Where are you when you're not here? Part deux.

Porn. Fuck. Wow. Talk about a necessary evil. Can you imagine how many psychopaths would be walking the streets if porn didn't exist? I'm sure there have been studies done about how it relieves stress...I get too caught up in the production to really pay attention to the, uh stories. I mean, on the exceptionally cheap ones, you get so hyper-aware of the fact that these people are literally making a MOVIE and that these are SETS and you start to wonder: did they have catering? Are there union rules about the limit number of erections per actor per shooting day? How much are the girls paid? How about the guys? Do they always speak to each other in super seductive voices, even crew and off-camera?

Imagine these phrases used in foreplay. If necessary, just repeat them in you super-sexiest voice:

"What's the f-stop?"

"Boom in shot."

"Marker, mark it!"

"I'm going to make this a one-take!"

"How are the levels?"

"What's the focus?"

"I dunno what that is...maybe it's feedback on her mic? Go check her lav, it might not be clipped on properly....better borrow some camera tape."

"What happened to all the camera tape?"

"There's a jam. Get the next mag."

"What's your ETA?"

"Kirk we don't have TIME for this SHOT! Change the lens and go for a punch in!"

"Let's have a 1k up and flag that 350...just a little...good."

"You need to feed your crew. I say we break for lunch in fifteen."

"CUT!"


Yours,

I

If I were a bad habit I would...always punch random strangers in the face. Then I can say 'Sorry, it's a bad habit!'

Where are you when you're not here?

I have very recently gotten addicted to French reality-TV. In particular this one called 'Secret Story', which I'm told is a lot like Big Brother, which I wouldn't know, having never seen Big Brother.

So I'm reading about it on (English) Wikipedia and, I gotta say...the rules are fucking stupid and it's ridiculously complicated. Like, everyone has a secret and you have to guess their secrets and if you do you win a thousand euros, I dunno...look it up. But that's the most idiotic game I've ever heard. Also, all the contestants look like Euro-trash underwear models. And fucking Europeans...they just behave differently...like, they're crazy. But I dunno...are North Americans crazy too? Please answer this question, I'd really like to know.

I am very, very North American. No doubt about it. I like cowboys and cows and ranches. I like root vegetables. I like East coast awesomeness and West coast...uh... I like the Pacific Ocean. I like driving on the right side of the street and I like discouraging public drunkenness. I like Mormons and Utah and Hutterites and Manitoba. I like English much more than British and I like y'all and apple pie and sports that aren't soccer and Halloween and Thanksgiving and languages that aren't French and uptightedness and personal space and donuts and processed food and whiskey from Tennessee and chicken from Kentucky and children who don't drink wine and trailer parks and black people who don't speak French...lol, jk about that last one. I like ANYONE who doesn't speak French. What a snotty fucking language.

I don't know where I am right now, but wherever it is...it's got a computer.

Imagine a search party going out to look for me and they just find me, dressed in seven layers of knit Cosby sweaters, sitting in some sleazy Internet cafe, stoned out of my mind on either drugs or insanity, continuously typing up blog posts describing what I see or think in minute detail while cosplay porn enthusiasts and WoW losers persue their geeky, obese heart's desire.


Whatever.

Yours,

I


If this post were a sign, it would be flashing neon green and yellow and maybe a bit of pink.

Bad morning

What? What? What is it? I dreamt that I found a stray cat in a public bathroom and both of its incisors were hanging by a thread of tissue, so I scooped it up and started walking to the nearest animal hospital. At some point, the cat turned into a baby. And I was trying to change my shirt at the same time, into a yellow and green t-shirt that had some kind of odd, cryptic slogan silk screened onto it but I didn't know what it was but it sounded oddly cool. Anyhow, this baby. This baby just kept clinging to me.

I woke up feeling incredibly fat. Antidepressants fucking suck. You feel so great for the first few months, then suddenly, it's orca city and thirteen-hour cat naps. I said that I wouldn't let my weight bother me, and I won't let it bother me after this post, but goddammit! It sucks. It sucks not being able to wear jeans that used to fit you. It sucks to walk around feeling like you're carrying something strapped to your mid-section, like a parasite, like a hunk of meat that doesn't belong to you. This body does not belong to me, I think. It doesn't feel right, it doesn't fit.

This is just a bad morning. Don't ask me why, what happened, nothing happened. I couldn't find my driver's license. It's somewhere in the pile of shit that is my room. Thought after thought just spirals into this funnel of bad thoughts and worse feeling. I am quietly digging myself out of this funnel. I am going to listen to This American Life and pace. Then I am going to do some light groceries. Then I will go to the library before I go to my class. It's alright. It's going to be ok.

-I


Do not shame me for how I feel.

You're so vain...

I bet you think this blog is about you?

Don't you?

Happy Birthday to the best mother in the world...

I can't sleep. And I think it's because of you.

As soon as my head hits my pillow you pop into my mind and stay there. These thoughts are not evolving, or revolutionary in any sense. They're fading thoughts. You're in my mind, but each night my visions of you are becoming less and less detailed. Now they are simply just "of you" not necessarily "about you." I see you. I don't really hear you, or feel you. But the idea of you lingers.

The "what if" scenarios are on pause, the longing for you to visit me is becoming less and less of an inner desparation.

You have become simply just a thought before I sleep.

Except sleep doesn't come easy.

But why?

What is it that I still want? What is it that I need from you? Something you cannot give, this I know.

Perhaps it's my own self-disciplining self, furious with my fading thoughts. Why must they fade?

This is a big deal. You are a big deal. I'm numb. But I wish I wasn't.

But I know you think that's what I need to carry on.

I read this and it made me feel better (whatever "better" really means.)...

Do Not Stand At My Grave and Weep

Do not stand at my grave and weep
I am not there. I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the diamond glints on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the morning's hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry;
I am not there, I did not die.

xoLO

kay, eye, ess, ess, eye, enn, gee

A band

of banjo, harmonica and stompin' boots on wooden floors

reminds me of you...

hillbilly music of south carolina, and I like it.

I like your beard,

your flannel shirts,

and the way you always smell like camp fires

and maple

and nicotine.

I'd have a good time in a forest,

damp

dark

drinking whiskey from the bottle...

if it was with you.

i feel almost invincible when I'm around you.

wild. no cares. just adventure.

i wish I wouldn't tire so easy anymore.

i'd have more opportunity that way...

I wonder sometimes if we'll ever kiss?

Nobody would see.

Nobody would know.

Not our friends.

Just us.

Our secret.

And our band... of banjo, harmonica and stompin' boots on wooden floors...

would write the song,

about our drunkin, secret kisses.

your beard resting against the crevice of my neck.

warm and holy.

xo

lo

i like writing moments.

Deadbeat Cookery - Vegetable Puree Soup

I've been reading and watching a lot of Nigella lately and, in between getting blindingly aroused by her British juiciness, I've been inspired to cook (check out her curves on the good ol' tube)

VEGETABLE PUREE SOUP

Last spring I went to see a naturopathic doctor to help me through what I thought was extreme stress brought on by a bad case of candida. She gave me a recipe for a detoxifying vegetable soup that was supposed to help 'cleanse' my system. The doctor turned out to be an overpriced quack and the soup tasted like hippie mush (though, in all fairness, it made me regular as clockwork...tmi?)

This recipe is inspired by the detox soup, modified for those of us who enjoy a bit of flavour along with their healthy bowel movements. It's dead easy, so go ahead and take another hit off that bowl before you start.

Ingredients: (all measurements pulled from my ass)

1 cup chopped up cabbage
2 medium-sized white potatoes, scrubbed, unpeeled and diced
1/2 medium-sized head of broccoli florets
1/2 medium-sized onion, diced
powdered split-pea soup stock to taste*

optional: garlic cloves, cream, cheese, cannabutter


1. Put all the chopped-up veggies in a big pot and cover with water. Add in the stock one tablespoon-full at a time, so the shit doesn't clump together. *I haven't specified the amount of stock to use, because it really depends on how much water you put in. Unless you're a picky little bitch, you won't mind tasting cold veggie water to determine how much flavour you want.

2. Bring to a boil.

3. Once it boils, turn the heat down to medium and give it a quick stir so nothing sticks to the bottom of the pot. The stock should have thickened the liquid by now. Let it bubble for a bit with the lid off until the potatoes feel slightly less rock-hard than when they were raw.

4. This step is a bit of a pain in the ass. Ladle the veg and stock into a blender and puree it. Your blender might not be big enough to hold all of the soup in one go, so a third recepticle will be needed to hold the pureed soup. You can always use a hand blender, but unless you have a good one, it won't be strong enough to tackle the potatoes and florets before it gives out. But hey, if technology is on your side, use it.

5. Serve the soup hot in bowls. You can garnish the top with hot sauce, parsley, oregano or, if you're feeling particularly premenstrual, some grated cheese.

6. Scoop up to mouth with spoon, taste, swallow, revel in the fact that you are not a complete waste of space if only because you can make a decent bowl of soup.



Yours,

I


If I could cook for Almanzo Wilder, I would die happy.