sounds. :end sidenote:
i think he made a typo or there was a blip in his sentence in-where the word, “Not” wasn’t present where it was suppose to be.
he was giving me work advice which i appreciate.
he said i have nice pictures. but i am in them too much.
so i could be a photographer because i take nice pictures, the quality…
is this true?
i dunno, i thought pictures of random shit were plain boring. i never meant to over-saturate my fucking-self. i guess i did. sorry. i am mad-OCD and grab all these cameras and take jillions of me-shots and stuff-shots and post all the good ones right away without thinking, “hrmm, i could get money for exclusive photos” “Hmmm, i’m fucking evil and greedy, i’m selling THAT.”
i think i have self-confidence issues.
anyhow, i just want to know what the big fuss is all about.
or maybe i want you to question it and let me know what you think the it is.
assuming you care.
hence the self-confidence issues.
tell me about this “raymi phenomenon”
and then i wonder if friend of perry even knows what it’s suppose to be about.
i don’t think dean in maine knows much either, seeing as, he’s just dean in maine, buckity-fuckity maine, maine to which contributed to my agoraphobic, depressed, muther-fucking drag-me-into-the-woods-and-leave-me-for-dead, maine.
friend of perry, i don’t want to be a photographer and take pictures for other people, of other people or their businesses or of their stupid lives unless it involves beauty, death, love or suffering. i find i write my best when my heart is breaking. honestly.
and dean, i don’t want to sit around and watch television and make observations about barbara walters and clean up my act for mainstream television.
i don’t want an office job, a go-to job, an any-job.
i don’t want to write off my freedoms.
why am i sitting here, 5:30 am, uploading photos, tinking with templates, spooling and spooling these run-on sentences?
why do i bother?
why do i do this for 3 years+ ?
why do i receive 50+ emails daily and respond to practically each and every one of them?
why do i get another 30+ emails weekly asking for sex, love, loss, friendship, fashion advice?
what who where why when the fuck am i?
WHO THE FUCK DO I THINK I AM?
i do have a point and no i am not yelling at you.
what i’m trying to do here is create a phenomenon.
i thought it was a name i made up for this sexpot of a girl in a book called, “The last minx.”
and naturally, the handle “raymi the minx” would come to seed.
i don’t want to tell you all my secrets just yet.
just know that there is a reason for everything i do.
and for everything i say.
im not trying to be anti-this and all wacky and sexual and female that.
i really could care less about feminism and the glass-ceiling effect and women wearing high-heels in the kitchen.
and men, what about them? who cares.
i don’t care about music and what’s popular and name brands and i’m not a big oooooh whooopeee “Culture-jammer”
fuck you spaniard for ever having said that to me, by the way.
you know-fucking-what? < to the crowd, not just to the spaniard >
>>>>>again, back to the music, yes i love it, i really do, but i don’t know song-names anymore or bands or show dates, what? Bo R i n g. i can’t stand up at a show for more than 30 minutes before i’m like, leave leave just finish your boring set. i didn’t even like that melt banana show.
anyway.
i don’t care about any of it, any of it, if it does not pertain to me i don’t care but wait, this does not mean i am ignorant and not paying attenion to some of it. i know this makes no sense right now but trust me, someday it will. i’m super-high and trying my best.
i’m not trying to be all, patting you on the back, guiding you down to the river with my other arm pointing out to the horizon and i’m saying something profound.
I just, fuck, i care and i don’t.
yes i want you to give me all of your money BUT only in exchange for my books, crappy karaoke hit cds, paid-website(s), raymi-series of documentaries, dance/karaoke parties, buying my garage sale crap, and more and more…
fuck, this sounds like a mission statement.
but you see, i have drive and i do care and i’m really, not_a_crook.
it is now 7:30am. the sun is up and i am about to retire to bed to rest for my 1:15pm psychiatrist appointment tomorrow and i was just trying to explain everything i could before all the air and water in my body went away to the cat and to the people here and i stayed awake because it is important you read this at your office desk today. nudity/coarse language firewalls or not.
it’s not a mission statement.
it’s not fake.
or cheesy.
i have never sacrificed a “stable-job” over “art” before.
so i don’t know what to say.
my eyes can’t take anymore.
just buy the book.
oh and tony, the blook i am going over with a pen and a ruler and i have ten million questions to ask you.
you fucking prick.
har har.
i am so mad from the fucking ten million conversations i have had in the last 20 minutes over msn and it is now 10 14 am and i have not slept and i look like a trash bin from trashcouchland and i only wanted to tell everybody to not email me and tell me negative things because i dont care for you if you dont care for me and no i dont have all the answers but im doing the best i can all by myself with very little help so the benefit of the doubt would be appreciated.
