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| Tuesday, February 17th, 2004 |
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"I've been getting fat lately." "Oh me too. Ever since I've been on birth control my hips have––" "You're on birth control?" "Yeah. My hips have gotten huge." |
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| So I'm depressed. This is nothing new. Sure, the depression takes a new form nowadays, but still. The core symptoms are there: listlessness, irritability, weight gain, repetitive trains of thought bordering on obsession. Check, check, check, check. And it's like, why even bother anymore? I mean I've done enough. I've caused enough pain. I've been the object of enough derision. I've put enough people through hell. And now Tera again. And Ann? What the hell? Fuck it. My life has become a mediocre pop song. I'm trying so hard––so fucking hard––to just move on, to live my life, to come into my own. And what now? What has become of me now? I have become a fat, ignorant, hedonistic lying slut. I deserve several rounds of the old forty-less-one. I deserve to be gang-raped by a hooting bunch of drunken frat boys. I deserve to be disowned, stripped of my belongings and shipped to a convent. I deserve to be sent to hell––but not until I've worn my life and God's patience thin as a cheap condom. The divine grace of the holy spirit carries one only so far, and then, in those dark places where the spirit never lurks, the crime of being comes into full play. I nurse my wounds with the pungent ointment of hedonism for now. Into which hole will I next dive when life starts to explode again? | ||
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Some of us use curling irons. Some of us use stacks of pillows. Some of us use showerheads. Some of us use priceless pieces of art. Some of us use vegetables. And some of us use shoes. ((Not me godammit. Naomi Watts.)) |
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| Shit, Ms. Watts, could you please stay out of my head for a minute? I was trying to conjure some s--g-ll action -- ah, good times -- but no. Instead it's you and Sean Penn. Which is like, hot and everything, but then Sean Penn is there, or else it's that shoe (you know the one). "You know what, I love you, let's drop." Yost said it, but that's how I feel. We could bump some llao too. Or roll. We could roll. Or we could spark some bowls and chill, it doesn't matter to me. We could even just sit on the porch and chain smoke, yeah, it's all good. Could I fuck you though? | ||||
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| "My head is still in a strange place. All week I have felt somehow unsafe---not in a personal-safety, look-out-for-that-falling-piano sort of way but in the sense that we live in a Big Scary World Of Scariness, and it sometimes works to bravely stare into the existential void and to laugh in the face of bleak reality, unless you have a one-year-old clinging to your leg. Then you can't just laugh and be all French with the void. You have to...I don't know what you have to do. Tell her a story about the void? Try to pretend it's all okay? ('Nora sweetie, that's not a vast uncaring universe, where one has to engage in the futile struggle of self-definition, clinging to the Romantic notion that one even has a self! That's...a puppy dog!')" - mimi smartypants, saying what I hope I'll be saying how I hope I'll be saying it when I'm a grownup... ohpleaseohplease, let me get a book deal because I am so clever, ohpleaseohplease... | ||||
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Boy oh boy did I ever get fucked tonight. Woo-wee. We cruised around HB until we found a secluded parking lot at a turnoff from Ellis. There was a marsh and the lights of the city shone yellow and white. I sat on his lap in the passenger seat and it hurt so fucking bad at first, but with each thrust it got easier and easier, and right as I started getting into it he blew so that was over. Next time there will be a bed involved, and nakedness. Can we not mention that now I've had a second Mexican-on-the-bus incident? Ever have one of those weeks wherein you're absolutely insatiable, no matter how much you masturbate, no matter how much you fuck? This is one of those weeks. It is as though I am controlled by my vaginal impulses––I feel like a guy must feel, wanting to fuck everything in my path––whoo. I need to go. |
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