emerge hooks me up. tonite i’m going to see feist. you guys should go too. they have this one song i play all the time where the chick is all, “your kisses taste like honey…” and so on and i am like LETS HEAR IT AGAIN GUYS!
anyway, feist are/is playing tonite at the phoenix and i know it is complete last minute i am telling you now (if you didn’t already know already) but this is how it works in the i am afraid of stalkers wanting to harm me blogosphere but i still want people to go where i go regardless…dur dur dur.
oh and my hair is fixed. and it was expensive and took 5 hours. and now my head is a rainbow of brown and black and blond and another shade of blond and it makes the bags under my eyes stand out more which is, great.
oh boy, tony re-stirred the drama pot by posting something i had written over the summer then deleted and also put up an even older photo of me being stupid with the white devil and got away with it by saying i am the female best blogger.
today i fucked up my hair and tomorrow it will be rectified “professionally” because i am a stupid moron and the chicks at the pharmacy were like duh durr duh go for it.
and yes i was going for platinum.
so right now i am sitting with this hat on my head and my dad is trying to figure out the vcr and he doesn’t know that i have a skunky orange blond fat-ass stripe right in the centre-top of my head.
aimee called me back after i called her to tell her about the accident and she tells me a blond joke about what they say after giving a blow job and apparently they say “are you on the same team?”
and thom and mark were like what does that mean and i said well i think it means she is giving a blow job to a football player?
then we went back to playing the i am thinking of a < insert something like "fruit" or "fast food restaurant" or "letter of the alphabet" > and you have ten guesses to guess exactly what it is game.
and now i am learning about marketing and thinking about my crappy hair and the way i was treated today when i was trying to purchase a watch at a department store and how angry i was that i had to wait because i am a “youth” and so i walked over to the ole saleslady and said i know exactly what i want can you just go over to the showcase and open it so i can pay for it and she was like i am sorry ma’am but i cannot i have to wait on this lady here and you are obviously poor is what i thought so you can wait for a trillion years i don’t give a shit.
ok, she didn’t say that exactly but she did call me ma’am which both flattered and infuriated me so much so, that i had to go and buy two cds for myself after i paying for that watch and then, instead of a shirt for my identity-crisis i bought bleach and dye and COMPLETELY DESTROYED MY FUCKIN HAIR RAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH!
i have a doing nothing all day headache and it is fucking fantastic i love having these headaches because that means i got to do nothing all day and it’s the greatest thing so great in fact that even I am jealous of me and i am not even worried about being a big lazy because i have a gameplan that allows me to be lazy and wander around with messy hair and worry about all the things i need/don’t need to be worrying about…
well this headache is from sitting in the same spot for hours and not eating and having fone conversations and thinking a lot
yeh i know/knew those guys when i lived in toronto and i use to work
at vice so i have the shit on everything and i invented cool and i
reminisce about stupid crap like i am from vietnam. thank u for
noticing.
so u were in brooklyn then toronto. so where are you now? because
wherever it is, you vice credibility deems that it is the apex of
cool. whoops I meant to say DECK, which is wack. vietnam was crazy, i
know because i’ve seen full metal jacket, platoon, jacob’s ladder,
apocalypse now and redux. now that’s a tour of duty.
one question…why does vice continue to be so god-damned popular when
the reality is that it hates itself?
because they expanded worldwide [broke foreign market] that is how they are popular. and i don’t live anywhere cool or uncool that’s the point, you have to make
your own scene happen anyplace, whatever you need to be happy. not
caring is what cool is suppose to be about i suppose. but u have to
care just a little bit. it’s tricky. i like your blog. you seem cool in my books which is the book of anti-cool which means nerds/geeks are better anyway and if they’re smart can hide their geekiness with cute clothes. yar!
Dear Raymi, (this didn’t start as a letter to you but it is now),
One of my friends, Brownlee the elder, is a bit of a fucked up
prophet. I always wanted to be the man of whom he prophesies, but, he
walks his own path; and I am walking in a darkness into which his
sight does not reach.
Sometimes I think there must be a way to connect with all the peoples,
so mundane a phrase for such a grandiose notion. Now I write manic,
like Raymitheminx, and unfortunately for me she has done something to
my mind. The grip, the ever so tenuous grip I always exert on my
reality dissolves upon reading her blog. I wonder why I am
channelling something drunken and obese and horribly self-loathing and
sick and sad, a fat, bald alcoholic lusting after a perfectly rounded
ass and tit shots on a web page. Yet, I am a being stuck in a
relatively healthy, and may I say so myself, charming and attractive
body. Sometimes I wonder if I am just squandering this body because
it is pretty. At least a pretty that something decides is pretty. I
write letters to Raymi and I wonder whether she would think I am a
nutjob or a kindred spirit. Of course I hope, somewhere she would see
me as an avatar – a symbiotic individual sharing the same path of
madness. Sometimes I just know she would think of me as a wanker
wanting to see more tit shots because “I study art”.
Maybe this is the letter I will send to Raymi, but maybe not because I
(was) writing longhand in “The Only”. That is so cheesy (and
infinitely more so because now I am typing) too because then I am in
the act of becoming a chintzbot who writes: “I am not sure I am going
to send this letter to you because . . .” Capital “L” Loser.
So I write anyway because it is an excuse to drink by myself and be
absorbed in my thinking, which really is just wanking without having
the hassle and mess of having to wipe my belly later.
I met a girl the other day and she took me by the hand, took me home,
and fucked me. And she said she wanted to see me again – “I would
like that.” she said, and I said, “I would like that too.” I called
her but she hasn’t called back and I somehow doubt she will. The
funny thing is I called her into being; that is, the magic of the
ethers made her appear and I received exactly as I wished; but still,
I am like a puppy whining at my phone, checking my messages enough
times to know that I am being obsessive but not so many times that I
am being crazy.
I scanned an article that I thought Raymi would find amusing, it was
about quiffing, but it turned out poorly and “Arthur” is not online
properly so I can’t just download it and send it as a neat little
package, and that is the whole problem with my madness – it just
doesn’t like neat little packages. That brings me quite easily back
to Brownlee the elder who links to Raymi and who I blame unrepentantly
for leading me to her blog. He put her on his link list after I spoke
to him even with the London time drag and all that.
We believe in the synchronicity highway but I believe in a different
way than he does because he travels light and me, well I am looking at
a different picture of the world. And an empty page is all I have, a
trinity, the pen, the page and I. To quote him, quoting me?
So now, this is a letter to Raymi and it has gone on for way too long.
That is – to edit it into little bite size pieces that would make
good web-reading is a fruitless task that I couldn’t do and she won’t
bother.
that’s me in the middle on pajama day and as you can plainly see, i amthe only one with “school spirit” enough to wear pajamas. though i am wearing my regular clothes underneath them.
This is just another email (once in my head, now horrifyingly
real) that appeared on the lined page of a “Hilroy” red-margined, blue
stripped page that is so much a part of me, the perpetual student.
So, Raymi – I guess I want to say that I am always already knowing a
part of the person you put online. The little bit that you describe
when you talk about your drinking and the irony of “the diet starts
Monday” mentality that you often mention. The knowing that you are
capable of becoming but cannot (will not?) do. The “I will do sit-ups
tomorrow”. The one that promises a liberation of my idolatry of the
bottle, the messianic always forever now and always already future,
the promise of liberation (oh joyous freedom) if only I can figure out
how to get off my ass.
So I am going to go back to my office to type this – go and gmail you
a note, (Which, because I am now doing, is oddly temporally
disconcerting) to try to describe to you a feeling I have – that we
might know each other – even though I know you are just words on an
ethereal page and I am just another pretty boy who is probably stark
raving mad. To think that I could possibly connect with a woman who
just so happens to live relatively near to me (which makes it so much
more insidious) because she has decided to share the titillating or
routine parts of her existence with the world.
I guess what I am trying to say is thanks. Thanks for being alive,
because it makes me feel less lonely. Thanks for being such a
productive BITCH, because it gives me a small sparkle of hope. Thanks
for being a wide-awake drunkard because it jogs my memory, it makes me
remember me, even though you are, well, you, and I am just little old
me and really I can never know you.
That brings me full circle; back to Brownlee the elder, the prophet.
He didn’t say these words but this is what I decided to take. –
“Isn’t it interesting that I would find Raymi’s blog out of all the
blogs to find in the nearly infinite blogs to find? How did you find
a blog that speaks to you – because I know you are mad, but you are
not crazy.” – And that is what I took and I started thinking a bit
about it and started to wonder if my synchronicity highway had become
a lot more heavily travelled because of the internet. Some years ago,
I would never have even considered the possibility that a woman I
would never meet could speak my language. One who could quickly
mutter about the difficulties and exaltations of being manic and
wholly cognisant of self-medicating addictive personalities – even
though AA taught me that I wasn’t alone (and an awful lot more). Even
though I can materialize others and myself into being in the right
place at the right time – and knowing that small magic is a minor
aspect of the marvellous power of mania, depression, addiction and
yearning and art.
So I am waving at you – across from a parallel track and sending you a
great big HELLO! And a How’s the Battle? And “keep on trucking” and
every other meaningless (in this real instant) cliché I can think of.
And a small encouragement, a little power if you want to think of it
that way, even though I am absolutely sure it would be cheaper to
send you cash. I guess I just want to throw a token into the well for
you. A little “and get the next car behind me” on the toll bridge.
Only because if I am so stubbornly, optimistically correct, and, Oh
Raymi, I hope I am, then the highway is bringing us all together and
we might be living in interesting times. And the fruition of my (our,
THE?) odd empty that needs to be filled is coming closer to
ok i almost killed mark because he is such a shit disturber and was all LETS LISTEN TO THE BEACH BOYS and i am like no fucking way and started screaming and then my dad walks in the room to tell me to shut up and mark on purpose goes HEY MAN DO YOU WANNA LISTEN TO THE BEACH BOYS and my dad is all YOU LIKE THE BEACH BOYS yeh put it on it’s my birthday right after he is saying to me “if you are not gonna calm down i want you to leave now but yer friends can stay” though he didn’t actually say the they could stay part but it was implied, you know and so i just sat thru 5 beach boys songs and finally snapped and turned the shit off and i was like don’t you understand i grew up on this shit and my dad plays it all the time in the car and nothing else so the beach boys’ novelty has totally worn off and then i told mark that i had never before killed anyone in my life but if he ever pulled that shit again i may do just that and gladly suffer the consequences.
sent from ian in the uk and he said that over there they switch the names around for some clever reason that i do not understand because i have less culture in me than that of a pitchfork at your uncle’s farm
and ps today i am a big jumbly mess of hang over city with a sprinkle of zero tolerance/that-time-of-the-monthness and a half pint of manic depression.
