anyway he was going off about how when i left the house i must have thought i was hot shit and looked really cool or whatever and in my head i thought ok should i make a big deal out of this or should i let it go, cos usually with martin little things easily turn to full-blown arguments and i was like fuck you dude, i didn’t think shit about myself when i walked out the door, that’s why i’m wearing this fucking hat.
that’s the part that made me angry, when people assume shit about how you think of yourself and ESPECIALLY when they drop the cool bomb.
martin is a metrosexual, he likes expensive things and 200 dollar t-shirts so if i told him that my hat was worth 2 bills he’d be all over it.
turns out he had ulterior motives, he wanted the hat for himself so his tactic was to insult the shit out of me so i would be all OK here you go, take my fucking hat.
oh and then i walked into the big screen television at the pub.
someone took our foto in vancouver at the arts county fair.
anyway, last nite when i got home i tried to fuck fil but i was completely trashed and he had already passed out, it was pretty pathetic. i even took off my underwear and threw it at the wall to try and seal the deal but niente. fil was like you should have come with me but i was all DUFF GARDENS HURRAH and so on though i did say that i was going to have sex with him regardless when i got home.
then i had to decide whether i was going to have a suck-attack or not.
but then i got the major spins instead and had to lie down in the hang glider position until i fell asleep.
i just got back from the store where i said good morning to everyone although it was half past 1 in the afternoon and then i could barely stand up waiting in-line for 5 seconds. think i’m drunk still.
this post RULES! in your face!
ps. no horny comments being all I WOULD LET YOU HAVE SEX WITH ME and shit. thanks.
hey papa kerouac, how’s it going? are you still sharing your orange juice every morning with those wasps that buzz around the ole backyard? that’s nice.
oh hey nana (right) and auntie W. (left) you guys so totally do not dye your hair.
and oh yes, it is tony‘s birthday this saturday. i say this now because i drink a lot and tend to space out on dates and stuff. so yeh. happy birthday you old pile of fuck.
Sometimes when you are depressed and a drunk you feel like every sentence you put down is the same sentence, every word is also the same and every paragraph too. When you don’t work on the story for awhile and then eventually come back to it you have to skim through it all over again and be like did I write that part yet? Did I complain about such and such?
This is when you are like fuck it, it doesn’t really matter because this entire thing is bullshit anyway.
Being insanely self-critical and somewhat of a perfectionist about your writing and your personal story in general combined with booze and sadness equals NEVER GOING TO GET PUBLISHED NEVER GOING TO FINISH IT NEVER GOING TO NEVER NEVER NEVER.
some people never go crazy. me, sometimes I’ll lie down behind the couch for 3 or 4 days. they’ll find me there. it’s Cherub, they’ll say, and they pour wine down my throat rub my chest sprinkle me with oils. then, I’ll rise with a roar, rant, rage - curse them and the universe as I send them scattering over the lawn. I’ll feel much better, sit down to toast and eggs, hum a little tune, suddenly become as lovable as a pink overfed whale. some people never go crazy. what truly horrible lives they must lead.
