look attractive.

"i love your voice," i said. "it's so...perfect. it's like 90's emo without the whine, and indie rock without the theatrics."

"thank you," he said.



it's so soon...i can't...handle it.

and i'm so tired, and i can't say much today...
but i need to become interestingly photogenic
by the jamie stewart show.

i danced today.

that is all. no picture.

i can't...handle it...

Girl Cousin and the Boy Wonder

The world is a waste.
They called Her a "fuck up" because she smokes weed all day and dropped out of school. I think the rest of the world are the real fuck ups.
He said that leaving society to live alone in the woods was the most selfish thing someone could do. I think it is selfish of our society to expect us to serve a system that only satisfies the needs of the privileged, while exploiting and crushing everyone else.
As my ninth grade social studies teacher would say, "The best government is no government at all."
And as my Buddhist sensei would say, "Desire is the root of all suffering."
Desire for power, money, life, love.
Our society is based off of the gluttonous pursuit of these virtues.
So how is releasing desire to find clarity selfish?
How is She a fuck up for living her life how she sees best?
Forget prestige, honor, money, success, and privilege; I'm going off to live in the woods. Call me selfish all you want... I won't be there to hear you.

on mattresses.

i'm convinced that everything in life can be traced back to the fact that i have an uncomfortable mattress. i've had the same mattress my entire life.

i remember when i realized i had an uncomfortable mattress, it was when i was about thirteen, and boys suddenly took an interest in me, at least, enough of an interest that i could weasel my way into their hearts, houses, and beds. they all had such...cozy beds. my spine was pleased.

and there began my infatuation with comfortable mattresses.

i started gauging the quality of my travels, not by how much fun i had on the trip, but by how comfortable the mattress in the hotel was.

the best sleep i have ever had, was in the king sized bed at a crowne plaza.

the worst sleep i have ever had, is either trying to sleep on the drive back from Paris at 4 AM or, it was the time i was attacked by a horsefly in the middle of the night and i had to go sleep upside down in the car. and the only thing that could put me to sleep was efterklang.

i think i'd sooner fall in love with a mattress than a person. i could be sleeping with god himself, but it just wouldn't work out if his mattress was uncomfortable.

in fourth grade, we had to do this project where we had one million hypothetical dollars, and we had to search through the internet and magazines, and figure out what we could buy with one million dollars. we had to purchase a house, and furnish it entirely, with one million dollars.

well, this was back when i was still an overachiever, and guess what i put hours of research into?

the best kinds of mattresses.

i bought the cheapest i could of everything else (we had to furnish the ENTIRE house. who the fuck gives projects like that to nine-year-olds anyway?) so that i could put the largest portion of my money towards the mattresses. i remember advising the other students on the best mattresses to buy.

no one needs one million dollars to buy a mattress. even people who live under bridges have stained, waterlogged mattresses.

mattresses aren't even really that expensive in comparison to all the other things i own.

i usually get anything i ask for from my parents, because i don't ask for much. a macbook here, a $700 camera there...some venetian masks. a box of condoms.

really, i don't ask for much.

but i still haven't gotten a new mattress. i fantasize about moving into my own apartment, not because i want independence or anything...

i just fantasize about buying a comfortable mattress.

my room in the apartment in Montréal.
the mattress is surprisingly comfortable.

Pagan Rituals

So at 9:30 Saturday night, Kristin and I went to the beach.
We talked about how we push away everyone who loves us while listening to Psyclon Nine.


We pulled back the particle board that covered the window of an abandoned mansion and went inside. We climbed the stairs to the top floor, where we stood before a glass wall overlooking the bay.


We lit candles and read from the Book of Shadows.




We then left the house and sat out on the beach.
It was 39 degrees F (3.8C) and raining.

































We started the ritual, calling the tides and the power of Isis.
There were pretzels too.
Then we went swimming
in the icy waters.
A wave engulfed me,
turning my body numb,
pulling the breath from my lungs,
and sending my head spinning.
































Completely numb, covered in mud and sea water, we stumbled into a diner. We looked like a pair of cocaine addicts as we shivered, half dressed at the booth. We ordered soup and tea, and felt
warmer.
smile.



At 3:30am, we decided it was time to drive home.
The night gas-man danced around the station singing Celine Dion.

skittles, wondering if god hates her.

sometimes, i wonder if we're all just dolls that god plays with when he's bored.

“Sometimes, I feel like a figment of someone’s imagination." Skittles throws up her hands as she says this, palms upturned above her head.

"Someone's imagination," her therapist repeats in a softer voice. Skittles quirks an eyebrow at her, waiting to see if a real response is coming, then continues.

"I mean, I could be a character in a book."

"Do you feel this way because you have trouble separating reality from fantasy?"

"No, retard," Skittles sneers. "Fucking look at me."

"You look perfectly normal."

"I'm a fucking lesbian midget pimp with a pink mohawk who was raised by dolphins! I've been whoring out men and selling drugs to children all my life. Don't give me that 'you're normal' shit."

Her therapist's lips tighten and she pauses. "You seem angry, Skittles," she says finally. "Is this why you stole the Boy George record?"

"I. didn't. steal. the. record," Skittles growls, teeth clenched. "It was Snickers!"

"And who is Snickers?" the therapist's voice is sweet and non-threatening. "Is Snickers real, Skittles?"

"You just had a session with him! He's the man wearing the pink miniskirt."

"Oh, the transvestite." The therapist tilts her head to the left. "Right."

"He stole the record," Skittles prompts.

"He stole it."

"Now we talk about me."

"Right." Again, the therapist pauses. "Got any hobbies?" she asks.

"I'm a pimp."

"Hmm." when the therapist says that, she sounds cartoonish and young, like a kindergarten teacher. "How about writing? You could write a book!"

This is the final straw for Skittles. She stands on her chair, so she comes almost eye to eye with the therapist.

"I. HATE. WRITERS." she screams. "HATE THEM!"

"Why?" the therapist has returned to her luminous office voice.

"Because they're sick!" Skittles jumps up and down on the chair frantically as she speaks. "They have issues! They just make up these fucked up characters and make them go through crap at will! People who write have inferiority complexes. People who write want to be God."

"I don't think that's true at all," says the therapist. "I think writing helps people get out their feelings."

"Their sick, fucked up, morbid, want-to-be-god feelings!"

"Skittles," the therapist asks softly. "Do you feel like God hates you?"

"Do you have a fucking sheet of questions you're supposed to ask?" the midget sneers. "No, I don't think God fucking hates me."

The therapist does not have a sheet of questions. In fact, the therapist, whose name is Hershey, often spends long nights awake herself, wondering if God hates her. She started thinking this around the time her husband left her for his secretary, Jack, who also happened to be a hermaphrodite. She likes to envision herself as tormented, when in reality, she is just slightly retarded.

"Baby," was the last thing her husband said as he walked out the door. "Baby, boobs AND a penis! Jack has everything! You have to understand!"

"I do," she said, and she thought she did. She thought God hated her.

She also thought God hated her when her daughter Jenny ran away from home with her boyfriend. From the rumors around town, she's heard Jenny changed her name to Silverfang Ravenwolf and joined a cult. Jenny refuses to speak Hershey's name, but insists on complaining about her constantly, which takes a lot of talent. Sometimes Jenny makes voodoo dolls of Hershey and puts curses on them, but the curses don't work because her energy level isn't right and she was born under the moonsign. This is what her boyfriend says. The real reason the curses don't work is because Jenny is in a crackpot cult.

Therefore, God hates Hershey.

Skittles thinks of the matter differently. She thinks God just has way too much time on his hands. She thinks God is a bored little man with weird fetishes.

To put it simply, she thinks God is a writer.

what i need to do is fuck up so bad i can't save myself.

(by the way, you shouldn't feel bad posting about your amazing weekend...)

(...you destroy me on a daily basis regardless.)

Filler

This weekend has been filled with so much awesome that I have no time to blog because I'm catching up on three days of ignored calculus.