Wednesday, April 24, 2013

Album Review // Relaxed Fit - Naturally Paula

Somedays, when the saltiness of the crispy, roasted burmese cashews that have nestled so sweetly inside a little red dish on the coffee table is really bumming you out - I mean harsh here, you are in a fugue (slowly descending, a breathless figure caught in a body)- you probably should have made more tea sooner - your mouth is dry and full of nut bits - then you realize you should have went to the liquor store after you had finished showering this morning at 10:39. Also, the calamity you know about is one text away.

Somedays when the tears won't flow and you're left vibrating in the hot sun shaking
Everything is poo
The little voice inside my head is telling me what I should have said
All this poo's for you

And I had,
so much more to say
But then you left, left me here ya babe
Your just a throwaway

At the end of the sixteenth century mr Fitch gave my own love to me
He saw me struggling

Every ball mr wa gave to me, hollow with a clapper chime
a silky string, these dapper times

And I ran, I ran so far away
I just ran, I ran all night and day
And I ran, I couldn't get away

My favourite part of listening to this album is that after, I listen to bubble pop electric by g. Stefani. Without feeling weird.

(It's a little more melancholy than even if its true, which to be honest, is the only song I really care to listen to in the morning anymore. But that's because In The mornings I'm still butt's out optimistic on life and whatever. Touching closer than closer is real - I can't hear what the lyrics are / I don't know what people are trying to communicate to me half the time - a lot of the words are being repeated / life is just a big swirly loop of repeated patterns and behaviors and life cycles and stardust becoming you, some unique being that isn't actually unique if you take into account alternate parallel universes, where chances are, you exist there already, atom for atom YOU. )

You definitely want to listen to change the subject when you're drunk - Blonde when you're sober.

Never make out to any part of this album, don't ruin this shit.

Tuesday, April 23, 2013

Fucks Taken

Blocks between the work places of the largest cock and the smallest cock I've ever seen irl - 1.5

Number of people whose mouths I've bled on that are now sleeping on my couch - 1

Athletes I am unable/willing to identify - every athlete

Texts I am too hungover to read - 19

Missed calls in a half hour from a single person in the middle of the night - 23

Ringer volume - 0

Play count of Under The Earth in the past half hour - every play counts

Times Jacob told me we were meant to be together together while he had a girlfriend - a lot of the fucking times

Times I wanted to make out with a guy asking for change last night - 1

Positive value adjectives attributed to me during breakups - a lot

Crazy volume - 8

Dead things I saw on my walk yesterday - 2

Girls in the bathroom after a DMX song starts at Emily car free-for-all-dirty-crayon-breathe-strawberry-scented-faux-lesbian night at fortune - (-1)

Male sexuality - start a dialogue

Scale value of my attraction to x________, the prettiest Chinese man with the gelliest hair to size of my engorged labia 4:3 [_____________] 5m

Fucks given - 6

Friday, April 12, 2013

Bic pens for her. Giiiiiiiirl get some pens!

I suppose it started last year. My boyfriend at the time would come and stay over, 2,3 nights a week. Our love making always seemed so deep and meaningful, we often wept together during. Undulated joy is how I often described it to my therapist the following afternoons. Sometimes my lover would enter me while I was standing, slightly bent over, with his fingers. He had long tender fingers that felt like fleshy probing rods inside of my private, slippery little sand balloons.

After he died while his cheating ass was being choked out -autoerotic asphyxia-by his male lover - now in prison/accepting pen pals - I felt a huge, gaping hole where his privates, my privates/his digits/my mouth, had intersected so incessantly before all that nasty death hollabalub. 

I purchased these pens on a cynic's whim. I don't want to get into a detailed description of what I have been doing with them.....suffice it to say, ive been spending a helluva lot of money on stamps lately. 

Thursday, April 4, 2013

Album Review: Alex Calder / Time EP // ///

captured tracks. brooklyn. when was the last time you were in the womb? Was it when you had dropped three tabs of acid in your hand lotion and masturbated yourself till you were sick and bleeding all over the gingham picnic blanket? Was it when you listened to track three of Mr. Alex Calder's most idyllic, avuncular, body of work yet (Location / 3:43)? Are you currently penetrating a vagina, deeply?

Like this?

i sat immobile for thirty six hours, letting the xxxxxxxx and the xxxx wash over me, the resounding sounding sound of the universe crawl over me. my spine was afire suddenly, and as i stood up at the end of it, i knew // i walked for twelve kilometres, it didnt take me long to get to the mouth of the park. a trail of racoons led me deep, past the lagoon, led me far, under the moon. my head was quaking peace and soot, the sleeves of my shirt were stiff with frost by the time we arrived. the fire, symbols lucid, hadn't survived. i clasped hands with every slivery blade of grass and crawled up the lawn.

"i think i most want to listen to this album when im in da shower." - ng

A cookbook for individuals mixed up in loveless marriages and long distance relationships (also, single people).


You are quite comfortable when you are alone, letting the blissful honey of solitude trickle down your spine like a little nervous shiver. You often smile to yourself - benevolently- and also at the crowds of coupled people and incomplete family units pushing through the aisles of whole foods/nesters/urbanfare/ famous foods, laughing and cheering, crying. You came for a single litre of almond milk, and breeze past everyone. Onliest you, a wondrous phantom escaping with the time they all seem to be fighting for in your rear view mirror.
This is your city, you don't have to share these moments with anyone. As you strut, across the Cambie bridge, ( a little overburdened, yes, on days when the load is vast. But today your limbs are free in the traffic blown wind as you laugh at the sky, and the watery creek below you) you take it all in with a sorrow free breathe, your lungs nearly bursting with the air, teeming with sunshine - you aren't fighting for oxygen with anyone right now.
You are inside suddenly, rising. You make your way out of the elevator, and a warm dark gust of incense perfumed air greets you after the door has been unlocked and the beads have been parted; you enter, you are home, you are whole.
A little jazzy purr ripples through the candle smoke and kisses your ears as you prepare for the meal. Your apron is tied steady, the cutting board in position. You toyfully test the blades on your thumbs (still razors) as the sudden vastness of time and space before you unfurls itself, unencumbered by the dead weight of xxxxxxx. Or xxxx.
You pause, and consider xxx and xxxxxxxxxxxx as well. You had cooked [for] all of them, less a display of affection and more a platform for you to perform. Suddenly the White Light is bearing upon your eyes, blindingly, the curtain has rose and everything else is in shade, you tremble, as the refrigerator pours itself on you, the. Star! The only one there! The only Being worthy of its sparkling gaze. You begin to See The Meal You Have Been Created to Create, filled with gratitude you part ways from the beast, arms laden with the dismembered bulk of the meal. Every item is carefully placed. The liquids are poured now. It is all gently set by your knife. The milky din of the jazz and the candle hugs your sides as you twirl, time suspended, the breathe of a figureless audience bated. The mis en place is assembled.

Hot Pickled Onion Sandwiches

-Gingerly place paper thin slices of red onions in body temperature apple cider vinegar. -Weep silently, leaning against the newspaper covered hallway as the red rings pale into the frothy pink of a severed artery.

Monday, April 1, 2013

Only listen to lambchop. Stop feeling [important/unimportant]. Stop telling people you make out with about the health benefits of raw onions.

Several notes learned in an airport 

1. Love letters are silly. Never indulge 
2. Rule one is silly
3. Your feelings don't matter. (this only applies to you, schizoid, because you keep them locked up in a little Nic, far away, where they forever remain unscathed, untouched by the hand of every Vancouver man. Parenthesis complete.
3. Beach house is perfect right now. You will calm down in seven seconds flat. It will be magical 
3. There are twelve different types of carbs hiding, and twelve more that are in plain view 

3. Stewardess. Love em or hate em? It depends on what type of credit card yøu have, I think 

3. Plan your escape 24 hours before the return flight boards.