this is all from the year 2000 and i am 17 years old and drunk

10:31am

i’m having a trippy episode – my eyes are flickering and i’ve written my name obsessively on my styrofoam cup 14 times. some robitussin will calm me down. weed money is noted down as “walking money” on expense reports. hahaha.

1:26pm i am apparently – a neo-liberalist. thanks jason.

5:45pm

randomly chose to sit and chainsmoke and drink white chilled wine by myself at cafe riverside or something like that – this trippy bumpin’ loungeplace across the street from opera house. i have my own couch and booth and pillow. i just don’t have you here with me.

stef and diane are waiting outside in the cold becuz they’re hardcore fans like that of stereophonics and i am not.

i am really liking this song. i am in the mood for random drunkenness. yes i am i think so. random drunkenness alone.

countdown to valentine’s day.

countdown to acceptance of dan’s total unreliableness.

i sat there for awhile pretending you [not dan, someone else] were sitting across from me i sat there and i wrote bad poetry on the spot for you and i thought about you

about you

i lit another smoke and then i hugged the pillow

i did

on a monday nite

i did

i looked out the window and onto the street and i smiled at my loneliness

the two guys walked deeper into the room and looked at the lonely piano then took off their jackets

my pants match the color of the booth

i wish i was wearing all black

i search the room with sullen eyes for something familiar something that is me

the girl eats orange slices with a silver fork “do we get bread with that?”

i think about the lonely boy at the table in the rayne’s park coffeehouse in wimbledon/london and me at the tableseat near the window

alone and smiling weakly

you lied about your age. he lied about his job. the important things is you’re getting free drinks. – newad.com – advertising that talks to 18-34 year olds.

it suddenly got dangerously dark outside real fast.

i’ve got time to kill too much time what will i drink next? this cool,lobsided and wobbly looking lamp is beside me right now – ikea-ish?

therapy has been rescheduled for thursday at 2:40 then i work at 4.

wine makes me loopy sad and tired and aroused and hungry and my lids are heavy.

wine in a place like this costs an arm and a leg it does.

i will just sit here drinking and thinking about you.

could i possibly be more alone that this? sure. of course. there’s a stripclub just up a ways. durr…

quelle fucking drag you know.

they’re drinking dry martinis over there.

i’m becoming delusional.

i just thought that if someone did in fact join me, i would not be able to handle it. to deal. i just couldn’t, not ready for it.

laura and curly ate a 26 dollar steak once – they really did. i can’t believe i am amazed by that.

another smoke to lite and i am going the route of fucked-upness, i’m playing that card. so far i think it’s working half ‘n half.

next on the agenda is godet, milk, ice. it’s the GAP of Bailey’s i think or Ben once said, or maybe it was me.

i’ve left a temporary indentation in the seat where my ass would be and now i am leaving to be across the street and drink over there and listen to a band from the UK that i halfcare about but i am sure they are very nice.

he was suppose to call and act like he cared and she was suppose to ramble on about her weekend away and the call was suppose to make the upcoming work-week look promising

optimistic even

and she was suppose be there with coffees and cameras and smiles in her eyes

and sit around the board room feeling metropolitan about herself and her life like how the magazine spread tells her so

and she is invited out to lunch with the white collars and they sit around discussing golf and the new girl and her pumps and they generally feel like this is how it is suppose to be like

and that they had arrived in the world

and they have arm candy kept wives

and skinny-waif pretty secretaries

and fucked-up kids

who boss around the dumber ones in the school yard

and she is there

sitting

thinking it the perfect opportunity to pipe in about a new club they could all go to next friday because she got them VIP and it would surely impress the out-of-town clients and she would put a picture in their heads of hot well to do types wandering around drunk spending lots and lots of important dollars

and they would love her more

because they would get to sit in fancy chairs that are low to the floor with their ties loosened

but instead

she turned to her boss and said

i quit

i found what my true calling in life is

well i sort of knew all along

and last nite helped make it more clear

my true calling is the

jurassic park shooting game

i’m serious

we sat there a whole hour and i was thinking

this is the best hour of my life

this is such a great work-out for my arms

holding this big stupid gun

and i am sweating like mental

and chillens are walking all around

getting mad that we are hogging the game

and i am like BLOOP BLOOP BLOOP

fackoff t-rex

my other true-calling is tai-play and 11up and drinking beer and making comments about strangers and their facial expressions

Hey Raymi,

I thought in my inebriated state that I would let you know this right away.

I thought you might find it interesting.

tho i did want to address the last email u wrote, ie the one i posted on my blog

i wanted u to know that the mania is yes worth the art one produces

but be careful

im 21 now and i have had it with myself and how i am now

a drunk everyday and i how i deal with it is by glamorizing the places

i frequent and act pathetic and cute

i have been in a psyche ward brandi

and that aint any kind of fun

i cant smoke weed anymore because my brain is super sharp and connects

things that are ridiculous and i have/had severe post traumatic stress

from living in nyc during sept. 11 and from dating two drug dealers

who were very abusive

and now the antidepressants i am on are making me manic and i am just

fine with it and i drink coffee everyday and i have all these

brilliant ideas and i never finish one project i begin and i whine and

complain for help with these projects i want to come to seed but then

we just end up going to a play and to the bar and reading my email for

nice messages from people like you

and i think i will never ever be satisfied with my life

and i also have body dismorphia and eating problems and i am broke all the time

so…

today i hope to accomplish/put-off the following:

laundry

shower

shave stray eyebrows

find earphones

take pictures of raymi posessions and put them up at raymistore

write a book

be nice to people

be mean to people

be pleasant

turn into a unicorn

write another letter to megatouch about how we should get more points for this one game we play

start a megatouch blog

get help for megatouch addiction after i

get help for my drinking problem

learn how to speak to people again

invent new ADD/ADHD medication that also aids social ineptitude

and self-loathing

draw pictures of cigarettes

?

yesterday i decided to get pissed-off and dissappear out of the place and then you called and asked if that was me in that mysterious car around the corner because you followed and i said no i am alone in the dark spying on the lake

harold cut my hair for free yesterday when we came in and were talking business and i said i need all the help i can get, this dry-ends shit is out of control

and we talked about how he is the token black dude in town and i said he must get a lot of pussy and he is like yeh i do but i don’t live here and i said i had noticed him several times at the coffeeplace and i had wondered about him

and i told him about the time me and tyranny walked around all hung over and he was wearing his new york fuckin’ city t-shirt and all the white families were shocked and appalled

harold has a motorcycle club and two chillens

when the girl was shampooing my head i was laughing like a moron and her face turned into a big question mark and i said please don’t be alarmed i am always weird like this and when water goes over the left side of my head something strange happens to me

and her eyes were tearing up because she was laughing at my hysterical giggle-attacks and feet stomping and grabbing the sides of the chair like arnold in total recall when they are going to shove that needle in ‘em

in other news

i watched new york minute, last nite, and now i am thinking of dying my hair blond

raymi needs a change

and then i can say that i did it because my idol ashlee simpson dyed hers blond and everyone would believe it

because they are special

valerie said no way jose don’t dye it blond keep it dark it suits you i will destroy the universe with my electronic pitchfork if your hair is blond and all the guys were like yeeeeh heeeeer doi blond hair droool swoon i like blooooooond

horny toad hang-out

> Dear Raymi

> I’m 18. I live in the Midwestern United States. I don’t actually think that

> I am a headcase any more than anyone else, especially since I watched Oprah

> ce matin avec celebraties who were strapped down in mental institutions, and

> then there’s good ‘ol Anne Heche. But really, crazy celebs or not, I

> shouldn’t set that as a standard. I just said that because I was being

> self-critical and I wanted you to realize that I realize these things about

> myself. I am, though, generally depressed or extremely unhappy, which

> watching commercials and things, I’ve gathered that I have manic-depression

> and also sociel anxiety disorder, although, I am well past that teeny-bopper

> stage in my life where one reads all about mental illnessess and frets over

> them and believes that they are so unique. I have never been to a therapist

> and never intend to, because (I don’t know how it is in Canada) the United

> States drug companies are cruel pill-pushers who desire profits, and while I

> know that some people find manic depression unbearable, I quite like it. At

> times I am incredibly creative and do not ever stop writing. I feel that the

> manic state is well worth the later consequences of depression. I should

> wonder what the world would be like if Van Gough or someone wonderful was

> medicated. And besides, Sylvia Plath was treated, and it apparently did not

> serve her well. Do you ever wonder, dear internet friend and distant

> relative to Jack Kerouac, how many lost artists are out there, living day to

> day life as ‘normal’ zombies because of medication, all the while their gift

> of creativity is living an obscure, dorment existance because it is being

> repressed with prozac/paxil/zoloft? Sanity is not statistical.

>