As I stare in the corner, at the plant, and continue to drink my cheap wine, as my greasy forehead undoubtedly reflects the pathos emanating off of the shattered iPad screen in my lap, currently viewing, my Facebook page.
What is important to you. How do you feel about being Canadian. Do you lie everyday. How drunk are you on average.
Do you ever just feel so completely, fucking insane, thaaaaaaaat your roommate has finally caught on. That you are bombed the night before orientation.
That you thought making a fucking gazpacho, sepertingthe red and yellow tomatoes, and the herbs and cucumbers, and layering it in a fucking bowl would look anything other that some fucking hippy rastefarianbullshit. As your sous chef looks on, sadly acknowledging that it tastes amazing but looks like some sixteen year old threw up his bong water soaked dreams in a bowl and tried to pass it off for cold soap. ...... I dont know about you guys but labour day weekend is officially over and I am getting wasted to celebrate.
The last time you have felt something this prolific, ou were sitting in an empty tub in a motel overlooking the shitty part of okay again lake, drunk, fully clothed, writhing aroun like a fish whilst your friends took pictures and pretended along with you that this whole situation was hilarious.
Please stop embarrassing yourself.
XoxoxoxoxoxxoxoxoxoxxxxxxxooShow
Sunday, November 4, 2012
Monday, September 24, 2012
Album review. Drunk. (Things you decide after the world decides against you )
Things you decide after the world decides against you
Is your biased, reddit informed, pre caffeine knowledge of the current state of the world causing you: stress, severe depression, headaches, pelvic cramps, tear/rage sessions with your lover as you sit on a white couch staring at the yaletown moon/morose and somber, decidedly unaroused as you talk about - italics- current events.-end italics-
You should consider taking up smoking, you neurotic, under qualified, unmotivated lump of misguided intentions.
Upon first listen of David Byrne and St. Vincent's latest album, I have decided that it is a post modern solution to the depraved craving of this generation; folks, within here lies the menthol cigarette version of huey and the news. Press play at Lazarus.
Now, I would like to venture a guess of the exact words running through your jazzercised hopped up cranium as your body morphs into a gaseous matter and is carried away by a lung gratifyingly clean and effervescent beat -"Menthol Huey? That sounds like the most fucking on point, cool, neat, just generally fuckibg best thing EVA." to which, if you had said aloud, I would reply , please do not become overexcited dear reader! "Love This Giant" is only seven degrees above the tropic of mediocre, which is still pretty good, and to be quite frank, to sustain the chain smoking level of listening love I have for cigarettes/ breezy, superflously articulated new age music, it is probably better that I learn to balls out fall in love with "love this giant" through familiarity derived from repeated listening, rather than being wholly/completely instantly gratified on the first listen, leaving my body limp and love soaked on a sheet less mattress in some kits bachelor, listening to the rhythm of the shower water, contemplating leaving, but held in place, naked, by the glittering promise of post fuck croissants.
We all know the croissants were a ruse.
You should consider taking up smoking, you neurotic, under qualified, unmotivated lump of misguided intentions.
Upon first listen of David Byrne and St. Vincent's latest album, I have decided that it is a post modern solution to the depraved craving of this generation; folks, within here lies the menthol cigarette version of huey and the news. Press play at Lazarus.
Now, I would like to venture a guess of the exact words running through your jazzercised hopped up cranium as your body morphs into a gaseous matter and is carried away by a lung gratifyingly clean and effervescent beat -"Menthol Huey? That sounds like the most fucking on point, cool, neat, just generally fuckibg best thing EVA." to which, if you had said aloud, I would reply , please do not become overexcited dear reader! "Love This Giant" is only seven degrees above the tropic of mediocre, which is still pretty good, and to be quite frank, to sustain the chain smoking level of listening love I have for cigarettes/ breezy, superflously articulated new age music, it is probably better that I learn to balls out fall in love with "love this giant" through familiarity derived from repeated listening, rather than being wholly/completely instantly gratified on the first listen, leaving my body limp and love soaked on a sheet less mattress in some kits bachelor, listening to the rhythm of the shower water, contemplating leaving, but held in place, naked, by the glittering promise of post fuck croissants.
We all know the croissants were a ruse.
Thursday, August 16, 2012
Cunt-Throat
How many times must I abase myself in front of the this narcissistic, stimulation starved, apathetic and morally decrepit generation of entitled Vancouver 20 somethings? When will I ever be good enough? When will I ever be good enough to hear another person's true fucking opinion of me?
Is there a reason why? Why do I have to exist if I am so useless? Day in and day out, we try to better ourselves and push forward, heralding a new day in the hope that it might be better than the last, that we might achieve a full 24 hours relatively unscathed by calamity and disaster, aching to be blissfully unaware during our quiet moments of the dehabilitiating truths that exist about our bodies, our personalities. We are not good enough, we are going to experience pain, but if we try hard enough to focus on the fucking roses perhaps we can manipulate our reality into becoming "positive". I can't handle myself right now, I have no one to cry in the general direction of right now, and once again ###################.
I think being completely alone is the only way out.
Wednesday, August 15, 2012
NEVER google calf rennet....just stop eating your fucking Parmesan, and live in blissful unawareness.
Is this neccesary? Answer: NO Fun things for Vegetarians to do in Vancouver.
-Go to Meat and Bread when it's smokin busy, order a grilled cheese and a beer. By yourself. Not only will you definitely/probably be able to squeeze your skinny butt into a seat inside, you can cry a little after your meal in their super dooper comfortable and discreet washrooms. (I am particularly partial to the "bread" room) - {I actually feel awesome when I do this, their mustard is to DIE FOR.}
- Walk up and down Davie/Granville/Denman. Particualrirlily exciting at any hour from 12:30pm-4:30am, espeicially when you are starving for vegetables. Your quest for "food" that isn't nauseatingly unauthentic "pizza" or plain fries will be peppered with chance encounters with drunk idiots, friendly idiots, homeless people, people you know, taxi drivers that want your blood on their windshield. Duration: never ending. Pro tip: Don't ever go to fucking Granville street, you desperate alcoholic.
- Work in a restaurant that on principle, hates vegetarians/vegans
- Date boys. This is fun because you get to imagine all of the gross, dead, chewed up carcasses that have been in/around their mouths.
- Go to gorilla foods. Three words, "Bonobos Carnival" Aaaaand "dessert".
- Go to Stackhouse. ....unless you are afraid of eggs, you aioli snubbing square.
- Go to the grocery store. The farmers market. Your fridge. Your garden. Smile at all the vegetables and tell them your secrets, take care of them. Hold them and love them.
Monday, August 13, 2012
Dear django django, please tango my mango.
Play this sweet tits.
Last night I came home from work and sat in the dark for a half hour of silence. Without the Internet. Without my phone. Without a book, or a lusty thought. Without food, without water. No tv, just me on a couch. No pens.
I was dying for something, a thirsty ant in a desert of wanting, changing into a raven, pseudo suspended in the air, circling above a dry archipelago of sand and death. I hover under the sun, with one purpose.
Below me appears a vast expanse of water,growing and twinkling gold. I change again into a rain drop, surrounded by my brothers as we move together to infinite enlightenment, readying ourselves to become one joined by all.
The plane changes and suddenly we are horses racing into the horizon.
We look to the future as our bodies hurl themselves ceaselessly into it, a hopeful horizon that holds change and peril in its infinite depth. , our existence is finite and we only have as much of that horizon as we allow ourselves, dropping to the sand from whence we came as our journey to the never reachable dissappearing point steals our years and asphixiates our muscles.
(I am the problem, I am the ennui filled vessel. In order I become something more satisfactory, even just to painfully inch towards it, I would need to shatter and become empty and nothing simultaneously, in the past only being rebuilt to a )
We are the bugs in the trees, as the dawg by ze breeze suddenly becomes our sole focus as the perspective shifts to round. The woes and rigors of our own personal cuntathalon gets caught in the branches as we expand and become too heavy for the branches, weeping softly as they lower us back to earth.
I am free of words, of fire and ice. No boys. My heart, although not intact is not unintact either, no bedside squirmishes, but if there were, (I would tell myself, it's probably happened to snooki. And feel better, instantly.)
We regain awareness of ourselves in the pool, coming back to our bodies, suddenly becoming disjointed as the sun illuminates our slippery skins. The logistical existence we have turned into our aesthetic experience washes away as we swim, slightly apart from another, wanting to be together more than anything else.
^£ We.
I was dying for something, a thirsty ant in a desert of wanting, changing into a raven, pseudo suspended in the air, circling above a dry archipelago of sand and death. I hover under the sun, with one purpose.
Below me appears a vast expanse of water,growing and twinkling gold. I change again into a rain drop, surrounded by my brothers as we move together to infinite enlightenment, readying ourselves to become one joined by all.
The plane changes and suddenly we are horses racing into the horizon.
We look to the future as our bodies hurl themselves ceaselessly into it, a hopeful horizon that holds change and peril in its infinite depth. , our existence is finite and we only have as much of that horizon as we allow ourselves, dropping to the sand from whence we came as our journey to the never reachable dissappearing point steals our years and asphixiates our muscles.
(I am the problem, I am the ennui filled vessel. In order I become something more satisfactory, even just to painfully inch towards it, I would need to shatter and become empty and nothing simultaneously, in the past only being rebuilt to a )
We are the bugs in the trees, as the dawg by ze breeze suddenly becomes our sole focus as the perspective shifts to round. The woes and rigors of our own personal cuntathalon gets caught in the branches as we expand and become too heavy for the branches, weeping softly as they lower us back to earth.
I am free of words, of fire and ice. No boys. My heart, although not intact is not unintact either, no bedside squirmishes, but if there were, (I would tell myself, it's probably happened to snooki. And feel better, instantly.)
We regain awareness of ourselves in the pool, coming back to our bodies, suddenly becoming disjointed as the sun illuminates our slippery skins. The logistical existence we have turned into our aesthetic experience washes away as we swim, slightly apart from another, wanting to be together more than anything else.
^£ We.
Sunday, July 22, 2012
Album Review: Sean Nicholas Savage - Flamingo
You have been spinning around your apartment for the past week trying not to forget, not only that the love of your life has moved to middle Canada, nonplussed, but also that even if you meet someone TODAY, five minutes from this lung-numbingly unneccesary breathe taking moment of existence, you will be unable to fuck them for at leaaast two years, that is how fucking damaged you feel. You don't want to forget these things because your whole fucking life has been one fucking chainé from disaster to monumental disaster, learning nothing, ruining everything. Today you pass out for a "nap", unshowered, barely clothed, at 12:20 in the afternoon listening to the blissfully optimistic album "In Rainbows" by the popular and undisputed positive juggernaut electronic ambient ensemble, Radiohead.
Your mom texts you that she thinks your beautiful, which, oh perfecto, So aesthetically, your mom thinks your still spot on, however, your personality though, which you have been told since fucking birth is THE ONLY PART OF YOU THAT MATTERS fucking sux, you silly little, bitchy little, dumb girl.
You get off the couch and decide to eat and slash or find some different music. You find this really "great" song. His name is Sean, and he takes you to this sultry, this sexy little seventies elevator with velvet curtains.
You begin to touch yourself as the elevator ascends, loving yourself in public like no man has ever loved you before. You find parts of your private that roll waves out of all the water in your body, you're liquid all over from that moment on, moved only by the moon and this pretty boy, Mr. Savage, and his voice.
There are purple and gold tassels everywhere, swaying to the beat as a whiff of a fruity SPF passes you by. It's summer out there somewhere, you care barely, you will get back to the temporary flux of the seasons after this temporary influx of seratonin moving motion. The elevator continues to soar.
You wonder if this unexpected oasis in your day will ever stop, but stop wondering because the song never stops, the elevator never stops, and I don't know if you end up showering in the end.
I showered.
Your mom texts you that she thinks your beautiful, which, oh perfecto, So aesthetically, your mom thinks your still spot on, however, your personality though, which you have been told since fucking birth is THE ONLY PART OF YOU THAT MATTERS fucking sux, you silly little, bitchy little, dumb girl.
You get off the couch and decide to eat and slash or find some different music. You find this really "great" song. His name is Sean, and he takes you to this sultry, this sexy little seventies elevator with velvet curtains.
You begin to touch yourself as the elevator ascends, loving yourself in public like no man has ever loved you before. You find parts of your private that roll waves out of all the water in your body, you're liquid all over from that moment on, moved only by the moon and this pretty boy, Mr. Savage, and his voice.
There are purple and gold tassels everywhere, swaying to the beat as a whiff of a fruity SPF passes you by. It's summer out there somewhere, you care barely, you will get back to the temporary flux of the seasons after this temporary influx of seratonin moving motion. The elevator continues to soar.
You wonder if this unexpected oasis in your day will ever stop, but stop wondering because the song never stops, the elevator never stops, and I don't know if you end up showering in the end.
I showered.
Thursday, July 5, 2012
Standing in T&T, face to face with Jenny.
.....the saddest cashier in the world.
Even when shit is falling apart, everything is still pretty peachy keen. I am not an optimist, just to be perfectly clear. I have taken a pointed, cold-hearted gaze at the facts and come to the conclusion that.... I do NOT need to panic, I repeat, I do NOT NEED TO FUCKING PANIC SO CAAALLLLM DOWN BUDS!
At the end of the day, every person that I allowed, yes, that I ALLOWWWWWED to demolish the fragile little kittykat sized balls of emotions that are my privates/heart....... They have all been really,really great guys. Super nice, considerate, etcetcetctetctetctetctetperfectetcetcetcetcsooperdooperetcetcetcetkindetcconsiderateetcnotabusiveetcetcetcetce.... So I suppose even if 100% of the romantic relationship pies I have partaken in have FAILED......
FAILURE! Gahahahahaha.
What was I talking about? I can't remember. I think I am actually going to close up shop for the summer though, no more sexy pie time, no more friendly pie time, no more mother fudging, dickin around, text me text me stop texting me for weeks text me text me texty pie bullshit. Just regular mid day pool, worry about my zinc intake, lay down on the grass and feel the ants bullshit.
Because, at the veeeerry end of the day, when you are huddled up in your bed alone, listening to valtari as the dying city lights twinkle outside of your window, your crotch twitching and your mind racing, somewhere out in the world there are at least # people that have known you, and liked you considerably, and also consciously chosen to live their life in a parallel universe away from you and your private.
Even when shit is falling apart, everything is still pretty peachy keen. I am not an optimist, just to be perfectly clear. I have taken a pointed, cold-hearted gaze at the facts and come to the conclusion that.... I do NOT need to panic, I repeat, I do NOT NEED TO FUCKING PANIC SO CAAALLLLM DOWN BUDS!
At the end of the day, every person that I allowed, yes, that I ALLOWWWWWED to demolish the fragile little kittykat sized balls of emotions that are my privates/heart....... They have all been really,really great guys. Super nice, considerate, etcetcetctetctetctetctetperfectetcetcetcetcsooperdooperetcetcetcetkindetcconsiderateetcnotabusiveetcetcetcetce.... So I suppose even if 100% of the romantic relationship pies I have partaken in have FAILED......
FAILURE! Gahahahahaha.
What was I talking about? I can't remember. I think I am actually going to close up shop for the summer though, no more sexy pie time, no more friendly pie time, no more mother fudging, dickin around, text me text me stop texting me for weeks text me text me texty pie bullshit. Just regular mid day pool, worry about my zinc intake, lay down on the grass and feel the ants bullshit.
Because, at the veeeerry end of the day, when you are huddled up in your bed alone, listening to valtari as the dying city lights twinkle outside of your window, your crotch twitching and your mind racing, somewhere out in the world there are at least # people that have known you, and liked you considerably, and also consciously chosen to live their life in a parallel universe away from you and your private.
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