Danny, the Irish Bar-Tender

So it goes like this.
Not to degrade this serious medical condition, but I suffer from some sort of acute bi-polarity. We all do to a certain extent – mine just seems to be more extreme and more at random than several others. It’s often difficult to explain my change in moods towards certain people and I’m forever apologetic. I don’t ever want to be the bitch, but sometimes you’re just born with bitch inside you and when it rears its ugly head (and it is ugly as you can see from previous posts) you get hot and bothered and jealous and again, you have no reasonable explanation as to why. It’s a chemical jealousy.

But I refuse to censor myself to myself – hence I will not take down or delete any incriminating, self-loathing, or “bitch-driven-against-those-i-love” posts because I’m a big supporter of the honesty-party (however contradictory that allusion may be).

That said, this week has been considerably wonderful regardless of the storm cloud above my head. And to be honest? I blame it shamelessly on PMS. It seems I have intense attitude every so often (like clock-work) when it’s a full-moon or there’s a high-tide or whatever you call it.

xoLola

I'm a fragile egomaniac.

Why do I do the things I do? Why do I help people?
Because helping people is good and I will forever try to make up for the bad child that I was. But what I need to learn is that often the "good things" I do are not good for me. Why would anyone in their right mind do things that work against them for the sake of making up for some void that is gone and will never return and that I'll never be able to help. Why do I help you? Because sometimes I like to.

Well I hope you have a good weekend. I really do. Cherish every God-for-saken moment. Because one day you might see her die. Lliterally. You'll be holding her hand and singing Day Dream Believer. And the smell. It'll be unbearable to say the least.

Things change. Thank you Eye Weekly for making me feel better after this week of being haunted by some skeletal fiend of neorosis who burns allllllllllll calories by 5 am and loves it. Absolutely loves it. Envy is a dangerous thing. It's like I'm envious of that ambition, but would never EVER want to trade places. Oh my God, never. GAG ME.


Libra (Sept 23-Oct 22)
What's this? You don't have to drag yourself out of bed and cry your way through your morning coffee? You actually smiled on your way to work? (Yup!) Energy levels are rising and so are your spirits — and those of everyone around you. It's like you finally figured out that you're the star of your life and that it's about time you started to act like it.

Happy Thursday!

xoLOla

Praying for some salvation, Cause she's just so bored

The internet is an infectious, evil device. It subjects us to an abundance of information we eventually believe that we need, because we have such infuriatingly easy access to it. The internet is a cornucopia of beautiful shit that says, "touch me." So we touch it and it feels good, and then we're left with poison ivy. Or worse yet, herpes of the melon.
If it's out there for us to see, hear, know, beat off to - what kind of lazy fucks are we if we don't capitalize on the freedom of such information and use it to satisfy some sort of hunger within ourselves?

You know what I really like? What really gets me going? That thrilling sensation of being teased by the idea of satisfaction... the possibility of opportunity dangling above my nose. I reach for it and it pulls away. Not yet... Not yet!

Just wait. Wait for it.

There will come a point where what I want could quite potentially happen. And I understand that in order for it to happen a lot of people's lives will have to change along the way. But then again, it's nothing that hasn't happened before.

I remember the days of having to buy postcards of my favourite band at the corner store in order to look at pictures of them. What!? What was that? We will never see those days again. My blackberry, after all, is synced to 3 different email addresses, all of which receive updates for various forms of fandom in which I so sheepishly engage.

Goodnight.

xoLola.
Favourite tune of the moment: Hole's "Skinny Little Bitch"

Note to self: block out the moaning, but not entirely...

Lo, this is a list you should refer to every time you need to remind yourself of healthy positive habits to nurture and assist in your aspirations to develop a prolific, mindful routine. Your friends probably won't mind reading this either.

1) Take your time and don't feel guilty for taking your time. Something that's rushed and "done" is the result of a neophyte.
2) Write EVERYTHING. All your thoughts. Every moment, object, picture, scene, line, word, look in the eye. Keep a hundred lists all over the place in no specific order of ideas about the same thing... Eventually you'll have to sort through all of this ramble, but it's worth it for the value of one of those little gems you'll rediscover when you start to really focus on your story.
3) Don't be afraid to chuck ideas or even reuse ideas! Remember, it's cool to be green. Thank the hipsters.
4) Write characters you want to make love to, it'll make the writing experience a hell of a lot more exciting. Trust me. Sometimes I have to take a minute and compose myself. Dirty girl.
5) Determine whether you're a masochist or sadist. This will help immensely. And if you're conscious of this while writing... it really will enrich your work with identity.
6) Your ideas are not always your own. So make them your own.
7) If people in the apartment above you sound like they're having sex and/or masturbating to bad trib porn and you're trying to concentrate - put on a song with a tone you hope to embody in the scene/story/post you're working on and listen to it on repeat. It will not only mask the sex sounds, but will inspire your work.
8) If you have friends who are bitches (and I'm not talking about any of you AM, AF or GC so don't EVER think that) cut them out. And don't feel guilty for cutting them out.
9) Don't feel guilty.
10) Lastly, spill your guts and then get people to read it. And don't feel the need to preface their reading with any sort of warning/clarifications etc. If you wrote it feel good about the fact that something's written and is clearly good enough that you're getting people to read it.

xoxoLo

- I think, one day, I'll write a manual.

pseudo-haiku

Will you leave too soon?
The garden, the grass left behind
You'll see her, won't you?

Health is an 'f' 'u' 'n' letter word

I wouldn't trade healthy for a superficial beauty beyond my natural control. Substance is the enemy.

Lately, I've caught myself thinking regularly about a certain someone(s). Thinking and feeling the way I did in high school towards this(these) individual(s). Call it silly, call it a meaningless crush. But whatever the condescending label - know this - this thing, this feeling, adds an energy to tedious daily routine that otherwise wouldn't exist. The lone, fleeting thought bubble or incredibly bantam possibility that I could in fact fling with this guy(s) injects a rush of adrenaline through my arms and coats my emotion with I guess what is often described as "thrill."

He (they) thrills me. And above all else it feels fun. I feel fun.
I want to have fun.
And I won't apologize for my means of fun because in the long run, as I have learned before, this will not hurt anyone except myself. And hurt is all a part of the health. Or so I'm lead to believe.

xo
Lo

Gem & the Holograms

So many people lack originality it pinches me a million times and makes me want to upchuck.
I shouldn't waste my insides on the dry, the flat, the moor.
I should climb a mountain. Or at least continue to.

I hate plain and boring.
I hate that even over this annoying, accelerating volume I can hear your putrid voice and see that face that isn't yours.
I need a quiet space. And quiet time.
I need an oasis left of nowhere, full of somewhere.

I need prayer, however sacrilege my actions prove to be.

Where has all the unique gone?
Why are all the gems so far away?

xoLo

Hurt people hurt people

Every now and then I make it to a bathroom stall and curse to God not to cry.
I know I always say it hurts me most when I think I'm forgetting. (When I see it fading away.)
But, the truth is, it hurts me most when I remember.
My chest gets real heavy. I'm already hyperventilating on the inside. (I hide it well.)
And for a brief moment, fenced in by these makeshift seafome walls, I see it all like it was just days ago.
But that's not what really hurts.
What hurts is that suffocating feeling of being robbed without reason. Of knowing that what you once possessed for such a short short time (and it was a short time, we barely skimmed the fucking surface) will never return to me again. I can never not think that without feeling astounded. And angry.
I guess I'm still angry.
Or maybe I'm just now feeling angry.

However angry, however passionate, the (arguably) easier it's made being out for fucking number one.
Now I move on easy. Let go easy. Get bored easy.
I'll think you're stupid. Or superficial.
I won't call you back. Make promises I don't plan on keeping. I'll leave when I want to leave with no regard for your feelings.
I'll give short notice, and play favorites. I always play favorites.

It's often that I almost feel entitled to be a bitch when I want to.
And you don't have to call me out on it, because I'm well aware. I'll tattoo it on my fucking shoulder to remind you that I'm well aware. I never use this hurt as an excuse and I haven't to get me anywhere or sympathy or anything. Because a lot of people have their own business. Their own lives to notice. And that's ok.
It's ok that no one knows. No one knows the bad, and no one knows the good.
And again my self-righteousness faults me.

"Hurt people hurt people."

It's true.
And,
I'm sorry.
I am.
But, really,
when it comes down to it all...
no one's really that important.
Not anymore.

Call it punishment.
Call it regret.

But don't call me anything.

Lo

Jimmy Ruffin and the pursuit

And it happened yet again. The slow-motion moment in the midst of chaos.
I'm at Ultra on Friday night dancing like a psycho in celebration of, I don't know - life, when some guy and his slightly less attractive but equally coiffed campus-sheik, wingman approach.
It is clear these lads are not just passing by, but have stopped with purpose - a motivation as to why they choose to stand right there, where I in front of them am flailing so carelessly.
They lean in. My dancing tames however briefly, and I perk an ear. The boy starts, "How's your mother?"
And just as Kanye breaks it down, and the Brazillian dancers sh-shakin' it on the risers hollar a "hells ya", I get sucked back into the dance floor, with nothing more than a suspicion and a hope that I heard him wrong.

Later... in the haze, I consider to myself if this vagrant interaction actually occurred. And although only moments had passed, the booze and exertion distorts my internal clock. It could have been five minutes, it could have been fifty. Or even fifty-two. And as if I imagined it all, the two guys appear yet again, and just as I remembered them. Short and Abercrombie.
I close my eyes for a second, I need to concentrate on the question.
I look at his face, it focuses in and out. His lips are moving but I don't hear what he's saying. In fact, they're moving too slow for reality. It's stalled. A time-lapse. And that Kid Cudi song featuring MGMT starts playing, not in the club, but in a bull-pen circumferencing my head. Thick and stretchy, a theoretical mass that keeps me a foot and a half distant at all times. A foot and a half is a large space between my heart and the world. A terrible flaw.
"How's your mother?"
I'm sorry, I must have misunderstood the question, "What?"
He repeats himself, "How is your mother?"
My face falls. After I unapologetically answer with the simplest, although some would argue morbid statement, there are no other words to describe their reaction than bumbling. Fumbling. Morons. Full of sorries, inching away from the black hole that surrounds me, swallowed yet again into the crowd. Their faces barely making an impression in my mind.
I only remember the idea, not the face. Isn't that sad?
Even after the moment it happened. Isn't that sad?
And then I realize, Kid Cudi's become Jimmy Ruffin. Out of sync with the bumpers and grinders all around, but a perfect melody in my head. "Yes, Jimmy," I think to myself. "What does become of the broken-hearted?"
I stand there, as we slowly zoom out to a wide shot.

Indeed, one soul too heavy for a Hot Mess.
But nearly so.

Lo

(this is parade music) (good grade music) (party like you just got paid or got laid music)

I'm on fire.
I'm listening to hip hop and pop punk, and look at my face... does it look like I care that you act like you're "better" than me?
I'm dancing, at 11:11 am, I'm dancing in my goddam bedroom, swinging my blonde whore hair like nobody's watching because nobody's watching. And it's freeing. And it's cathartic. And I worked so hard.
I love my job. And opportunity. And friendship so genuine you feel like family, thick, thicker, thickest. Blood. Not water. And finally I'm out of the hell hole - almost out - almost there. And I can breathe. FInally breathing. Finally waking up and moving on, and dancing late.
Like old times.
After she'd call. Remembering when I'd hold the phone to the speaker so she could hear the music. Hear them singing to muffle out that fucking drip.
Drip.
d - R I P.

I just want to party and have fun. So I'm going to party and dance and have fun.
I don't have my words tonight. Not tonight. THey're not here.
And I'm thinking, I still have work to do... get the fuck off itunes.
If you never noticed before - it's a pattern - my best pieces of writing are during awfully stagnant periods. But not now. Not when the fire's raging and I'm neck deep in projects, then the words are on the back burner, until another one of those sad and lonely afternoons... then again, the words will find me, and help me be.
I don't need my words right now.
Get the FUCK off itunes.

Oh music. OHhhhh sweet music. For without you I would not be me. Writing would be my meat, but without music it'd be dry.
What's a piece of meat if it ain't wet?

At least I still got sexual innuendo.

"Easy on the booze," Daddy says. "Easy on the booze."
I'm not even drinkkkkkkking!

xo
Sober Lo

Fast Potato

The speed of light is 299,792 km per second. Raging fast. So fast it's indescribable, and any effort to's a waste.

I was on a greyhound to Montreal last night when a wild turkey smacked against the windshield and shattered the entire right frame leaving a spheric shaped dent the size of a watermelon in the glass. I thought it was a gunshot. Yup. In the middle of Cassleman, giant crucifixes erected in endless pastures, and I was dead sure it was a bullet.

I don't suppose you feel like writing? Perhaps you can, and I'll dictate while I think these words and breathe these final breathes before i give in to these eyelids, extra heavy. I'm thinking about radios and televisions. About couches and long walks. About conversation and close talk. About my blood and your blood, and blood that is the same. About nothing at all, and everything.

Why do I find myself in these situations over and over again? In an instant - a pull the trigger, drop the gloves, set the razor to the skin instant - it begins. My love for the stranger. Not so much a complete stranger, but an amalgamation of character traits I've already thought up and assigned.

I wonder if I'll ever see #12 again? Grade 5 probability says it's likely.

The speed of light is not that fast.

players light and plastic pails

We have this home video on VHS circa 1990.
We're in some subpar hotel in South Carolina, a real classy joint with one of those beds that comes down from the wall.
And I'm screaming - the cutest fucking meatball of a kid you've ever fucking seen.
I wasn't one of those weirdo kids, I was one of those shoulda been a child star kind of brats.
So I'm screaming but singing and I'm obsessed with collecting shells.
And my pops comes by in a yellow LA lakers sweatshirt cut off at the shoulders with a sixer of Coors Light. God bless Americana,
Anyhow I'm screaming and bouncing off the walls like any little runt hopped up on Coca-cola and pepperettes. And I'm screaming to my daddy. "Daddy how old are you? DAddddddyyyyyyy."

Finally he states, "Twenty-Five." Announcing it real big, real matter-of-facto ya know?
And I believe him. I don't even think twice. I just turn around and repeat, "Daddy's twenty-five" like a fact is a fact ya know? I carry on and ask my mom how old she is. Clearly, my dad is not twenty-five since I was conceived when he was thirty-six. And I'm screaming.
WOoooooooooYyYYYAYayyyaaaaa.
Like the cutest fucking munchkin you've ever fucking seen.

CUT TO: My sister sprawled out on the mattress (the one in the wall), and her nightgown's riding her waist, and her fruit of the looms are all over the camera.
Mom why are you filming this?

I love home videos.

Lola.