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Monday, May 17th, 2004
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7:03 am - So Long... Farewell...
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I bid you all adieu...
I have had it with Blurty. Half my Friends have disappeared off my list and will not let me put them back up... I can log in about 50% of the time - and even then it does not always update properly.
However, you can still partake of my trials and tribulations here.
Like I could give this up completely. C'mon now...
Don't be a stranger.
Cheers,
"Manic"
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| Thursday, May 13th, 2004
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10:37 am - "I know... That it's time for a change..."
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 "Amazing what paint and a surgeon can do..." |
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| Wednesday, May 12th, 2004
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9:45 am - My Hero
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This is why I forever adore this woman (direct quote from her LiveJournal):
"This morning marked a milestone: the first true moron-babybat Amazon review of LIQUOR by one "emileigh from texas," with gems like "[Lacks] the shock value ... of EXQUISITE CORPSE" (hell, if it lacks shock value, it can't be any good!); "I have to say that Liquor is rather bland, and doesn't really support Poppy Z. Brite's unflinching writing style" (I'm left wondering how a book I wrote can fail to support my writing style); "I hope that this is only a transgression period and that Brite'll be moving on to better things" (OK, emileigh, let's haul out the trusty old dictionary and look up "transgression," shall we?); the especially fabulous "For the boy-love fans out there- you will be let down"; and last but not least, "Don't get me wrong, I'll still read the sequel. But now I know better then to get excited over it."
emileigh, if you're reading this, do me a favor and don't read the "sequel." You are a textbook example of the kind of reader I'm glad to shake off like that last irritating drop of pee clinging to the tip of my dick."
I can not fathom the idea that ANYone would be less than enthusiastic over ANYthing this woman has ever written. Kudos to her for allowing her writing to grow with her and not forcing the same genre. We have seen that happen severely and the all too tragic, burn-out effect that results. So, so sad. Not that it was all that endearing to begin with...
If you have never read anything by the nothing-less-than-amazing Poppy Z. Brite, do so now.
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| Monday, May 10th, 2004
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12:49 pm - Fuck You!
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This is so my mood today - on my third Percocet since 8 a.m. - still in pain and sitting in the office doing not a damn thing...
Monty: Yeah, fuck you, too.
Monty's Reflection: Fuck me? Fuck you! Fuck you and this whole city and everyone in it.
Fuck the panhandlers, grubbing for money, and smiling at me behind my back.
Fuck squeegee men dirtying up the clean windshield of my car. Get a fucking job!
Fuck the Sikhs and the Pakistanis bombing down the avenues in decrepit cabs, curry steaming out their pores and stinking up my day. Terrorists in fucking training. Slow the fuck down!
Fuck the Chelsea boys with their waxed chests and pumped up biceps. Going down on each other in my parks and on my piers, jingling their dicks on my Channel 35.
Fuck the Korean grocers with their pyramids of overpriced fruit and their tulips and roses wrapped in plastic. Ten years in the country, still no speaky English?
Fuck the Russians in Brighton Beach. Mobster thugs sitting in cafés, sipping tea in little glasses, sugar cubes between their teeth. Wheelin' and dealin' and schemin'. Go back where you fucking came from!
Fuck the black-hatted Chassidim, strolling up and down 47th street in their dirty gabardine with their dandruff. Selling South African apartheid diamonds!
Fuck the Wall Street brokers. Self-styled masters of the universe. Michael Douglas, Gordon Gecko wannabe mother fuckers, figuring out new ways to rob hard working people blind. Send those Enron assholes to jail for fucking life! You think Bush and Cheney didn't know about that shit? Give me a fucking break! Tyco! Imclone! Adelphia! Worldcom!
Fuck the Puerto Ricans. 20 to a car, swelling up the welfare rolls, worst fuckin' parade in the city. And don't even get me started on the Dom-in-i-cans, because they make the Puerto Ricans look good.
Fuck the Bensonhurst Italians with their pomaded hair, their nylon warm-up suits, and their St. Anthony medallions. Swinging their, Jason Giambi, Louisville slugger, baseball bats, trying to audition for the Sopranos.
Fuck the Upper East Side wives with their Hermés scarves and their fifty-dollar Balducci artichokes. Overfed faces getting pulled and lifted and stretched, all taut and shiny. You're not fooling anybody, sweetheart!
Fuck the uptown brothers. They never pass the ball, they don't want to play defense, they take fives steps on every lay-up to the hoop. And then they want to turn around and blame everything on the white man. Slavery ended one hundred and thirty seven years ago. Move the fuck on!
Fuck the corrupt cops with their anus violating plungers and their 41 shots, standing behind a blue wall of silence. You betray our trust!
Fuck the priests who put their hands down some innocent child's pants. Fuck the church that protects them, delivering us into evil. And while you're at it, fuck JC! He got off easy! A day on the cross, a weekend in hell, and all the hallelujahs of the legioned angels for eternity! Try seven years in fuckin Otisville, Jay!
Fuck Osama Bin Laden, Alqueda, and backward-ass, cave-dwelling, fundamentalist assholes everywhere. On the names of innocent thousands murdered, I pray you spend the rest of eternity with your seventy-two whores roasting in a jet-fueled fire in hell. You towel headed camel jockeys can kiss my royal, Irish ass!
Fuck Jacob Elinski, whining malcontent.
Fuck Francis Xavier Slaughtery, my best friend, judging me while he stares at my girlfriend's ass.
Fuck Naturel Rivera. I gave her my trust and she stabbed me in the back. Sold me up the river. Fucking bitch.
Fuck my father with his endless grief, standing behind that bar. Sipping on club soda, selling whiskey to firemen and cheering the Bronx Bombers.
Fuck this whole city and everyone in it. From the row houses of Astoria to the penthouses on Park Avenue. From the projects in the Bronx to the lofts in Soho. From the tenements in Alphabet City to the brownstones in Park slope to the split levels in Staten Island. Let an earthquake crumble it. Let the fires rage. Let it burn to fuckin ash then let the waters rise and submerge this whole, rat-infested place.
Monty: No. No, fuck you, Montgomery Brogan. You had it all and then you threw it away, you dumb fuck!
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10:08 am - Freaks & Geeks
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Well we survived another amateur show... Went relatively well actually - had a packed house and everyone seemed to enjoy themselves... I just don't know about doing this anymore... It has becoming so big and is so exhausting... And the tips that are made are not worth the cost to get the show rolling. I just don't look forward to it anymore. It has become more of a dread than anything else. And I ended up walking off the stage in the middle of performing. It was just like a train wreck I wanted to get away from.
I just don't know what to do, because so many people look forward to it each month - and to Dazey performing... I just think I am too old for this shit. And I somehow did something to my back (again) and have been living on Percocet like candy all weekend. Today I feel like someone has just kicked the shit out of me. Have been living downstairs all weekend because I can't brave the stairs without being in tears... Missed Mother's Day yesterday because I couldn't even walk from the truck to the picnic table without crying.
I want it to be my turn - just once. I am so worn out from doing and supplying and supporting for eveyone else all the time...
Whine. Whine. Whine.
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| Wednesday, April 28th, 2004
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8:30 am - Such a Loss.
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"Thom Gunn, a transplanted British poet identified with the San Francisco scene and the California liberated style, died on Sunday night at his home in San Francisco, his adopted hometown. He was 74.
His death was announced by his companion of 52 years, Mike Kitay.
Acclaimed as one of the most promising young poets of postwar Britain, Mr. Gunn found his own voice after he migrated to California in the 1950's and established himself in San Francisco, his home for the rest of his life. There, he wedded traditional form to unorthodox themes like LSD, panhandling and homosexuality. He experimented with free verse and syllabic stanzas. In doing so he evolved from British tradition and European existentialism to embrace the relaxed ways of the California counterculture…
“The Man With Night Sweats" (Farrar, Straus & Giroux; 1992) was his characteristically unsentimental vision of the AIDS epidemic in San Francisco, and a stark tribute to the friends he lost to it:
I wake up cold, I who
Prospered through dreams of heat
Wake to their residue,
Sweat, and a clinging sheet.
My flesh was its own shield:
Where it was gashed, it healed.
I grew as I explored
The body I could trust
Even while I adored
The risk that made robust,
A world of wonders in
Each challenge to the skin.
I cannot but be sorry
The given shield was cracked,
My mind reduced to hurry,
My flesh reduced and wrecked.
I have to change the bed,
But catch myself instead
Stopped upright where I am
Hugging my body to me
As if to shield it from
The pains that will go through me,
As if hands were enough
To hold an avalanche off.
For that work he was given the Forward Prize for Best Poet of the Year and the Lenore Marshall/Nation Poetry Prize."
(I know this is a delayed post, but Blurty has been on the rampage this week. Thom, may you rest in peace, your words are such a blessing to all they have touched. Thank you.)
current mood:  sad
current music: 1,000 Oceans - Tori
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8:10 am
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I gave myself to Jesus... And now he never calls... I feel like such a whore... And the sex wasn't even that good.
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| Thursday, April 22nd, 2004
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6:36 am - I'm going to Hell - or - Kharma at Work (or Play)
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After laughing my ass off at Frailty's post early this week about being attacked by water bugs, I got mine this morning...
La la la.. Getting my first cup of coffee - flip on the light and Wha-Pow! there is a fucking bug on the floor the size of one of my cats... Well it actually wasn't, it was a good 3 inchers, but the way the light cast a shadow on the little fucker it looked huge. Now mind you I am not afraid of bugs in the least. Or never have been up until this morning. Be it lack of enough sleep or my inner three year old female child - I am still not sure what happened... But...
I scream like and orgasmic bitch in heat. The coffee cup went flying (now broken). And I proceeded to high step/gallop/charge/run up the stairs - still screaming bloody murder mind you. Which in turn caused the dog to go hysterical and start barking. Which in turned caused one of the cats to start yowling. Which in turned caused one of the other cats to freak THE FUCK out and start hissing and hopping about. The third cat - wisely - ran and hid.
So needless to say after I did the Idian War (Big Scary Bug) Dance at the top of the stairs for a good 5 minutes almost in tears over a damn dead bug - I realized: Do NOT laugh at other people's misfortunes. LOL
Sorry Frailty.
Now I have to go remove said dead bug off the floor and clean up the ocean of coffee that was flng to the far reaches of the kitchen and dining room.
Happy Thursday, y'all. Sheesh...
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| Tuesday, April 20th, 2004
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10:33 am - THIS is why I want to marry this woman:
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"If you wanna marry Joe Millionaire, go ahead. If you're a celebrity and you wanna marry your high school sweetheart for 55 hours, go right ahead. If you're J-Lo and you wanna marry 18 people, for six days each, hey! Go right on ahead. But if you happen to be reasonably minded and have fallen in love and wanna marry your soul mate and make a life of it, and you just so happen to be the same sex, then NO! How dare you! You demon creatures! We'd rather you just buy gasoline and support our war and continue to consume and fear in our country so we can make money off you. But do us a favour - don't hold hands in public."
— P!nk to the Herald Sun
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8:23 am - Calling all Goths or Something Remotely Similiar...
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One of the (old, ugly 47 yr. old) Snatchy drag queens completely raped one of my numbers - even down to the outfit...
So it is time for Dazey's Reinvention... I want to go back to the L.A.M., Bauhaus, Skinny Puppy, Christian Death, era...
Any song suggestions??? I've got the look down... It is like slipping back into your pair of favourite PJ's - but give me some ideas on music...
Love & Slack,
M.
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8:15 am - Dear Krazy...
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| Monday, April 19th, 2004
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8:40 am - Yum...
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"Long after midnight, on a night like this
I'd sit by my blacklight and dream of your kiss
pulsating music filled my room and my head
and I dreamed what it'd be like to have you in my bed
I'm your best nightmare
And then it happened, you were in my arms
your lips on my throat- your hands on my, on my...
two bodies together the intimate sin
the pain and the pleasure could do mortals in
how could you know what I'm thinking of
to me lust can be as beautiful as love
here tonight, your pure heart and soul
untainted passion should have no control
She asked me if I...
I told her the truth
I said "I'm sorry it takes me longer than you"
she smiled and blushed and continued to grind
and promised to make me go out of my mind
returning her promise she came to a halt
licking my lips I tasted her salt
then she sat up and gasped and clutched at her breast
I thought she was coming- I'd never have guessed that
as she grew pale, as white as a flower
she collapsed to the floor and was dead in an hour.
I'm your best nightmare"
In my sick, twisted mind this is one of the most erotic songs I know of... I think my therapist needs to be fired.
current mood:  enthralled
current music: London After Midnight
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| Friday, April 16th, 2004
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6:28 am - My Heart is Black. I Hate You All.
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"I've been sittin' here
Tryin' to find myself
I get behind myself
I need to rewind myself
Lookin' for the payback
Listen for the playback
They say that every man bleeds just like me
And now I feel like number one
Yet I'm last in life
I watch the younger ones
And it helps to pass the time
I take too many pills to help to ease the pain
I made a couple of dollar bills still I feel the same
Everybody knows my name
They say it way out loud
A lot of folks fuck with me
It's hard to hang out in crowds
I guess that's the price you pay
To be some big shot like I am
Out strecthed hands and one night stands...
People don't know about the things I say and do
They don't understand about the shit that I've been through
It's been so long since I've been home
I've been gone, I've been gone for way too long
Maybe I forgot all things I miss
Somehow I know there's more to life than this
I said it too many times
And I still stand firm
You get what you put in
And people get what they deserve
Still I ain't seen mine...
I've been giving just ain't been gettin'
I've been walking that there line
So I think I'll keep on walking
With my head held high..."
I don't know how I always end up so... Lucky. It's not like I go out looking for these freaks. I am not on some great quest for love or companionship. Yet it seems that around every blind corner lurks another one. About the time I have almost gotten rid of Psychofuck #1, Psychofuck #2 rolls into the picture (see previos post).
And then I have all this shit to deal with in the "Real World" with work and The Family and the upcoming wedding... And then there is J.... J doesn't work. Doesn't want to work. And I don't think has any real intentions of working. But then again, why should she??? She is almost 30 years old and lives at home with her mother rent free, driving a truck that was given to her, and having me pay for every other god damn thing under the sun. And I am drowing and going under because of it. I struggle enough to take care of myself and my babies - then add her into the equation that takes and takes and takes and I am about out of ANYthing to give... It becomes a maniacal crunch at the end of the month to get everything paid on time - if at all... But that is of little to no concern to her. (Let me just bitch a little here.)
I am just sick to death of all these fucking Vampires. When is it my fucking turn??? When do I get a break and have someone take care of me - or at least contribute SOMETHING (anything) - instead of me taking care of the whole god damned world like I have for the last 28 fucking years. I want my own Diana Ross moment. But in order to do that, I am basically going to have to tell everyone in my life as I know it to Fuck Off... Which - in all honesty - would be the best thing I could do...
Maybe I just revel in being unappreciated... Gives me something to bitch about.
current mood: bitter
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| Thursday, April 15th, 2004
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7:09 am - One of these things is not like the other...
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Am I just nuts, or is there no way in Hell these could be the same person...
No. Really. It is. He says so.
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| Wednesday, April 14th, 2004
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9:19 am - Wanna Fuck?
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I like your pants around your feet
I like the dirt that's on your knees
I like the way you still say please
While you're looking up at me
You're like my favorite damn disease
You know who you are...
current mood:  devious
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9:06 am - Fair Warning!
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If you value your sanity, steer clear of this one. He's a fuckin' nutbag. Told me he loved me after vaguely chatting with me online. And now he has resorted to tantrumesque name-calling because I called a spade a spade and basically told him I wanted nothing to do with him. It was quite humorous - I could just picture a 3 year old pitching a fit and stomping about. Oh to be 19 and pretentious and have all the answers... I just don't understand people though that whine and complain and woe-is-me all the time but won't get off their apathetic asses to do anything about anything... I don't get the whole want to have someone else do it for you and a thousand excuses for everything under the sun...
However, for shits and giggles, you may want to check out the journal he keeps - I am sure he will talk so trash about me - he does about everyone else he does this to...
Cheers!
M
current mood:  amused
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| Tuesday, April 13th, 2004
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9:19 am - Scars
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"Scars have the power to remind us that the past was real."
-Hannibal Lecter
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| Wednesday, March 24th, 2004
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6:09 am - The hair is gone....
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| Tuesday, March 23rd, 2004
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8:14 am
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| Tuesday, March 16th, 2004
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8:13 am - Travis
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breath held
for a year
waiting word
scouring news
longing to hear
anything
whispers of your safety
mentions of your name
your surprise return
caught me unguarded
whirlwind spin
of relief
euphoric elation
hands tremble
in anticipation
of seeing your face
once again
your existence
still unreal
a figment
dream come true
until I touch you
once again
home soiled
beyond enemy lines
- Micael C. Luscombe
© March 15, 2004
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