414 - Wisconsin (work in progress)

Sometimes I just don't believe Americans exist.

I'm going to let that sink in for a minute.



(1 minute passes.)


It's not
that I
don't
KNOW that they exist.
They exist.
I'm positive of that fact.
But facts are not beliefs, so...
while I
UNDERSTAND that
factually
there is such a place as the United States of America Ltd.
that there are inhabitants of this
factual.
nation.
and these
factual.
inhabitans.
do
, in fact,
exist....

But
belief.
That's a
WHOLE
different ballgame.


for belief is that misty-gauzy feel, that perfect cadence at the end of the movement on a foggy night
that dust you don't know sits in your lungs
that breath you lost...
....that first time you lost your mind....
.........in the blink of his eye....



Fact
, however,
is the shortest distance between
two
points.

Shut your fucking mouth

Today is the National Day of Listening (I won't specify which nation). I am going to celebrate by locking myself in my room until I go see my therapist.

I've been keeping journals for a really long time. When I was younger, whenever my brother made me mad, I went into my room and wrote 'til the paper tore under the pencil. I hated my brother. He was a piece of shit. I can't tell you how many times I wrote down 'I hate **** so fucking much I want to fucking kill him'. If I were a boy, I probably would've gotten into a lot of fists fights. But I'm not. I wasn't. I was a girl. So I ripped paper and felt the bones in my head push against my skin until I could feel my blood pressure rising. I was eight. Seven. Nine. I wasn't even into two digits and I felt such profound rage, the kind that kills people inside out.

Don't you dare believe that women are liberated. They're only liberated on paper. Here is something that I truly believe: your sisters and your mothers and your wives and your girlfriends are WARPED. They have compound history weighing down on their brains, their husbands and fathers and mothers and friends slowly indoctrinating them to the point where they are fucking crippled by the mass of hysterical thought. Time has conditioned us to believe that we are inferior until that belief has become embedded into our genetic code. Now we are born insane.

Do you disagree with me? I walk down the street with my head down so I don't feel the overwhelming urge to spit on every passer-by. You fucking people turned me into what I am and now I have to undo everything while your forsake me for whatever fucking trinket you're after that day. You are all petty, selfish, ugly fucking people and I will hate you until either I die or this thought perishes. Fuck you. FUCK YOU.

i

Virulent, vicious, viper, vanguard, vortex, vork...vork?

My elbows hurt when I type. They rest on the desk and I feel my whole weight on them. I feel bad for them, little knobbly things, they were not made, were not trained, were not prepared for such labour.

I'm in a mood. It's amazing how conscious I am of my moods, how I dissect them like fetal pigs. It isn't so much disagreeable as it is...repulsed. 'Disgusted' , a word I employ liberally. What disgusts me? God, what DOESN'T disgust me? I hate that I am being unconsciously molded into a type, that I have been unconsciously molded into a type...I take inventory of my beliefs and I find I disagree with them. There is no one to look up to, no one to emulate, just people to protect and people you're sick of protecting and people who demand your attention but say nothing new, nothing they haven't said before in another time and another place to another set of eyes and ears that have fallen off. That's infuriating. I walk around cradling and tripping over my guts, trying to fit them, clumsily, into a crevice, into a hole with some degree of order, but I rush and they all spill out again. Disgusting. What is self-awareness without self-absorption? What is self-possession without self-obsession? Must everything be so close to the surface? Must there be so much blood?

I feel too big for this head. Sometimes I empathize with my elbows. Sometimes I think I am not made for this. And other times, I think otherwise.

-I

Do you know what I'm talking about?

Quiet, shithole, the movie's starting.

You'll wash the dishes, then we'll have sex.

It's American Thanksgiving. And although I am not American, today I've been constantly thinking about what I am thankful for. Most of all, I am thankful for that invisible, ethereal force of nature that is helping me do the right things at the right time in front of the right people. I am thankful for the current circumstances that compound my life. (And as a side note - I am incredibly thankful for my newest best girlfriend SMASH. She's intelligent and witty and as a friend quoted so eloquently, "she drinks whiskey like a champ";)

Something else that's on my mind? I don't want a boyfriend. And even more, I don't want to be anyone's girlfriend. I'm too much of a flaming feminist to revel in the idea of being the possessive to a male pronoun.

HOWEVER... there are some special and sweet and (excuse me while I make myself hurl) yummy dudes that make me melt when they describe these scenarios of what it can be like to be with someone.

I wonder if I can be with someone without "being there's." Or be with someone without us being each other's? Without having to talk all the time. Or be exclusive. Can't we just be with each other when we want to be?

I know what you're thinking...

It would get complicated right? It would never be able to work right? It'll get messy. There'll be heartache and negative thoughts, and other chics would definitely not approve.... of me with this guy. Of me and my flirtatious ways in general.

Back to Harry and Sally all things romantic go... Can men and women not only not just be friends.... but can they not have a casual intimate relationship without feelings and attachment not getting in the way?(excuse the double/triple negative).

C'est la fucking vie I suppose.

But I can see it. Can't you see it? It's so vivid and beautiful. And again, nauseatingly romantic with our hippie, barefoot, long haired, constant coitus, kind of ways.

So thank you (to whomever the Americans give thanks to... God?) Thank you for sweet boys... and hippie daydreams... and thank you for my imagination and how particularly overactive it's been lately :) Thank you.

Lola

*Drink of choice: Special Old.

I could fall in love with that fire escape

It's fair to assume that the mass of North Americans consider something like receiving extra sprinkles or hot fudge on their sundae, at no extra charge, as somewhat of a delight. It puts a smile on their face no doubt, a little extra spring in their step. That is, it is fair to assume, not only the unlikely kindness of the overworked and underpaid adolescent server, but also the additional sugary goodness would improve said North American's day. This happens to me all of the time. And like a flick of a switch, a smile appears on my face, and I am overwhelmed with the most loving warmth.

It's the little things that make my day. And yes, the changes of my mood from gloomy to happy are rapid, but my bipolarity is not the point I'm trying to explore here, it's that little things are meaningful and can have such an incredible impact.

Des and I will soon be moving out of our current humble abode we call "Lord Dovercourt" and into a new place. It's quaint, cozy, lovely really. If it had a name, it'd be something like Lucy or Margine. But there's this window off the kitchen/living room that looks out to the fire escape - the brick walls of the building, and a maze of rusted metal stairs. As I sat facing this window signing the lease yesterday, I glanced out and suddenly I was in a trance. I was so incredibly inspired and my whole life flashed before my eyes, all because of these brick walls and this rather dangerous looking fire escape. I saw snow building up on the edges. I saw birds perched upon the rail. I saw a man. A handsome man without a face, that I would meet an apartment over and fall madly in love with. I saw us on a rug in front of a fire wearing ironic sweaters and listening to blue grass. Or even better, Christmas songs! And it smells like apple pie. But it would only last as long as a daydream, so that I wouldn't get bored, and it wouldn't turn sour. Just the way I like it.

"I could fall in love with that fire escape," I thought to myself in this daze.

That evening I went to the library. Another place that makes me fall in love with everything and everyone around me. Books are the sexiest thing on the planet. I want to write a million. A million children's stories to share with the world. Mother's are sexy. I take back every negative thing I said about mom bodies. They rock my world.

Anyways, Inari and I were discussing romance, as we often do in our yellow kitchen. And I was reading about a love story between an author and an illustrator. And it delighted me so much. I thought, "that's perfect... that's exactly what I want." And she asked, "Which would you be?" (given this highly unlikely but extremely appealing partnership would happen?")

That's easy, I thought. I would be the writer... he the illustrator. And we'd have the most insane conversations and adventures and sexual escapades. Can you imagine that? Waking up in a studio in Greenwich Village and writing while your foxy illustrator husband illustrates? Or in some shack on the beach in Southern California? Or some ranch in the Midwest? Or a cottage up North?

These daydreams literally make my hair stand on end. I literally feel my blood flowing through my veins. "Is this healthy," I think to myself, "to react to such imaginary scenarios, or inanimate objects with such intense stimulation?" I don't care if it is or if it isn't, because these are the moments I look forward to the most. The moments of inspiration.

I'm one of those people you see out in public, casually making their way to whatever destination, and suddenly you'll see them smile huge, or laugh out loud. And they're all by themselves. You're thinking, "CRAZZZZZZy lady!." But you know what I'm thinking? I'd be thinking of some random image or memory that pops into my head... and I can't help but react.

Sometimes when it gets really quiet and all I have are my thoughts, I think of the books I read as a kid... and it just feels comfortable. It feels like sitting by a window a few days before Christmas, with a mug of tea warming my palms, and I'm watching the snow fall out on the fire escape... and letting my thoughts wander around. And then there's a knock at the door... Am I expecting someone? Maybe. Maybe not. But in this instance, knocks on the doors are delightful. The kind of delight you feel when you and your pops are at Coney Island and the lines are long, but suddenly an overworked and underpaid kid gives you your sundae with extra sprinkles, a little more chocolate sauce, and hell a goddamn cherry on top. And all you wanna do is smile like some goof. And that's what I do. A lot.

xoLola.

I had this Uncle, a great Uncle, we called him "ZseZse New York." I thought he owned the city. That memory makes me smile

Disgust - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

I'm going off birth control.

I've been on it for almost 4 months now and it's making me feel worse and worse everyday.

I flip and I flop. One minute I rule the world, the next I feel my love handles spilling over my once beautifully fitting skinny jeans and I feel absolutely disgusting.

Do you know what it's like to feel disgusting?

Fuck voluptuous women's bodies. Fuck child bearing hips. Fuck bigger boobs.

Fuck big is beautiful.

The only reason you embraced these changes with me was because you were still a size 2.

Shallow I may seem, but it's only because I'm angry. Angry with myself. How did I let this happen??? HOW!

Women are innately enslaved to themselves and it's been like that for centuries. Enslaved to our own standards. Our own ideals. But I like my standards. I like what I think is beautiful. But what I think is beautiful is not necessarily the way I want to look. I don't want to be able to feel my body when I move. I want to feel that comfort I once felt when I sat on a couch and wasn't worried about how much bigger I looked because my FAT was spread over the cushions.

Since when did I become the biggest person in the room? Since when did I become the woman who would cause offense if wearing a bikini in public? Since I started Alesse that's when.

Girls are vicious. Absolutely vicious. I know how they think and compare. "Don't worry about her. She's fat." "You're wayyyyy hotter than his new chic. See the size of those thighs?" "That girl shouldn't be allowed to wear jeans like that." "Sorry we don't make dresses over a 5." "Look at her scarfing down carbs like they;re going out of style. Take a moment to breathe." Oh and the infamous, "He can do so much better."

SHUT UP.

Why are MEN at the center of all the issues women have with each other? FOR SERIOUS. Why am I even on birth control? I don't even have sex. Not the kind that involves another partner anyways. I'm much too insecure about my body for that.

I've resisted the temptation to stop taking the pills for long enough. I've resisted giving up. "I've come this far," I thought. "It will only be a matter of time."

It is afterall, some sort of rite of passage, right?

I thought the side effects would eventually regulate. I thought the 20 pounds (!!!!) and the cravings would go away. But they haven't. And I'm sick of this.

I want my self-control back. I want my unshakable discipline.

For too long I've hid the fact that my size and my body bothers me. It bothers me. Think what you will. Think I'm shallow. Think I'm weak. But I'm not. Because every other person scrutinizes the way they look. So why can't I?

Or even more, why do I think I can't? Who puts this pressure on me to appear like I am a certain way, who doesn't care about "trivial things"? That I am beyond petty self-involved issues? Because I'm not. I'm a human being!

I suppose it's no one other than myself.

So for that I apologize. To me.

And to you, If it ever felt like I was blaming you for the pressure.

-Lo

I wish I was never made fun as a child. I wish I was never called fat. I wish you never called me a "fat ass." You know how that feels? Disgusting.

But it happened. And things happen for a reason. I strongly believe that.

And take away all of my petty issues, and really I wouldn't want my life on any other path.

A stretched moment. A selected memory. A scary dream. A sad reality.

Reading provided by my yoga instructor:

“I relax my consciousness. I unset my heart. I wear the world as a loose garment. I learn to dance with grace on the constantly shifting carpet.”

A stretched moment.

On my inner thigh there is a stretch mark.

Where did you get that cut?

A cut? Is he serious? I lie, because I’m embarrassed.

I don’t remember.

I think you do, he says.

I think it’s one of those doctor ones. Probably from yanking me out of the womb.

Wouldn’t that be on your head?

Oh… uh, yeah. Good God just let it drop.

Well… it’s from when I was smaller.

And that much is true.

A selected memory.

In the vestibule of Scotiabank he pulls back, stopping to wonder why my lips taste salty. How easily the past hour has been forgotten, where I cried and asked desperately to be shown genuine affection.

A scary dream.

Two weeks into the future, and me and some peeps are having drinks at Future’s before my film screens. He shows up, looking mad and purposeful. I can’t even draw, but I can render the likeness of his face. I can easily hear how his voice would sound saying words he’s never said.

He says with a hint of madness ,“So I’m a bastard? Is that what you’re telling everyone?” He sounds furious, but I’m certain his face is distorted by miserable torment (“I fucked him up good,” I think... kinda pleased actually).

He’s close and squeezing my shoulders to a point where I start to panic and think “He’s a psychopath. OH MY GOD he’s going to kill me!!!” My dream brain quickly corrects itself, assuring me that I know he couldn’t be a killer. But then immediately counter that assurance with, “Why not? He lied about everything else.” Which is when he leans in and kisses me harshly. I’m offended. My face goes screwy. Hot with fury. HOW DARE HE PULL THIS SHIT, I think. But I feel thrilled. So INCREDIBLY thrilled as I am able to think the one question I know in reality I will never again get to think...

What does the kiss mean?

A sad reality.

I wake up, and I can hear the mouse rustling around. It just barely registers because my face is still warm and there are tears streaming down it... and just like that, two weeks be damned, it might as well have all happened yesterday.

Reset.

“I relax my consciousness. I unset my heart. I wear the world as a loose garment. I learn to dance with grace on the constantly shifting carpet.”

-Des.

If I were a yoga posture, I would be... child's pose.

Number withheld

Do you ever find that there are days when it is easier to talk about sex than it is about love? Easier in the sense that one seems almost weightless and silly and the other is like a secret, bold and almost shamefully noble my-heart-cannot-heave stuff. Overwhelming emotion, tears in your eyes for no good reason that you're likely to call it hormonal and leave it at that.

I like those days. Makes me feel alive.


-I



There's no such thing as a guilty pleasure. There's no such thing as a guilty pleasure. There's no such thing as a guilty pleasure...there's no such....

I just had

the BEST night.

think it and it will come true.

Friday the 13th and you'll love me

High school crushes beware. You never loved me then, but you may love me now.

You probably won't... but you might!

And how fulfilling would it be in that typical Hallmark movie-of-the-week way, if you did fall in love with me tomorrow night. Fall in love REAL HARD.

Oh - the twist. This time it's my turn to end up in the closet on the phone with some other older attractive guy that I accidentally forgot to tell you I'm dating. And you'll overhear. And be heartbroken. Aww.

*Shoulder shrug.* Woops.

I'll turn to leave. Leave you behind forever. And you can't help but stare at my beautiful hair caressing my shoulders. Hair you never once considered seriously before.

Hair you'll never get to touch with your hands. Hair that I get to touch ALLLLLLLL the time. And I'll touch it now... I'll touch it as you're watching. It's killing you right?

And all you can think is, "I'm a douche bag."

Because you are.

xoLo

We do have magical powers! We do! Think and it will come true!

Get Rich or Die Trying

Are you deluded? No one's going to pick you out of a crowd and make you king.

It takes YEARS to make it. That shouldn't freak you out. Don't be stupid.

It takes courage to work hard and steady and prove that you are good at what you want to do. Patience. You will get yours in time.

Don't spread yourself too thin. And be courageous.

Note to self: there are 6,692,030,277 other people in this world. And they all think they're special too.

-lo

Carrie Bradshaw's Nipples

Considering the name of this blog, I feel like I need to draw some attention to the former TV show from which we swiped and remixed our header.

Sex and the City, the show that taught millions of women everywhere that you no matter how old you are or how well your career is going or how fabulous (to use their vernacular) your wardrobe, you are never going to outgrow your insecurities. I've finally gotten around to watching the series, after being mildly tickled by the movie and I gotta say...these women are idiots. Fucking IDIOTS. I'm only on season two, so it could be that their shallow bantering is dated (I guess women in the late nineties had no sense of selves), but yeah...IDIOTS. IDIOTS. IDIOTS. I'm sickened. I'm saddened. I'm thinking "How can Sarah Jessica Parker afford $2000 strappy heels but can't find it in herself to put on a bra?"

The overaching theme seems to be 101 Reasons You Can't Be Happy Without a Man. What happened to empowerment? What happened to loving thyself? What happened to it NOT being ok to say things like "If you own an apartment and he doesn't, then it disrupts the power structure." They make relationships sound like politics, when they should be about empathy and self-knowledge. I guess there's someone out there who thinks that's just idealistic psycho-babble. That someone is an asshole.

Should I feel happy that, a decade later, women two decades younger than these characters have a bit more, you know, character? Or should I want to gag on the values this show is throwing out? Or should I just enjoy the pretty wardrobe and just count my lucky stars that I didn't watch it when it was in its heyday, thus exposing my soft, malleable teenaged brain to utter, utter nonsense?

And yet, I watch it. So clearly there IS something that I like. Just don't ask me what. I'm still figuring that out.

Yours,

I

The world is your oyster and your sweat is the hot sauce.

I don't want to feel this way forever.

Who do you lean on after something bad happens?

I've noticed a lot of the people around me were quick to attach themselves to someone after something really bad happened a few years back. Do they love the person they've leaned on so much more for being there during a time of such grief?

I guess I do have certain people to go to - to turn to. But all of these people have other people that need them more. That mean more. That don't appear as "strong" as I am.

This is how my dad must feel. He only has himself to take care of himself. He only has himself.

I just feel this weight on my heart sometimes. And I think to myself, "how did this happen?" It's not like I need sympathy because I don't. I like my life... a lot! But it's like nobody's even willing to sympathize. Nobody knows how. Nobody wants to or cares to. It's ok, though. Because I don't need it.

Think about it. What if this happened to you. Huge, right? BIG, right? You feel like you would die, right? But you won't. Trust me.

You'll feel almost... free. Or... invincible.

But I don't want you to think such thoughts. So don't even imagine what it would be like for one second!

I guess what's really on my mind is that it makes me sad and extraordinarily curious why everyone else has someone so special to lean on - who's there for them so genuinely... but I don't. Like your puzzle piece that just fits. That just gets you, selflessly.

I just want to meet someone selfless. It will restore my faith in the world. In destiny. Longevity.

Will I find them? Will they appear, in time?

In time: The answer to everything. The cure-all to everything.

And yet, so frustrating.

Lola

If I was a christmas tree ornament I'd be a popsicle stick reindeer that says "To Mom."

Satisfaction is the DEATH of desire.

Isn't it?

Taking your bra off after a long day, and oh, how free it feels.

When you start to love yourself, in an un-selfinvolved kind of way - like not cringe at the things you say. Or you don't hide your interests out of fear that other people will turn their nose up at you, or grimace or something - it's freeing.

When you start to like your persona, it's like fulfillment. You don't have to buy anything or search for anything, because you feel "cool" as silly as that sounds. Cool with yourself. Cool in your skin.

Breathing becomes easier. Like tearing off your underwire after a hard day's work, except in more of an emotional way, than a physical experience. But, I suppose it's a physical experience as well. It's comfort. And comfort is physical.

And you may question, like I often do, that liking your "persona" isn't actually liking the real you because persona is: you + substance, you + material, you + trends. But YOU are still there. PERSON is still a part of persona.

The moment you look around and realize... you're happy being and looking like the you, you are, even the you you crafted and learned to be, rather than desiring to be or look like any other chic or dude around you... it's like smiles all around.

Smiles are like sunshine. Smiles are a breath of fresh air.

Who made sorrow cool, anyways?

lola

It's called "Ewok Village Sex" and it will blow your mind.

Genophobia: (n) A fear of sexual relations.

Erotophobia: (n) A fear of sexual relations; physical love.

"Physical love."

"Love."

Hmm....

How do you know when a fear you have is an actual issue? A legit phobia that makes your head spin in circles, and your attitude sexually apathetic as a defense mechanism?

It's not so much the risk involved that I fear, or the fear of losing a friend, or physical pain, or whatever have you. It's gotta be something else. Something deeper. This I'm sure.

Maybe it's the vulnerability. The fear of feeling something so strong in the moment, and then not feeling anything right after. Or the next day. I guess what I'm really saying, is that I fear I actually do have those feelings towards sexuality stereotypical of a man. Why is that such a bad thing? I guess that's what a Maneater is. But I'm not a maneater. Which is why my feelings create conflict between my head, my heart and my hormones. The 3 H's. Hell.

Or maybe that's not it at all. Maybe I value sexuality too much. Do I?

Do you think that's a bad thing?

I don't think it's a bad thing. I just think it's my thing.

My thing, to myself. For myself. But in an unselfish kind of way.

There's nothing better than the feelings I have for friends - with friends. There is no having of the sex with friends (well with my friends anyways). The focus is just on having good times together. Making "a night."

Picture this. There's a bunch of us. Friends. We decide to go wander the forests of Ewok village. I think it's some sort of amusement park that's like a recreation of Ewok village in Star Wars.

Anyways, a few of us wander off, and we find a girl's purse. Some urbanite Asian chic who we saw just ahead. She must of lost it. That sucks... for her. But we're a little hazy so instead of returning it... we go through it. Not for money. Just to fulfill our curiosity.

Inside one of us pulls out this jar of face glitter. You open it and we start throwing it around. And it shines, like, in the moonlight and stuff. And the colors start to blur like lasers. And it's crazy. And we laugh. Maybe we took ecstasy. I don't know. We're foolish sometimes. But it's fun. So fun.

But why is it fun? Is it because I want to flirt with one of you? Is it because a few of us wandered off to be alone and touch and give each other adolescent hickeys and handjobs and stuff?

So is it because of the sexual tension?

But I thought the fun part of being with friends is that there was nothing sexual about it? That we don't have to worry about all the sex and the tension and that perplexing gaze?

That's wrong. There's always something sexual about every situation involving sexes that are attracted to each other - whether opposite, or the same.

And it all goes back to that theme in When Harry Met Sally. That iconic, heavyset question about men and women and if they can truly, sincerely, HONEST TO GODLY be friends without at least ONE of them thinking of their friend AT ONE POINT in a sexual way.

I think it's true.

So much for getting high in Ewok Village on a platonic level. But if it was all platonic... would it be just as fun? I don't think so.

Does having a crush on someone you're hanging out with, make it all the more exciting, even if nothing happens?

I think it does.

xoLO

So, who have you undressed with your eyes lately?

410

Lada Gaga is ridiculous, but fascinating. She's insane. I admire her the way I admire Asia Argento...these crazy broads who are crazily talented in really weird ways.

-I

Water found on the moon

June whatever, 2008 (FUCK ALL p.m)

Yes. There is a girl. I wasn't big enough to ask for her name. He said that he "loves hanging out with me", he "loves my mind" and that he STILL wants to go to &&&& with me. But he doesn't want a romantic relationship and that he's sort of seeing this girl and that's when that piece died inside of me. You know, the one in my chest.

I still like him. A lot. And fuck, does it hurt. And damn! Do I feel ugly and unloved and unspecial. And shit, did I cry. I cried and I cried and I sobbed and I asked God, angrily, "Did I not know it? Did I not see it? And did I not say, please, let me be wrong?"

And no. I wasn't wrong.

I was right. I was RIGHT. And I lied anyway. Because being wrong was all I wanted, ignoring this gorgeous mind that ##### so loves. Well...enough of that shit. I was right. ANd self-deception is for assholes. And I am not an asshole. At least, I am no longer an asshole.

So it still stings and what I've learned rom my misadventures is that the stinging goes away. And I'm not going to wallow in it. Because ther really is one choice in this whole affair and that is that you mourn and then you recover...and the more time you do this, the more you realize how boring the mourning part is. And that recovery is where it's at. And that there is so much more fun in the part that isn't pining for what you can't have.

Ugh. I should stop this before I grow some character.

July 9th, 2008 (8:18 p.m.)

I really wish I had written down the date of the last entry. As it stands, I have no idea how much time has passed since I've seen him. I'd say, a month, if not more. Fuck.

I'm going though an over-eating phase. It just started, now that I've been through a not-eating + exercise phase. Three english muffins and a hand-full of malt balls doesn't seem like a lot, but I feel fucking bloated. I think I'm going to get my period soon. Joy. Seriously.

My job...well, it's not great, it just doesn't suck like the flames of hell. Bah. Whatever. I'm sleepy. I'm going to sleep.

(9:56 p.m.)

I didn't end up going to sleep. I went and bought wine instead.

July 11th, 2008 (8:30 a.m.)

Of the things in my life I don't regret the most (?) [sic] yesterday is way u on the list. Instead of going to my Pop Culture East and West class, I went to the Indigo at the Manulife Centre and saw David Sedaris read. And he signed my copy of 'When You Are Engulfed in Flames'. In it, he wrote:

"To Inari,
Diabete is for lovers.
-David Sedaris."

It was, in a word, thrilling.

Woke up in the middle of the night, deeply upset. I think I had been having a dream about ####, but I can't remember if it was a bad dream or a good dream from which I disappointingly woke up.

Today is the first da I can expect a letter. It will be torturous.

p.s. If you want to kill anybody's orgasm, say you're Dutch.


July 13th, 2008 (1:38 a.m.)

Being high...kinda blows. A lot of the time pot is not my drug. There, done and done. I'm too insecure to be a pothead.

God I miss ####. I miss how %%%%% used to be, before he got all morose and political. Oh, yes, though...####. Miss him. Miss him. Misshim.....


Poor cow.

-I


Dead fish do not float during stormy weather.

You’re the H1N1 vaccine, but he’s just a sneeze.

I replied to a Craigslist advert for a production assistant gig, and I got the very honest reply that I was “overqualified”.

Would that not be the perfect thing that a would-not-be potential lover could tell you?

“I’ve reviewed your application, and honestly, I think you’re a bit overqualified to be my girlfriend. You see I lack the ability to commit. I’m addicted to sex, and I couldn’t care less if it’s with my girlfriend, good friend, or stranger (especially when I’m shitfaced). Vulnerability scares me, and I’ll mistake your ability to produce feelings for you just being some psycho bitch.

I see here that you are willing to always be there for me. You’re open to love, and you hope for the best of all situations. You might even get upset if I cheat on you.

Really, right now I’m just looking for a gopher to run some errands. To shine my shoes, and my dick.

I wish you the best of luck in your girlfriend career.”

Yep. It’s like when the CFC says “We were impressed with your application, but you’re the youngest [white, Toronto-residing] person we interviewed. It’s bittersweet rejection.

Except when instead of “overqualified” the person you love more than anything says “I will never love you.”

That medicine is just damn bitter. It’s actually quite disgusting.

Desiree Thrash

I am not a bitter person... I am not a bitter person... I am...

I remember our first kiss...his beard and the cats circling our ankles

Maggie Gyllenhaal's character in 'Stranger than Fiction' is why I love to bake.

No. My first cookbook was a children's guide to baking that showed you how to make bear-shaped bread buns and chocolate-dipped strawberries.

No. That brownie recipe.

I have existential anxiety. My existence makes me anxious. My authenticity is always in question. And the people I love break my heart every day. No wonder nobody makes it out of this crazy world alive. Let's aim a little higher than mere tolerance and say it like it is: I will die happy the day I feel true empathy, when I meet that person who answers 'Do we speak the same language? Do you hear me?' with a resounding 'Yes. Very much so.'

What are you, total cocoa puffs?

Just chill, man. Just chill.


Yours,

I


If I were some metaphysical construct, I would be....subtext. Whoa.

I've got a flask inside my pocket...

...we can share it on the train.

I. Can't. Stop. Thinking.

I. Can't. Stop. Imagining.

I. Can't.

I. Can.

I.

Will.

Fantasize.

As.

Much.

As.

I.

Want.

TO!

xo

This is a reminder to LO that infatuation isn't real. It's just an illusion.

Or is it more than me wanting your pheromones?

Psycho

Being a female is a double edged sword. No. It's a psycho sword edged 15 different ways used during the most bloody of combat.

I hate birth control. The only reason I'm on it is because I think it's some sort of rite of passage you have to adhere to once you hit a certain age and you're a woman. Inevitably. I'm so upset right now. I'm generally a happy person. But seriously since I started this stupid pill I put on like 20 pounds. FUCK YOU BIRTH CONTROL. FUCK YOU to all the skinny girls who were always skinny. I know this is a really shallow rant. But seriously when you're a FAT child and you become skinny and then you become fat again. It's pretty much a terrible feeling. And it doesn't help when you're sister's fucking Lady Gaga, and you're best friends are all tiny little fairies who can eat and eat and eat... and it goes I don't know, NOWHERE.

See, when something really bothers me in the morning, I just rant away on Sexless and I realize how ridiculous this problem is in comparison to the REAL problems of the world... and all of my anger about being huge suddenly fades away amidst my rage for social issues. But now I'm angry about forced prostitution, and sweatshops, and the United States of America.

Oh God. I won't. I won't go there. I won't go to the extreme again. I rather be healthy then fucked in the head. I rather be me now, then be 90 pounds or get hooked on coke or smoke cigarettes.

I thought I was supposed to be brave? Where is my bravery? Where is my goddamn mother when I need her?