I know most people consider fucking to be wonderful- but when it's happening above my bedroom every night, sometimes 3 times a night, in a cheap bed with rusty box springs then it's not good. Plenty of banshee wailing, what sounds like a dog whining atop a spinning washing machine (visualize that one, go ahead-add the audio) and the fact that I'm already paying too much for this place, well this makes for a bad mood. Some people have no class. I hope they're using condoms. The last thing I want to hear 9 months from now is their baby crying all night. I can tell they're doing it in missionary position. Don't you think the fact I know this says something about these people's lack of discretion? not to mention lack of creativity. I wonder which of them is going to grow bored first? And...I'm curious if people who limit themselves to missionary only might be suffering from some sort of religious persecution complex?
I've seen him once. He is never going to marry her. Any man who runs up and down stairs 10 times in half an hour in leui of actually tending the BBQ is a lout.
Great, there they go again.
Mormon's live downstairs, right next to me. I'm thinking the vacant apartment above them will do nicely. I'm tired of just living in the living room.
Wow, now I hear hammers. Idiots.
feb 16, 2008
Monday, February 16, 2009
Saturday, February 14, 2009
Sunday, December 14, 2008
december 15, 1996 - He lives
Hi Maui ...
I'm writing your book. I'm so sorry it's taking so long.
You know how I is.
posted december 15, 2008
I'm writing your book. I'm so sorry it's taking so long.
You know how I is.
posted december 15, 2008
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
no, they like to be called black!
When I was 13 I met this black girl around my age. We played in the pool and talked about how short my hair was; she was nice and told me that I didn't look like a boy and that anyone who says so should be ignored. I told her "I like you, wanna be friends?" and she answered "I'd like that, come by next time you're in town and we can play". Later that night I thought about telling my father that I met a new friend. I may have told him about her, I don't remember, but it wouldn't have mattered anyway because he was a pothead and had no time to listen.
A month later I was back in town and scared shitless to go knock on her door. I didn't know why I'd be so scared, all I knew was she was the only friend I had in that sorry town. My knees wobbled when I walked, and the closer I got to her door the more my heart pounded. By the time I reached out my little balled up hand and knocked on her door I'd already figured out what her being black would mean in relation to me being me. 5 minutes later and a few more light taps and I still stood at her door, trying to hold back my stupid tears. I swallowd my heart back down my throat all the way back to my fathers house. I never dared to go back and knock ever again, and I never saw my little friend ever again, and I never spoke too directly about any of it until one day I couldn't hold it in anymore so I asked my mom if black people didn't like white people. She told me black people don't like being called black, "They like being called Negroes these days". I said
"No they don't, mom ... they like being called black"
"No ... dear. Today, we call black people negroes, or negroid; they do not like being called black anymore"
"Where did you get that, mom? they like being called black!"
"Well, these days everything has to be said so right and if you don't say things just right then you can really get in trouble with people; I think they're actually calling themselves afro american these days"
I wanted to cry and scream and just blurt out how hurt I was that I didn't see my friend that day and ask my mom straight up why she thought my friend wouldn't come to the door, and I wanted to talk to my mom about why white people are white and why black people are black and why this is such a problem and really just find out if this might only have had something to do with my haircut making me look like a little boy, but instead all I heard was nigger. Nigger, nigger, nigger; us them, those niggers.
After that, I dropped it and decided that not talking about anything always worked so I'd keep not talking about anything, especially negroes or niggers.
So then my life just went on same as it did for any other white kid in my part of town. I had mostly white friends; well except for Keith and Carol, a brother and sister. I think Keith was pretty cool but I couldn't tell because every time I wanted to find out, all I heard was my mom. I never talked about negreos with either of them, as much as I really ached and longed to finally get it out. One day I felt like I really wanted to cry on Carol's mother's shoulder, but instead I just came across like a timid stone. Carol's mother liked me and knew something was deeply troubling me, I could tell, and I liked her and I needed her desperately. I liked Carol and Keith too, but every time I was around the family all I heard was negroe; they like to be called negroes. Niggers.
About a year ago I wandered into a hair salon. Before I could push my wildly beating heart back down my throat I noticed that everyone in the shoppe was black. They were staring back at me through the reflection of fear in my own eyes, and before I could open my mouth, one of the younger women asked me what I was doing there and before I could choke out an answer another young woman informed me, very formally, that she didn't think this was the salon I was looking for and suggested another salon might better serve my needs.
Negroes. Nigger. No, they like to be called black!
A few months after that incident I was shopping over at the Trader Joes and I wanted to go and buy a cup of coffee at the coffee shop a few doors down from that salon. I don't know what it was that day, it could have been that my big hat and the magnitude of my even bigger curly long hair had blinded me, preventing me from seeing straight, because when I next looked up, I noticed the sign posted above their shoppe had morphed:
"INTERNATIONAL HATE GALLERY!"
It took me a minute to calm down and I think I even may have stopped dead in my tracks to catch my breath, but as soon as I could think straight again I looked back and up the sign had just as quickly morphed back into "INTERNATIONAL HAIR GALLERY".
Years would pass before I finally understood that my little friend couldn't come to the door because she wasn't at home that day.
Oct 18, 2008, er I mean Nov 2008... help
A month later I was back in town and scared shitless to go knock on her door. I didn't know why I'd be so scared, all I knew was she was the only friend I had in that sorry town. My knees wobbled when I walked, and the closer I got to her door the more my heart pounded. By the time I reached out my little balled up hand and knocked on her door I'd already figured out what her being black would mean in relation to me being me. 5 minutes later and a few more light taps and I still stood at her door, trying to hold back my stupid tears. I swallowd my heart back down my throat all the way back to my fathers house. I never dared to go back and knock ever again, and I never saw my little friend ever again, and I never spoke too directly about any of it until one day I couldn't hold it in anymore so I asked my mom if black people didn't like white people. She told me black people don't like being called black, "They like being called Negroes these days". I said
"No they don't, mom ... they like being called black"
"No ... dear. Today, we call black people negroes, or negroid; they do not like being called black anymore"
"Where did you get that, mom? they like being called black!"
"Well, these days everything has to be said so right and if you don't say things just right then you can really get in trouble with people; I think they're actually calling themselves afro american these days"
I wanted to cry and scream and just blurt out how hurt I was that I didn't see my friend that day and ask my mom straight up why she thought my friend wouldn't come to the door, and I wanted to talk to my mom about why white people are white and why black people are black and why this is such a problem and really just find out if this might only have had something to do with my haircut making me look like a little boy, but instead all I heard was nigger. Nigger, nigger, nigger; us them, those niggers.
After that, I dropped it and decided that not talking about anything always worked so I'd keep not talking about anything, especially negroes or niggers.
So then my life just went on same as it did for any other white kid in my part of town. I had mostly white friends; well except for Keith and Carol, a brother and sister. I think Keith was pretty cool but I couldn't tell because every time I wanted to find out, all I heard was my mom. I never talked about negreos with either of them, as much as I really ached and longed to finally get it out. One day I felt like I really wanted to cry on Carol's mother's shoulder, but instead I just came across like a timid stone. Carol's mother liked me and knew something was deeply troubling me, I could tell, and I liked her and I needed her desperately. I liked Carol and Keith too, but every time I was around the family all I heard was negroe; they like to be called negroes. Niggers.
About a year ago I wandered into a hair salon. Before I could push my wildly beating heart back down my throat I noticed that everyone in the shoppe was black. They were staring back at me through the reflection of fear in my own eyes, and before I could open my mouth, one of the younger women asked me what I was doing there and before I could choke out an answer another young woman informed me, very formally, that she didn't think this was the salon I was looking for and suggested another salon might better serve my needs.
Negroes. Nigger. No, they like to be called black!
A few months after that incident I was shopping over at the Trader Joes and I wanted to go and buy a cup of coffee at the coffee shop a few doors down from that salon. I don't know what it was that day, it could have been that my big hat and the magnitude of my even bigger curly long hair had blinded me, preventing me from seeing straight, because when I next looked up, I noticed the sign posted above their shoppe had morphed:
"INTERNATIONAL HATE GALLERY!"
It took me a minute to calm down and I think I even may have stopped dead in my tracks to catch my breath, but as soon as I could think straight again I looked back and up the sign had just as quickly morphed back into "INTERNATIONAL HAIR GALLERY".
Years would pass before I finally understood that my little friend couldn't come to the door because she wasn't at home that day.
Oct 18, 2008, er I mean Nov 2008... help
Saturday, November 15, 2008
penelope
The first animal I met was a little cockapoo named Penelope. She was my parents first child, and then I came along and she took back seat. That poor little pitiable soul, she was always dragging herself around the house in a depressed state. I remember noticing that and seeing it as weakness. I tried to love her. I'd side up to her pathetic little whimpering form and attempt to hug her, but to be really honest I couldn't handle the dog smell. I was always asking my mother to bathe her, hoping that might change things. Then the second animal came along when I was 9, a little runt of the litter kitten with a white mask. He showed up one night in the form a life size animated scream that had somehow wedged itself up and inside the chasis of my mother's car. By the time I finagled the noise from the car I had already fallen madly in love. From there on out I began obsessing on how a kitten could have possibly created all that racket. For a few years I told anyone who would listen all about the screaming kitten and how it was meant to be and that it was a sign of my true love. I never looked back on Penelope and whenever she followed me around for love she was met with rejection.
She died of distemper but I was too busy to care. To this day I feel bad about that. I know I'd show love to Penelope today. I have always felt guilty about the way I treated that little dog.
posted oct 15, 2008
She died of distemper but I was too busy to care. To this day I feel bad about that. I know I'd show love to Penelope today. I have always felt guilty about the way I treated that little dog.
posted oct 15, 2008
Friday, October 31, 2008
undying love
You are my sunshine, my gray-hair'd good time, the sweetest pussy I've ever kissed...
You are shrrredding Google again, baby! You are number #1 still, baby - with or without an apostrophe!
You are, then as you are now and into the future forevermore, the world's greatest cat, baby. And I love you, Maui!
posted on the last day of oct 2008, right after eating 2 slices of chocolate pie
You are shrrredding Google again, baby! You are number #1 still, baby - with or without an apostrophe!
You are, then as you are now and into the future forevermore, the world's greatest cat, baby. And I love you, Maui!
posted on the last day of oct 2008, right after eating 2 slices of chocolate pie
Monday, October 27, 2008
the holidays are like an orgasm
every time they come, my ranter screams.
I gave up ranting after I realized that I'm ugly when I'm angry and typing at the same time - but several items are causing serious internal combustion and need exorcising before 2009 rolls around. They are
1) Ex roommate - nutty, twisted jerk - a therapist, plagued by various forms of OCD, some well known, and some I believe she's discovering and defining daily. I hope her cat, Boy, drags cat poop in on his sweet, delicious haunches and into her bed...and down under her country floral comforter...then wedges it deeply between her ironed & starched bed sheets. Standby.
2) Some destructive troll from craigslist who singled me out this past summer and then hounded and harrassed me for months on end while I was looking for employment (during a long period of illness no less) by sending numerous, unsolicited, poorly written email containing "advice" on ad writing, several emoticons, and a not so subtle hint of future harrassment to come. A few weeks and replies back later I learned that I was the topic all "her readers" were discussing. Here's the part where I'm confessing that I finally resorted to laying a trap and created a fictitious help wanted ad that I would use to trick her into confessing to being a serial-flagger. Flawless- I done went and outdone myself and managed to get several confessions from the troll. Normal people would be satisfied by this accomplishment and be done with it by now. I believe this toxic asshole is at large and currently operating within 7 degrees of blog-separation- if not, I'll make good and certain I'm read. I'll get you my pretty.
I admit it, this bitch got the best of me. Wanna screw with me? Just taunt me anonymously from behind a computer, reach into my real world and deliberately try to micromanage my destiny. That's a winner. And you know, there's a lot to be said on the subject of being tortured by some freaky wannabe blog-star shooting off harrassment email containing LOL, LMAO and HAHA to a total stranger; that, too, wore me down - as did the bullying and sick power play of flagging my employment wanted ads, which caused actual monetary loss. I've since vindicated myself...but you know, I'm still fucking pissed off. Evil people still shock me.
I gave up ranting after I realized that I'm ugly when I'm angry and typing at the same time - but several items are causing serious internal combustion and need exorcising before 2009 rolls around. They are
1) Ex roommate - nutty, twisted jerk - a therapist, plagued by various forms of OCD, some well known, and some I believe she's discovering and defining daily. I hope her cat, Boy, drags cat poop in on his sweet, delicious haunches and into her bed...and down under her country floral comforter...then wedges it deeply between her ironed & starched bed sheets. Standby.
2) Some destructive troll from craigslist who singled me out this past summer and then hounded and harrassed me for months on end while I was looking for employment (during a long period of illness no less) by sending numerous, unsolicited, poorly written email containing "advice" on ad writing, several emoticons, and a not so subtle hint of future harrassment to come. A few weeks and replies back later I learned that I was the topic all "her readers" were discussing. Here's the part where I'm confessing that I finally resorted to laying a trap and created a fictitious help wanted ad that I would use to trick her into confessing to being a serial-flagger. Flawless- I done went and outdone myself and managed to get several confessions from the troll. Normal people would be satisfied by this accomplishment and be done with it by now. I believe this toxic asshole is at large and currently operating within 7 degrees of blog-separation- if not, I'll make good and certain I'm read. I'll get you my pretty.
I admit it, this bitch got the best of me. Wanna screw with me? Just taunt me anonymously from behind a computer, reach into my real world and deliberately try to micromanage my destiny. That's a winner. And you know, there's a lot to be said on the subject of being tortured by some freaky wannabe blog-star shooting off harrassment email containing LOL, LMAO and HAHA to a total stranger; that, too, wore me down - as did the bullying and sick power play of flagging my employment wanted ads, which caused actual monetary loss. I've since vindicated myself...but you know, I'm still fucking pissed off. Evil people still shock me.
Here's some good advice for you miserable, destructive cyber cowards: pick your target wisely lest you unwittingly encourage new ideas. Don't pick one anyone smart. Don't pick on anyone creative. Don't pick on anyone in pain. Don't pick on the meek. Don't pick on the strong. Don't pick on anyone who has memorized Poe's Alone. Don't pick on cat people. And don't pick on a prisoner about to be paroled.
Worn down from living in poverty, and disgusted with people in general, I did what any red blooded vengeance seeker would do...I used the same forum and power formerly used against me to make 1000s of dollars a week, and still do.
You're mine now. I got you, my pretty—flag this. How do you like me now!
What was that? Was that an utterance auditioning for coherency? some sort of venomous spittle dribbling from your accursed little tongue, attempting to form itself into a thought? Answer me, "LL". Speak up! Speak up, you disconsolate jealous bitch, I can't hear you—how do you like me now! Get on your knees, now, you horrid little troll, and bark like an epileptic dog, then get up and get down-dance like a puppet (dance! dance! dance! get down and boogie!), weep like a spoiled princess and go flag those ads while I shop online at Bose. Yeeeeeauh - how do you like me now. Uh! Yeah! Uh! Yeah! How.Do.You.Like.Me.Now.
This will be the only time I ever stoop low enough to type out such an obviously pompous claim, or to toot my own horn...People who are neither funny nor creative need to face one immutible fact: I am funny and creative, and they are not.
3) Never one to rule out possibility: Me
posted some time in Oct of 2008
Sunday, October 19, 2008
cats, glorious (heart breaking) cats
I miss my roommate's cat. I miss my dead cat. I don't miss my living cat - and he doesn't really behave as if he cares one way or the other, so we're even. The only thing that living cat has going for him are his looks. He's a lovely and ornate empty vase, an antique Tiffany lamp with a 25 watt amber blub. Bless his little heart, he's as dim as an amber 25 watt bulb.
What idiot said "If you can't be with the one you love, love the one you're with"? It's a lie - it's pure BS. Oh, Testify, thine own heart!
I'm in near proximity to one of the most beautiful cats ever placed on this earth - a living, breathing masterpiece of feline design - and here I live and breathe, catless and profoundly lonely.
If I don't get a cat fix soon I don't know what's going to go down.
Sometimes I feel like my beating heart depends on a warm cat.
And while I am here, an update re: the below post, and a reminder to myself that my penchant for withholding pleasure from my own self is alive and well. I can afford a shelter's worth of my favorite drug, but instead I reason with myself that I'm just "not ready" yet. Not ready for what?
What is wrong with me?
Answers accepted in comments section.
What idiot said "If you can't be with the one you love, love the one you're with"? It's a lie - it's pure BS. Oh, Testify, thine own heart!
I'm in near proximity to one of the most beautiful cats ever placed on this earth - a living, breathing masterpiece of feline design - and here I live and breathe, catless and profoundly lonely.
If I don't get a cat fix soon I don't know what's going to go down.
Sometimes I feel like my beating heart depends on a warm cat.
And while I am here, an update re: the below post, and a reminder to myself that my penchant for withholding pleasure from my own self is alive and well. I can afford a shelter's worth of my favorite drug, but instead I reason with myself that I'm just "not ready" yet. Not ready for what?
What is wrong with me?
Answers accepted in comments section.
His Royal Highness, Maui "The Nuzzler" Onion
Dead Cat - All Hail! gap & Maui, forever!
Boyfriend, (Ex) Roommate's Cat
Harry Bezalel, 25-watt Living Cat
posted some time in the middle of Oct of 2008
Monday, July 21, 2008
the feud
Once upon a time there lived a lonesome woman. She grew tomatoes and dearly loved her garden full of light, delighting herself in all life that grew there. Daily she watched as the sun fed each fruit, her heart swelling with joy as they each bulged; as they did, so she grew.
One day just around the time the sun began to put itself to rest she came upon a large fruit ready for her basket. The sight of it filled her, for she felt simple and innocent in her garden as she bent over the tender ripe thing, and knelt. As was the daily routine of symbiosis between heart and her creation, the excitement washed over her - but today the sinking orange light hid the stirring shadow of what Satan himself embodied as he ascended from hell that day and settled into her garden—slithering out from a hidden worm hole bored clear to the core of the red fruit glowered a cold, metallic threat of death as the widow peered deep into her eyes, proclaiming telepathically:
Drop my house bitch—or die
posted sometime this month, july of 2008
One day just around the time the sun began to put itself to rest she came upon a large fruit ready for her basket. The sight of it filled her, for she felt simple and innocent in her garden as she bent over the tender ripe thing, and knelt. As was the daily routine of symbiosis between heart and her creation, the excitement washed over her - but today the sinking orange light hid the stirring shadow of what Satan himself embodied as he ascended from hell that day and settled into her garden—slithering out from a hidden worm hole bored clear to the core of the red fruit glowered a cold, metallic threat of death as the widow peered deep into her eyes, proclaiming telepathically:
Drop my house bitch—or die
posted sometime this month, july of 2008
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
my colors are showing
and so are my neighbors.
So, I walked outside to the front yard this evening to pop my Ambien—well, not really - but what I saw could have very well been the hallucinogenic result of popping it and then staying up past the point of sleep. Directly across the street a little girl danced, twirling and oozing forth - her image reflecting off the voices of the other two people involved, her tiny little spirit leaping toward euphoria while two fat, frizzy haired middle aged women sat by, coaching the child, "Now. Turn a bit more. That's very nice. Yes. Twirl and turn...there you go", followed by muffled sounds of more instruction. The little girl, pleased by the encouragement (or simply responding to her own true nature - who can tell these days?) reached her hand and ripped a gash through the air across her front side and then downward to grab her cowboy boot from the driveway just in time bring it back upward and down again to nail some invisible crawling creature on the driveway-to which the two ladies responded by resuming instruction, disappointed by the interruption but undaunted. Round and round the little girl twirled, spinning about with seeming delight when I finally realized that the tiny little girl was a boy with all the male energy of Rambo—his dress not on, and not off, but hanging playfully off his tiny little body in an undecided fashion.By now I had positioned myself so that I had front row seating, adjusting my ass on the pavement to get a clearer see without being too obvious - after which this surreal hallucination played on another five minutes...the two vicariously obsessed fat ladies issuing specific commands with all the panache of Broadway choreographers - while I sat a bit shocked, every conceivable and logical answer melting away. A stream of drool may have escaped the side of my mouth just in time to alert me to the fact I was gawking. And disgusted.
I'm really not sure quite yet, but I might be a bigot.posted some time in june, 2008
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