Grand Imperfection

Christmas came and went, but THE HOLIDAYS are far from over. We still got New Years Eve to "look forward" to. Resolutions made under the influence; promises that won't be kept. I refuse to associate myself with this bullshit. Why can't every day be worthy of personal resolve? Why do we allow only one night to better ourselves? I'm sure everyone that knows me is aware that self-improvement is a passion of mine. (Chuckle). I'm making a Day Off Resolution: I have nothing to do today but clean my apartment, go see the new Wes Anderson movie, and then have free dinner at a downtown yuppie restaurant. Life is grand today, and I resolve to let nothing piss me off. Amen. Year long goals never work because the year is just too damn long. Only that kid who plays chess really well could remember by June (January 3rd) that he had promised to quit smoking/start painting/work less/blah blah blah. We are not real on New Years Eve. Life is not real on New Years Eve. We turn into children flabbergasted by exploding colors in the sky, and life's sweet sweet nectar (i.e. Royal Gate Vodka) and thankful, thankful, so fucking thankful, that we are being granted a second chance, when the presence of that second chance exists solely in our heads. Humans be creative motherfuckers. Self-dilluding. Cynical 364 days of the year. And then what? New Years Day, we all wake up, hungover, next to some strange asshole, in some strange bed, and we see that nothing can change that fucken quick. And the high is over. A Land of Cynics Once Again Are We. We snap out of childhood, have a Bloody Mary, smoke a cigarette/forget to paint/Get Back to Work, and live this crap all over again. We wait till next year to really make those changes, cuz we'll be stronger by then, we're sure of it. I am proud to say that there is nothing in me that I need to change in the coming week. I smoke alot. So fuck you. I don't paint, probably never will. Cuz I can't draw. Oh well. My entire life is geared - fueled towards working less. It is a constant goal. I am happy. I am content with my small goals, and on this day off, I refuse to remind myself one more fucking time of all the shit that Needs To Change. I will change nothing, especially on the day that such promises to change are expected, required of me. I will be grand imperfection in the land of the flawed undercover.

"The years go fast, and the days go so slow" Modest Mouse

My Bleeding Ass

There's a snot clot in my brain, and there's air comin out my ear. this is not right. and it's almost christmas. fuck germs. but i've said it before and i will say it again (and again after this probably): my anger will keep me strong. i will fight this. with cigarettes and cold damp bedrooms, my health will prevail. after all, i am young and vital. i am invincible. BOOYEAH. in your face sickness. ah, who am i kidding. i'm dying. i'm absolutely positive it's ebola this time. i've begun preparation of my bleeding room. i strung tarps up all around my kitchen, and i ordered one o' them neat sharper image air filtration things. i hope it arrives before i die. but maybe it's that strain of ebola that only kills monkeys. maybe i'll make it. i can pull through. i will live to see christmas, with all its chia pets, and clapper grandeur. i will live. god almighty. nothin can stop me now. unless it's the kind of ebola that kills monkeys and people. i'm fucked. i won't live through the night. oh my god, i think my ass is bleeding right now. if only i'd stayed in that damn hot zone for one more day. i could have found a cure. i could have saved my own bleeding ass. but, now, it's futile. i give up. i'm not angry anymore. i have come to terms with my mortality. goodbye cruel world.

p.s. please wrap my body in the tarps of my bleeding room and burn the corpse in the backyard. no matter what i say, or how much i ask you politely not to, it is the only way to prevent infection of the masses.

This is one thought I had.
This is the time I have.
These are the words I speak,
the language I use.
My vernacular.
Mental lexicon, storage space. Memory.
Neoruological hard drive.
I am so technologically advanced.

I am here right now.

I know big words like ideology, dichotomy, motherfucker.
Words I learned at city college.
Lexicon, evolution, canonical, indexical.
I am wired.
I got autopilot.
I'm asleep at the wheel.
And I am still here right now.

How cliche is it to say that
I've got nothing but love in my heart?
How uncool.
Oh well.

This is just one thought I had.
And there was one before it, and
another one came after it.
And I just really wanted to let you know
that I am quite uncool.
And pretty cliche.
I still have got nothing but love in my heart.
Makes me warm.
It kinda woke me up.
Right before the crash.

That wouldn't be the first time
or the last
that my own love has saved me.

So.
I suppose that was more than just one thought.
And it won't be the last thought I have.

Nonsense

when i was younger, i was told that friendship was golden. i forget what asshole in the long series of childhood assholes fed me that piece of horseshit. and i am unclear why i feel so jaded and resentful of old friends who have come and gone and come back again. you were a fucking ghost. now you're the undead, and i can't recall the resurrection etiquette. can't fathom it. i've broken my drinking sabbatical, cuz i need a fucken drink today. i am numb, and i need to feed the numb. you were the one who taught me who the assholes were. you showed me ugliness in fear, what it can destroy, and you crammed more fear down my throat today. and i know you. and i remember knowing you, and still i am a stranger to you. all the while, your number two is being quietly filed into the back of my head. your sidekick. shadow. can't do it all over again. won't. ah...hell. i'll just quote bob dylan

well it ain't no use to sit and wonder why babe
if'n you don't know by now
and it ain't no use to sit and wonder why babe
it'll never do somehow
when your rooster crows at the break of dawn
look out your window and i'll be gone.
you're the reason i'ma travellin on
but don't think twice
it's alright

and it ain't no use in turnin on your light babe
the light i never know'd
and it ain't no use in turnin on your light babe
i'm on the dark side of the road
but i wish there was something you would do or say
to try and make me change my mind and stay
but we never did too much talkin anyway
but don't think twice
it's alright.

my good friend christina ricci

i got this friend. some call her christina ricci. most don't. only One really calls her christina ricci, and this is about that One. So my friend lives with that One. they make a good team. they cook elaborate meals and don't clean up. they buy mold spray for the bathroom, and don't ever use it. they spill the ashtray on the carpet, and leave it, cuz that's gross. they have a nice coffee maker, and a dvd player, with a respectably growing dvd library. they are getting along quite nicely. they live peacely, and fill their small apartment with knowledge, comfort, and love. the One That I Am Talking About has a beautiful relationship with a very nice young man, and they get along quite nicely as well. the one who is called christina ricci, however, has voiced concern numerous times about this very nice young man visiting the small apartment. she does not know why. she likes this young man in every respect. he doesn't have any noticeable odor, he is polite, he does not eat all the food. as it goes, this young man is an ideal visitor, yet the one called christina ricci finds a block next to that welcome sign. she does not know why. this has caused undue stress on the One That I Am Talking About. the One That I Am Talking About brings the one she calls christina ricci coffee from the nice coffee maker when her cup is empty. the One That I Am Talking About calls the one called christina ricci strong, and hardcore.

my friend is unaware of the cause for this hostility. she herself doesn't understand it. she just doesn't know why. she enjoys the young man's company. he does not take away from the love, and comfort of their small apartment. this young man adds to it because he makes the One That I Am Talking About happy. he is a good young man, and she is a good One. my friend christina ricci just doesn't know how to tell the young ones this. she doesn't know why. her hostility takes away from the knowledge, comfort, and love. my friend will never mention it again.

Warranted Selfish Undertakings

I stand outside my work and smoke a cigarette, and enjoy not caring if the new girl is there all by herself to deal with the angry angry tourists who breathe nothing but conditioned air, and find themselves without it for two days. People in the South love air conditioning. Can't live without it. Mostly the hum, I think. The white noise. The silence they got now is distracting, forces them to listen to their own thoughts. Unable to handle said thoughts, they waddle downstairs and spew their great wisdom to the new girl, while I smoke outside. I love dirty air.

P.S.

so i'm writing to myself. the transcribed equivalent of jibberish meants only for my own ears. haven't written in awhile. last i wrote was a little ditty 'bout the dangers of me drinking. wrote it at work, too. i have a lack of self presence when i'm alone. what in the hell does that mean?

i've been listening to belle and sebastian. i like them/him. don't know anythig about them/him. don't know if it's them or him. one guy sings, then there's a girl who wants to know if it's wicked not to care. if you don't care, you don't give a fuck if it's wicked. i hate that song. i always skip it. #3

i want to scream really bad. i want to run till i start flying from my own velocity. where i'm going so fast for so long that all there is left to do is just lift off from the ground and soar. get my momentum going. make my heart beat straight out of my chest. feel something for once. i don't know why that's so hard for me right now. i just can't feel anything right now. i'm bored, listless, and my soul has (temporarily?) left my body for no good reason. i really need a soul right now. i need some love these days. especially my own.

i would enjoy a drink right now. not a beer. a fucken drink. scotch on the rocks or something burny. a kristy type drink.

i quit drinking about a week ago. i don't like not drinking. i don't like drinking really either. of the two, i'd rather not. booze is expensive, and i always feel like shit the next day.

(i love drinking. it makes me feel all swimmy and warm. like i float straight through the room to the door to the toilet to the ground to my stomach coming out of my mouth. it just floats right on up. then i can miraculously just forget all of it.)

i am not janell's mother. i am not her doctor, or her fucken nurse, or her bitch punching bag. i thank tourists for giving me a job -that's kind of the same thing as me being thankful george bush still cuts down trees, so i have something to fight against- isn't she eloquent. i wondered why i wanted to help her at all. what is it in me that makes me obligated to be her friend/bitch/mother/nurse/confidante. and get nothing in return. and what is it that turned its beautifully abstract intelligent head against her to ignore her extreme existence. why could i be so passive aggressive. i will just stop answerig the phone.

i like feeling sorry for myself. it gives me reason to be selfish. any excuse possible. i need to find something to feel good about. i need to be lovely again.

Say it Louder This Time

What does "blog" mean? I really don't understand this. Technology is a very scary thing. Any asshole can just stick their words and thoughts, and have it be public and read and misunderstood. Free speech. But, godammit, this is my "blog." Whatever that means. It's mine. Sucker.

I Don't Get It . . .

So. I'll pretend that people are clammering over one another to read words that I have written. And with that in mind, I can't think of a single damn thing to tell you little people. I wonder what compels people (me) to create their own little chunk of cyberspace. What is it about a "blog" that seduces us, mystifies us. We got a piece baby. Our own little piece of HTML. Those who can't get published, well now they got their fifteen minutes - they can actually say something and maybe someone will actually read this (not to mention the hordes who will be stalking blogger.com to get my real name and email.) Not to look down on anybody. I want to be known too. I'd like to be remembered, if only for a moment years down the line. That'd be nice. I regret to say, though, that my "blog" will fail to elevate me to the superstar status I know that I am capable/deserving of. Oh well.