Posted by: meow mix | September 16, 2011

Love.

This is not what I usually post here. This is not why I started this blog. But this is also the place I’ve set aside to write about how I’m feeling, and though mercifully usually I feel like playing too much, today I don’t. I have lost someone I love very dearly, and my heart is surely broken. His name was Taylor, and he was just…the best. He was among the most creative artists I’ve ever known, and likely the most talented. He lived with me in the first house I ever owned. We made rice and vegetables and tempeh together. We made music together. We drank, and drank, and played bocce ball. We watched movies and went to shows and we shot pool and we did all this with Kent, and three of us spent more than a year doing precious little else.

This was us, about to go get Mebican. Kent, me, Taytay.

We laughed, so much, and so hard we couldn’t breath but we could cry. We got drunk and went to Waffle House after midnight. We were the Shall Nots, and we made lists of commandments for ourselves, like Though Shall Not Google The Unknowable, and mottos, like Too Drunk To Flinch. He hated mosquitos so hard, so Kent and I would roll our eyes and go smoke inside. We were all Aries but we never fought. We liked this truck stop on the way home from Mexican food in Mebane, or to those in the know, Mebican. The truck stop was huge and mall-like and radically pro-hunting. We wrote songs and spent hours and hours hours hours hours recording them to Taytay’s sky high standards at his home studio, and when he moved into my house, my converted attic studio. His voice was beyond beautiful, it haunted and it moved like wings, like you were hearing history. And Kent and I would look over at each other while he sang with his eyes squeezed shut and his brow all furrowed, and while sounds came out of this person that…I keep deleting and trying again, but there just aren’t words. His first studio wasn’t air conditioned and it was August and 90 at night and my body would go limp and I’d lay flat on my back and my skin would crawl and cover itself with goosebumps, and for a while, I’d live in this Other space he’d just created, then he’d just finish a song and ask who else needed a beer, and we’d laugh because he didn’t know, couldn’t know.

Kent went out of town, so we video chatted instead.

We three loved each other on a cellular level. Taylor, especially, loved in such a way that you loved yourself more for it. He refused to acknowledge that part of you was a shitty person, and steadfastly saw you as beautiful and perfect, like your imperfections made you a masterpiece. It made you tell him things about yourself that you had to rip out and hand over, and he listened like a mother loves, completely and intently, constantly. The songs we wrote were about not giving up and seeing this whole fucking insane thing through to the end, about playing what you were dealt and maybe pulling an ace out of your sleeve sometimes. That’s what he could never do, he could never claim what was his fucking own, his rightfully, I guess until now. In life he gave away too much. He gave more to me than I to him, and now I’m out of chances. The last time I saw him was at a bar when he was passing through town, and I told him I would go to his show, and I didn’t. I was tired and had worked all day and I didn’t. The next day on Facebook he asked if my legs had broken and I’m a smartass so I liked the comment. Part of me is a shitty person. Yeah yeah I know I know, You Couldn’t Have Known and Remember The Good Times. But also, One Time It Will Be The Last Time. I am taking something else of his now, I am taking it out of the air. I will love better and listen more and tomorrow at his funeral I will promise him that and tell him I’m sorry and I will know that I was already forgiven. And when I’m done falling apart I will pull myself together again, but better.

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Posted in all is love

Posted by: meow mix | June 15, 2011

“A Cool of Friends”

Welcome back bonerz, how has every little thing been? Things here have been really fucking great, mystery bruises and total absence of lotto winnings notwithstanding. Ay! Lemme get in on those proceeds! I’ve really only played the lottery like a fistful of times, but somehow I’m totally fucking boggled every time I don’t win, then I silently berate myself for my foolish selections. I think, six numbers. That’s it. That’s all you have to get right, literally for the rest of your life. After you nail this landing, which is basically a sure thing, you can turn your virtually stressless life into a completely stressless life.  I give myself pep talks that prove that how many times I’ve seen Fellowship Of The Ring, like “It’s destiny! Turn now and face your destiny.” I do things like cast my gaze upwards to the sky, palms upraised, trying to tune into the rhythms of the universe or whatever (really I’m probably going wrong because I’m only trying to look like I’m in tune with the universe).

On the real though, this should be a cinch, just say six numbers, numbers you’ve definitely heard before, you don’t even have to get the order right. And I play Powerball, because they only draw twice a week, so I get to spend some QT walking around all smug, thinking about how magnanimous I’ll be with all that scrilla. Then I give a little shrug, like “Well, here we go! Better go enjoy serfdom while you still can!”, lose the ticket, find it 1.5 weeks later, look up the numbers, and realize that what I actually bought was futility, which evidently costs $5, which seems high.

Maybe I should consider taking the forgery route and fake the winning ticket, as I did when I was a very small child and handed this note to my mama. I wanted and genuinely expected her to believe that she had written it and then just totally spaced it. I like to think that I was prepared to pretend to be super understanding and graceful about her oversight, like “Hey. Momz. Don’t be so hard on yourself, we all forget hugely important promises that we make to our children that shape what they expect from future relationships. It’s totally cool. Now make with the toy, or Ima be a stripper when I grow up, on purpose.”

I would feel better if all of the things I wrote to her were just manipulative and greedy, but unforch there were a lot of really mean notes, too. The runaway notes were many and varied, with the only unified theme being my righteous indignation. Nothing was ever fair, and the only way I felt like I could really express that was to go write a note and then march up to her, glaring, and slam down the gauntlet. Like a super mean note, some of which are addressed to “Mom (If That Is Your Real Name)”. Please bear in mind that this woman brought me into the world with no pain medication, whereas I’ll take a Vicodin if I’m bored. If I were her I would have delivered a swift “Whatbitch get your shit I’m surrendering you at the fire station,“ which is I guess why it’s good that I don’t have children. But unlike me, my mom is wicked patient and nice (except for once when she called me a Little Shit for trying to tip over the table at a fancy restaurant) so instead she kept them to give back to me when I turned 29, which is kind of like winning a very different kind of lottery (a lamer, cashless kind). In the one below I guess I was all pissed that she tried to critique my awesome piano playing? Fuck that!

That I was not reared in an orphanage is a fucking miracle.

There are also a few things I wrote that weren’t based in rage and aggression (not that many), and I guess because I’m still essentially the exact same person, I liked to make up phrases when actual existing ones just seemed lame. My fave is the one where I drew me and another stick figure in a roughly car-shaped pod, basically a hot dog on wheels with the word “GAS” written on the side, and below it I wrote “I wish I had a Porsche. I could cross downtown with a cool of friends.” Which starting right now, is my new thing I say. “What’re you getting into tonight?” “I went to the store and got like a cool of champagne, wanna come over?” “Yes.”

Ima leave you with another selection of shit people googled that led them to here, but without much commentary, because basically I cannot. People be wilin’, yall.

“I wish I was dead because I can’t find rollerskates.” Do you? Hey, how’s your crazy bleak life? Because that thing you wish you were dead over? Is a super small problem.

“What does it feel like to get off rollerskates?” Um, it feels exactly like unlacing rollerskates and taking them off your feet. Exactly like that. You dumb, dumb idiot.

“Kittens that have something to do with drug free.” Your life…your whole shit…it’s so fucking stupid. Additionally, you are in the super wrong place.

The End.

2 Comments

Posted in fallen from grace, rulez

Posted by: meow mix | April 19, 2011

Dear Santa, Mumbai Condoms, Bum Fighting

Hey Gang! It’s 5:08 am, so evidently I don’t need sleep anymore, and so based on what I understand about enlightenment (limited) I’ve graduated to a higher plane of consciousness. Yeah, it feels good here at the top. Long time since last post, though, so that makes me lame again. One Step Forward, One Step Back: The Memoirs of CJP. Boring first paragraph will be rectified later in this essay, dawgs, so bear with me. Better yet, bare with me. Hey-oh! One more thing: My peeps from San Francisco: you guys are unthinkably rad. You’ve no idea how much your kind/forceful/inspiring-all-the-way-around-words have meant to me, and caused me to stop attempting impossible sleep to come here, into the office, to write instead. Thank you, Marin. Thank you, Shay. Thank you all. I would probably do this if no one ever read any of it, but knowing that people I love care whether or not I write causes me to feel itchy and to need it. And so here we are. I owe you all, because this is better. For me, I mean.

I’m thinking about starting a few regular segments here on the ole blawg, at the risk of  a rapid transformation into Good Morning America. These segments include: Cooking With Katie Couric JUST KIDDING that bitch got fired, Things That People Googled To Find My Blog, Things I Voluntarily Wrote With No End Game Before I Was Ten, and How Bad Was Traffic In Carrboro Today. I’m going to start with TIVWWNEGBIWT (work it out), and Mama, couldn’t have done this without the radical birthday album you put together for me of things I voluntarily wrote with no end game before I was ten. I’ll just open here with a note to Santa that I prolly wrote around 7.

My handwriting is essentially still this poor. Also still this cynical.

It’s worth noting that on the back of this letter are the words : Kidney Soup. Followed by 11 squiggly lines. Sounds delicious! Quick question: How does one go from absolutely amazingly awesome at 7 to, like, pretty cool I guess except for how I got into a borderline physical altercation with literally a bum last night at 29 years of age (I am told it was fucking awesome.)? Anywayz, “Sign here if your alive?” Like, if it’s cool, could you just hook me up with some dope gear, like that fly dog movie or a microphone or whatever, because you’re like hella real, and here’s some fucking delicious cookies, and oh if you have a second could you just sign here because when you do that we’ll just have it out of the way. I’ll have it on file. In case of an audit. Papertrails, you understand. Uh, kidding me right now? And that is seriously only the beginning. Tip of the motherfucking iceberg. I wrote mad shit, because I wanted to be an author, but my topics were wicked bizarre, or else they were runaway notes. Lots of those, I was intensely sensitive and 110% sure my family was making fun of me all the time, so I’d like pack up some toy horses and walk to the end of the street like I was waiting for a cab. Hey, um, Camille! You’re eight, so you’re crazy broke, so you aren’t going anywhere. Totes sorry.

But you’ll have to wait for the notes, because now we’re on to our next segment, Things That People Googled To Find My Blog. Which…guys. Guys. Folks. Hold up. Whoa whoa whoa. The fuck are you talking about. And why in the fucking world are these searches pulling up my site. I have like a squad of these. Like I think up some crazy shit, for sure, but never once in all my years was I like, hey, last night was crazy rad! Aw man, so much fun. What a blast, we should do that again. I should almost certainly google “had a killer time last night huh billboard” and just see what pops up. Like, that was so fun! Right, Billboard? Right? Billboard? You get it! Not gonna call the actual people I was with, those dummies, what do they know. But that billboard, it knows. It gets it. HEY. EVERYONE. ARE YOU OK. Because that billboard does not know what your night was like. Jesus Christ.

Or, hey, how reasonable a search is this? “what does diyer mean? like im in dire need of a shower ” Um, excuse me? Gross. Like, gross. Hey, dawg? Go bathe. Wash up. It’s cool. I’ll wait. The site is not coming down in the next ten minutes, or before you learn how to spell a super simple word that for the record has just the four letters. You’re over thinking this. Like, just spell the word and take a shower. Please.

“beautiful girl getting stoned” I actually have nothing to say about this. Right on.

I’ll finish up with “gigolo mumbai condom they allow me only when i convinced them.” I feel frightened for some reason, like this is so disjointed that I’m trembling. What…what is a mumbai condom. Why do gigolos need whatever that is. If you are a gigolo kind of the whole premise is that you don’t spend a lot of time convincing “them,” because they just purchased you. Like, they sought you out, you don’t have to sell it so hard. Cool out, homez. Stop googling scary things and then coming to my blawg. If what you mean is that…just no. Never mind. I’m afraid of you. You win. I cannot with this.

Final segment: How Bad Was Traffic In Carrboro Today. You know what? Traffic was super bad. Hey, East Main Street? You do know what the word street implies, right? Like, typically you drive down one, you don’t move into it. I already live somewhere, like a house? You know, with rooms and a kitchen? It’s wicked sweet. So, I’m cool on that, thanks. PLEASE STOP IT AT ONCE.

Just ordered rad new Ray-Bans. Need to go stand by the street and wait for them for the next week. Love y’all!

4 Comments

Posted in hurrah, rulez

Posted by: meow mix | January 24, 2011

Fuck You, Jeffrey. That is all.

So you may be asking yourself who the fuck Jeffrey is, or maybe you aren’t but whatever. Point is, I have a demon! Or ghost/tormentor/poltergeist, it’s a semantics issue. It’s a reader’s choice situation. And dude, Jeffrey is a fucking dickhole. As far as I can tell he’s not about trying to tip a bookcase on me or directly kill me, he’s just a little bastard. Think like worse than pranks but better than murder. At least so far.

Um so. Firstly, I know I’ve told y’all that I’m completely uninterested in hearing about your dreams, but I’m more completely uninterested in applying rules to myself, so here goes. One night, I was sleeping, right? And my dream was so fucked up. It was like, me and these two people I don’t know in real life, and we were trying to escape from this house. And this house was about to collapse, but I didn’t know why. So we got out on the porch, and I turned around all “Booyah! What up wif it! I got us out! Ha ha! Ha!” But instead of actually having something to boast about there on the porch, I looked into the house and there was this coat rack with a scary mask on it? And the mask turned towards me and smirked, then totally froze and went back to doing nothing, so nobody else saw it. And I did this killer ice grill straight at him and pointed mean-dad-style, like where the back of your hand is facing up, and I go “I KNOW you’re Jeffrey.” Then Jeffrey winked at me and then I woke up. But I knew it was a big deal somehow, and sure enough, crazy shit has been happening ever since.

Sort of like this, but he was wearing a jaunty hat.

For example. One time, I was showering at a friend’s, and the house was fucking fah-reezing. Arctic. My guess is that people from Wisconsin don’t believe in comfort because they’ve known too much hardship. So, he turned on the ceiling heater for me, which was presumably intended to not end horribly, which it 100% did. First off, the shower blowed. It was like getting slowly spit on by someone that hates you, but colder. When the shower ended and it was time to scrape the ice off of myself and put on every item of clothing at my disposal, even those that weren’t mine, I reached for the dial to turn the heater off. I touched the dial and the LIGHTS STARTED FLASHING  AND THE SOUNDS STARTED GOING CRAZY AND THE SHIT LIT ON FIRE AND FLAMES WERE EVERYWHERE AND SPARKS RAINED DOWN AND SMOKE FILLED MY LUNGS BUT NOT IN A CIGARETTE WAY AND I HAD NO DEFENSE OR IDEAS.  I was like, “Oh my god? Jeffrey, right?”

A few days later, a friend and i were just kind of cold lamping in my living room, and we were like eight feet apart and the remote was another five feet from us. Just talking, right? Spitballin’. Then, for no reason either of us can understand, the TV and the DVD player turned on. On. And when the DVD player turns on it goes “Hello” across the screen. Jeffrey. Bro. You are not that cool. If I saw your spectre at the bar, I would ignore you. I don’t want to hang out. So…go away. We  just kind of looked at each other, expecting one of us to be responsible somehow, but uh-uh. Simply not possible. In Review: The Television and DVD Player Turned Themselves On. Mkay.

And just a few nights ago, I was asleep so soundly. Like the kind where there’s no reaching you because you’re Dreaming About Clouds and shit, or more accurately, the kind where you took a Valium and drank a bourbon to stave off the nightterrorz (also my Twitter name–follow me!) (Just slapped own face). There I am in a deep sleep, when all of a sudden I hear a knock right behind my head, like “Shave And A Haircut!” No, like if you were knocking on a door and needed to do that rhythm, not like the actual words. Out of nowhere I was completely awake, definitely by like the last two knocks.  It came from the wall behind me, which made me have to do a complete condo search at 3 am, which was terrifying. I bought my bed largely because it’s too low to the ground for someone to hide under so you don’t have to bend over and check to see who is lurking under there, thereby creating the perfect time for a killer to strike from behind, but even so. You don’t have to be bending over a haunted bed for everything in your life to be suddenly horrifying.

And then the other day, a friend was here, but then had to go do work or whatever. So every time someone leaves I lock the shit out of the door, and this time in particular, I walked her out and I know I locked it. Yet an hour later I’m doing one of my favorite things, laying splayed out on the bed perfectly still. Despite all the hard work I was immersed in, I was all, “Shit! The construction sounds from outside are so loud! Why are they so goddamn loud? Those workers are a block away! Right? Are they actually doing construction inside of my home? And I just didn’t know? Huh!” I went and checked it out and here’s why: THE FUCKING FRONT DOOR IS STANDING WIDE OPEN. That’s why so loud. Completely all the way open, and unlocked. Now, I know I’m super slack about a lot of things, but I live in a neighborhood that is quite literally on the wrong side of the tracks, like one time a crackhead brandished those long gardening shears at me at noon, so trust, I do not leave my door unlocked. Q: So how did the front door get unlocked and open? A: Jeffrey is a son of a bitch.

I’m so over it. In addition to the bigger events, there are things like lights that won’t turn on when I hit the switch, but that obediently spring into action when someone else tries. Or the night I’m spooning Bobo Dawg in bed because we’re both so freaked out by all the random knocks and bangs and whispers occuring all over the damn place, which only stop when I yell “Jeffrey! SHUT THE FUCK UP.”

HOLY SHIT. OKAY. THIS LITERALLY JUST HAPPENED, right this fucking second. I heard a weird sound like people talking really quietly beneath the Mickey Avalon I’m rawkin out to. So I go exploring, and um. The sound is coming from my laptop, which is fully closed and has been since 4 am this morning, when I put down my Night Screwdriver and turned in (I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: Vitamins). I was in there like 30 minutes ago putting away my clothes, and yeah, that wasn’t happening. I opened it and here’s the picture on the screen. Seriously.

Can You. Imagine. My Terror. Right Now. Please come over.

Is he trying to tell me something about who the fuck he is/was? Dude I’m freaking the fuck out. I think maybe he’s pissed that I’m writing about him. I need to stop before shit gets fatal. I am completely, sincerely, genuinely requesting you guys’ advice right now, on the really real. This is Really Real Talk: Do any of you have any ideas about how to end this once and for all? Am I gonna need a priest, or what? Does it count as holy water if Bobo blesses it? Do I burn sage? Chant something? Hide forever?

Editor’s Note, like maybe eight months later: Jeffrey has left the building. I didn’t do anything that I or anybody else suggested, because evidently even getting haunted isn’t sufficient motivation to do work.  He just kind of bounced one day. The only bizarro-world thing that has happened since then is I pulled out an Alice Cooper record I got at a yard sale that I hadn’t listed to yet and A PICTURE FELL OUT OF A GUY WITH HIS HANDS TIED BEHIND HIS BACK IN THE CORNER OF A FILTHY ROOM, causing me to shatter into small pieces and scare the dog. Doesn’t feel like Jeffrey though, not his steeze. What it does feel like is that I visited the yard sale of a fucking serial killer and am lucky to have escaped with my life. The end!

3 Comments

Posted in fallen from grace, jonestown fruit punch, lurklurklurklurk, nawt hawt, nightterrors

Posted by: meow mix | November 16, 2010

On The Midwest, Dismemberment, & Joy: Part II

Opening with a non sequitur, which I am not strictly sure is possible: watch this first. It will make my post seem less funny but fuck it, you’re here to laugh goddammit (right?). These cats are super funny, also my friends. Luke has been referenced in this blog before, he is the one that will throw hammers at you if he is reasonably sure they won’t strike you.

http://www.youtube.com/user/rebeccaaschiffman#p/u/6/7CddRVLjQhE

Anyway!

Welcome to the second installment in the chronicles of Wisconsin. Continuing the list, and opening with a super lengthy story that I’m including because it is hugely important:

5. No Matter What webmd.com Says, In Wisconsin Ear-Bleeding Is Not Cancer. So we woke up one morning and, Surprise! Camille’s pillow had blood all over it. I got Nick to look me over for major injuries that could explain that kind of blood-spill. Believe it or not, I had no idea that the blood was coming from my ear. My meth hair was hiding it. But after like an hour of reading and morning-cigarettes on the porch, I went upstairs to change and in the process I put my hair up, and Oh! There was blood all over my face! And my ear was chock full of it too! Huh! Wow! Weird! What? Wait what?

My brain uncooperatively refused to process this terrifying new information, so I just stood there looking in the mirror with an expression like someone had just demanded “Explain DNA.” (Answer: Spirals. Traits? Codes! Why your baby looks like you.) That stupor lasted about three minutes until I realized this probably needed dealing with and I sprang into decisive, rationality-based action. C: “NICK! UM! AAAAH! UUUUH I’M BLEEDING! IN MY EAR! OR BRAIN!” N: “What?” C:”OUT OF MY EAR OR BRAIN, BLEEDING. SERIOUSLY AND A LOT.” N: “What?” After some discussion it was decided that I should look it up on webmd. How did Julia Roberts phrase it in Pretty Woman when they wouldn’t let her shop at the fancy store because she was dressed like a common whore? “Big mistake. BIG. HUGE.” Webmd said that I probably had a ruptured tumor. So, head cancer. Cool.

"Big misteak. Big. HUGE." (I'm very sorry for that, I couldn't stop myself.)

After that we decided I should call a nurse hotline, which evidently exists in Wisconsin. They asked me some hard-hitting and intensely insightful questions, like “Does it hurt? No? Huh. And you haven’t experienced any major trauma, like falling down the stairs or banging your head into something? Or something? Also no? Weird. Ok, have you put anything sharp in it?” What I still don’t understand is their rationale in asking me these things–why would I sound so goddamn baffled that I was bleeding out of my ear if I had just bashed my head or jabbed around in my inner ear with a screwdriver? Would I be calling a nurse  line to explain it to me, like “So, I punctured my skin with this sharp object, and now there’s like…not water, but, oh, fuck, what’s the word? Red water? But thicker, also warmer. And salty, but not in a tasty way. And it seems to originate at the exact point that I punched a hole in myself. Coincidence, or could these things be related somehow? Should I take an action of some kind?” So the nurse ultimately gave up and said that I needed to hotfoot it over to urgent care. She left the head cancer thing unspoken, but her voice was dripping with certainty that I was going to die.

"Fuck, this bitch is done for."

So off we went to the hospital, blood still pooling in my ear canal. It didn’t take long to get into see the doctor, who came in looking grave as shit, and then he repeated all of the questions I was asked on the nurse line. I guess he could see that I was about to freak the fuck out at him so after like ten minutes this happened (I have taken the liberty of translating his expressions into words): Doctor’s thoughts: “Oh, what the hell, maybe I’ll use this lighted tool, the name of which I forget, and I’ll use it to look inside of the ear that is not bleeding.” Not joking. He seemed pleased by what he saw, because he kept muttering shit like, “Beautiful, that’s healthy. Healthy ear drum, pink skin, ok. Neat. Good ear. That’s a nice ear.” Camille’s thoughts: “Hey Doc, let’s get real weird with this and take a quick gander at the fucking ear that is, even now, actively spewing blood! Too out there, too uncoventional? Still…still…it just might be crazy enough to work.” After praising the shit out of the one ear for long enough to firmly establish his extreme affection for a medically sound ear, he decided to check out the actual problem. Then he seemed surprised when it was full of blood, so he called in a nurse to flush my ear out, then he looked in again and here’s what he said, out loud: “Oh, good!!! Good!!!” Me: “WHAT IS IT. WHAT IS GOOD.” Him: “I don’t know!” I thought about punching him but didn’t want to deal with the repercussions, so I silently quivered with rage and fear until he went,”I thought it might be a tumor, or a tick or a spider–oh! This one time I had a patient with ear pain so she came in and she had a live spider all the way up as far as you can go in an ear, so I put some water in there and the spider got mad and sprinted across her face! She was freaking out and I was trying to catch it! I was like, hold still, you little sucker! The spider, not the woman. Ha! Ha!” Me: (i hate you so much.) Him: “So the deal is, I don’t know what it was, but I can see it! Right there in your ear! Not a tumor, tick, or spider! If it’s still bleeding in a few days, I’d have it checked out.” Me: (that is why i’m here. that is what i’m doing. i’m having it checked out right now. i should have punched you. i still might punch you.) Then he gave me a piece of paper, and I left the hospital, but at least I knew it wasn’t head cancer and we went and had a something-something Creamy Dark to celebrate.

Wisconsin was radical in many ways aside from those listed above, but I care about you so I won’t list all of

OH MY GOD I ALMOST LEFT THIS OUT.

7. I Met A Dude Who Is On Probation For Helping To Dismember And Bury His Girlfriend’s Husband. Super tempted to just leave it at that. Actually basically that’s the whole story. He seemed like a pretty nice guy. I’ll just include a few of the quotes I heard about this dude, because I really don’t know what else to say. These phrases will remain burned into my memory for the rest of my life, so I am confident in stating with certainty that these are, verbatim, the exact words that were spoken to me, except for where I’m not sure what was said and except for where NP has pulled a McCarthy and edited me.  In no particular order (everything in brackets is edited by Nick because I am courteous and he is scrupulous, and also for accuracy, as I’m moderately drunk. Basically so you’ll believe me. Because this is true as shit):

“Yeah, and it’s not the first time, either! Wait, you know about another one too? So there’s three, all-told?” [Nick nods; this is in re.: murder quantity.]

“We call him Hard To Look At, and we call his girlfriend Harder To Look At.” [Nick said this so he can't deny it.]

“Well, he’s done his share of meth in his days.” [Nick nods again.]

“When I was logging in the woods with him when I was fifteen, he told me a story about beating a man to death with a baseball bat because the guy tried to rob him. When he lived in Montana.” [This sentence was corrected by Nick from my original sentence, which read "When I was trapping in the woods with him, he told me a story about beating a man to death with a baseball bat because the guy tried to rob him. When he lived in New Mexico." Which is the same fucking thing.]

“He has holes in the floor of his trailer because he never was one to believe in paying rent.” [Nick was not there for this exchange and therefor relieves himself of all responsibility for whatever comes of it, but believes me that it happened.]

“His girlfriend asks me ‘Hey, can I have some of your nitroglycerin?’ You know, I have it for my heart. So I’m like, ‘Yeah, you’re crazy, but sure!’ I tried it once, and I thought, man, I’ll never do that again. Well, I did it a few times.” [Nick was not there for this either. He seems to doubt my memory? It is still true.]

“He’s coming to show us his new teeth! They used to be about two inches long.” [Fast head nod.]

So, in summary, Wisconsin is basically one of the coolest places I’ve ever been. Bear in mind that all of the above happened over the course of like 7 days. Also I went four-wheeling, went to a crazy midwestern bar riddled with a variety of drug addicts, and hung out with some of the most genuine, kind, accepting, and friendly people I have ever met. In fact, I will go so far as to include Hard To Look At in that category. Even Wisconsin’s sociopaths are downright charming. Plus I found a rock with fossils in it.

The End!

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Posted in b as in bonerz, hurrah, rulez

Posted by: meow mix | October 28, 2010

On the Midwest, Dismemberment, & Joy: Part I

This was originally all one post that turned out about seven miles long, so I’m operating on the assumption that your attention span is as regrettably short as mine and I’m breaking it up for you. And I’ll put in pictures too because that helps me pay attention to things. And lists are the only way I can organize my thoughts, so here is the first part of a list of things I noticed on the trip.

I will open by saying this was one of the best vacations/travel times I have ever had. The items that made this list were basically weird little things I either remembered to write down or that were just bizarre enough not to forget. But the bulk of the time was just amazing, and it is hard to make that interesting to read about. “I relaxed! Everyone was nice!” Like it’s true, it’s just not that cool. Even the car ride was fun, which is good because the only people who have ever spent more time in a vehicle than me on this trip are the astronauts in the film Event Horizon, when they all unfreeze or biologically reconstitute or whatever, after like 100 years. And then the spaceship is haunted. That didn’t happen to me, though. And the drive was the only thing even remotely tedious thing about the trip, except for bleeding from my ear (much, much more on that in next post), and even that turned out pretty ok because I didn’t die of it the way I fully expected to.

And really, the car ride only got lame for me when we were driving home with like 5 hours to go, and here’s stupid, stupid fucking West Virginia, which despite charging you ALL of your money just to drive on its highways, does not have actually finished highways. Instead, the highway abruptly ends and you are forced to take a 45-minute detour on tiny back country roads featuring roadsigns with bullet holes, and semis whizzing past as close as possible on the one side, and a super-solid looking concrete barrier inches away on the other, all at 2 in the morning. I was driving and I almost panicked and let go to see if jesus would just take the fucking wheel already, as he is said to do in song, but then I remembered that jesus is pretend, and so I just held the shit out of my breath and the steering wheel and made believe it was a video game until it was all over. Here are some other things!

1. Speed Foto. I made up a game where you are in the car, right? With a camera. And basically you just have it near you and in manual mode, and when you see something interesting you have to fumble frenetically to get the shot. Usually this means swearing and shattered hopes, but occasionally it means FUCK YEAH I GOT IT. Below you will find several pictures that I took during Speed Foto, and as you can see, some of them are kind of magical. This is due in part to me finding out that you can use a pair of Ray-Bans as makeshift lens filters, especially when you bought them strictly because you lost another beloved pair and you’re willing to hold this idiot pair outside of the window in an underground tunnel beneath a mountain because they stubbornly refuse to fit right. They have gradient lenses that are sepia colored, and I will say that I am completely in love with the tone they give a goddamn photo. This activity took up so many hours and it is so fun. (Did You Know? These sunglasses have also been lost since first I wrote this. I need life coaching!/To stop hanging out with puppies!)

 

2. There Is An Entire Highway In Virginia Called The Technology Corridor. Now, at first, I was more than willing to jump on board and assume that this must be a road with gigantic modems instead of billboards and speed limit signs made of, I don’t know, fiber optics? “Technology Corridor,” I thought! “There is no way that this roadway will be anything short of stupendous! This is where it will all come together for humankind! And I am now a part of this cornerstone of civilization.” Uhh, nope! Not so much! In fact I would go so far as to say that I have scarcely been anywhere with less visible technology. I say this because here is the thing: for at least 200 miles past this sign is absolutely not a fucking thing in the world except for the odd small mountain and a steady stream of irony. Nick called it the Ultimate Red Herring, not only because terrorists may instinctively target it (you can have it, jerks), but also because as long as you were super confused by the name vs. reality contrast, you wouldn’t notice the rampant obsolescence that Virginia is largely comprised of. I suspect he is correct.

 

I didn't take this picture, I found it on Google Images. Sucks to be famous for irony.

3. Everyone In Wisconsin Is A Heavy Drinker. So it’s pretty clear by now that Camille Pickett=Drinks. I was assured that Wisconsin=Drinks was also a mathematically sound equation, but I’ll admit that I had Judgement Fears (Editor’s Note: I just typed Jesus Fears by accident–typo or e-stigmata?). So you can imagine my relief when the first question I was asked when we arrived at 1:45 pm in Racine was “Want a beer?” I tried to play it cool and just be like “Oh, why not, it’s vacation!” but inside every synapse was rejoicing. Another cool thing that happened was that now I like a Bloody Mary, whereas before I always resented the way people cooled off the sauce part of Spaghettios, added booze and some salad ingredients, and tried to pass it off as a delicacy. The thing is, they were right to do that. It’s like soup, but more important because of vodka. Also, up there they give you a baby beer chaser so that you can burp instead of your stomach becoming a festering acid envelope and then if you puke it looks like you need to go to the hospital, stat. I also fostered an abiding love for a beer that is like their PBR, called something-something Creamy Dark. It is so good.

4. Midwestern-Accent-Attaining. Here I will attempt to use phonetics to show how I started speaking almost immediately upon my arrival in Wisconsin. Firstly, as in like the second we crossed the state line, I started saying “Oh, Yah?” whenever I obtained any new information. Like, I would find out that someone knows the farmer who owns those cows over there: “Oh, Yah?” You used to trap animals in these woods and sell their hides to a fur guy? “Oh, Yah?” Lake Superior and all of the area around it is hugely cold, all of the time? “Oh, Yah?” But the real highlight came when we were visiting one of Nick’s friends and his family. Their little girl NEEDED TO SHOW ME SOMETHING SO BAD and it was a hole in the floor, so I go, “Oh, yah, thet’s a beeg hole enta tha beesmant!” (Sound it out.) Bottom line, that accent is goddamn contagious.

More on my adventures in a day or two.

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Posted in b as in bonerz, hurrah, rulez

Posted by: meow mix | September 8, 2010

Phones Are Stalkers, Blogs Are Liabilities

This is why I'm not answering. I am smoking and telling the time and drinking an umbrella drink.

Ima just open by telling y’all something that has changed the way my fingertips relate to a keyboard (it was always a weird relationship, now it’s just fucking awkward). Get your dawgs on a leash, or cats in a carrier, or whatever, because my mother has been covertly reading this blog. And Mama, if you are reading this now, that is just a terrible idea and you should stop. Yesterday. Here, look at this instead, just cut and paste because my link inserter thing isn’t working: http://critteristic.com/wp-content/uploads/2009/04/cat-heart.jpg. Yeah, just click at the beginning, drag across to the end–no no, don’t include the period–why did you let go of the mouse halfway through? Jesus christ. Here.

Hey! Over here! Catz in a heart shape! No need to read further, Ma!

So she for sure went for that, right? Because dag, Mom Reading Blog is a game-changer. I am 100% bummed and definitely unclear on how she got word of this exact address, but I do have a full-blown memory of telling her that I had a blog, and that she should never not ever for any reason attempt to find it. That may sound leading to some of you, but to me it genuinely meant, “Hi: This an open disclaimer that I refuse all responsibility for any discomfort that stems from knowing your child grew up to be, um, me.” Seriously, I essentially said exactly that out loud. Soooo, this is not my fault, right? Kay, so, that said, just do a quick review of all the things you’ve read on this site that you would feel real weird about your parents finding out about you.

Thus far, we’ve covered day-drinking, drugs, knowing potential killers, basically par-for-the-course material for sure, but evidently my cavalier worldview does not apply if you gave birth to me, or if you are not me. But do you remember when your parents could just hint at you being busted in some way–like the time they came to pick me up from a friend’s family beach trip because they found like 30 cashed Readiwhip canisters in my closet when I was 15, so they called the doctor who told them malicious lies about gateway drugs–remember that feeling? Not so much? Well, sort of like the kind from when you were young enough to be completely subject to them but old enough to know you were gonna keep getting into trouble? Wait, you do, right?

So channel all that anxiety into this phone call, which happened very recently:  Me: “Hey Ma, what’s up.” Her: “Hey honey…so I need to tell you something. I’ve…I’ve been looking at your weblog. How much of that is, well, true?” Me: “[Survival instinct belatedly kicking in] True? Um, psssh? What does truth really mean, anyway? It’s all so subjective.”

This is exactly why I’m horrified of my phone, and exactly why there’s about a 50/50 chance I’ll pick up even if I love you to death and want to talk to you badly. I’m always secretly certain you’ll be furious at me for whatever unknown ways I’ve pissed you off, or else my hand panics and hits “Ignore” before I can get my brain on the case. So don’t get so mad at me anymore, ok? For all I know, you could be a mean killer with an app that alters Caller ID in his/her iPhone arsenal. CSI Miami assures me that these things are not only possible, but likely. Phones are terrifying and they weren’t my idea. I would call Alexander Graham Bell just to hang up on him for dreaming up this kind of fuckery, if that were my option. As it stands I might just settle for prank-calling one of his heirs, that’s how strongly I feel about this.

So the upshot is that I’ve had a kind of hard time thinking of things to write about that A) Are Interesting and B) Won’t End In An Intervention. I’m not sure if that should upset me, or is telling, or whatever, but the thing is, I’m not dying to make that distinction. This is my world and my world involves things like bonkers hair and noise and late nights, you know, unruly things. I wake up around noon if that’s an option. I’m super glad that I have friends that climb out of windows, and dance on their cars in the parking lot of wherever, and don’t think twice about throwing a hammer at you if they’re reasonably sure it won’t hit you. They’ll call the Fourth of July “America’s Christmas” really loud at Walmart while trying on American flag bikinis, and Facebook message you to bring them a bottle of pink champagne at eleven a.m. on a Wednesday, so they can share it with you in mugs with ice. Their favorite word is almost universally “boner” and when we go to Target we take margaritas in coffee mugs, and they want me to hang out with them all the time, mostly. Not a ton of room for improvement.

But the flip side of that coin is that my life is also plagued with taxes and work and decisions about overdraft protection. Also, when did overdraft protection become such a pressing issue, Suntrust? Do I really need three emails a day? Can’t my silence be interpreted as I Don’t Care At All, Truly, Just Make A Decision For Me? Then there’s fucking health insurance and setting alarms to stay on top of, and you can just fucking forget all about car maintenance and grocery shopping. And I’m dead serious when I say that the AARP has just sent me a second membership card, along with offers to join a memory loss trial (how the fuck do they know), and furthermore Blue Cross calls me every day about in-home nursing support–I remain totally serious–which I need to call back about ASAP if I want to enroll for this year.  Be right back. So either I have the same name and address as a geriatric retard, or else I really need the release of having friends that might as well be geriatric retards. So, if there are other ways to go about this whole life thing than being the Happiest Girl Around as opposed to the Most Frightened Recluse Alive, I’ve got an open mind. Well, no, pretty much I don’t.

Ultimately though, I’m going to have to make a choice: either to just put it all the way out there, or to censor based on who may or may not be reading. It’s a weird dilemma, like there are one million things I could write a witness-protection-program-style-anonymous essay on, but I can’t put them on this blog because they are about one or more of you, or else they weren’t about you so I can’t afford for you to know about them, or else I’m not ready to write off an inheritance just yet, or whatever. There are literally stories I cannot tell you (yet) due to our state’s laws surrounding statutes of limitations. And fuck, they are SO GOOD. But the thing that I find the least fair about this Mom Situation is that, and I’ll probably get in huge trouble for this, so I’ll say it all in one sentence which makes it less offensive: My parents met in a cult which had the motto “Be Here Now” that assigned members fake names and had classical music concerts in the middle of the woods in ball gowns and tuxedos and my parents were unmarried and living on the floor of a friend’s living room with exactly one cardboard box of possessions each when she was pregnant with my sister.

So, you know, on a scale of one to WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON, I don’t feel like I’m doing worse than Pregnant On Floor. I guess it’s just a worldview thing, or maybe like a generational thing. And dude, I exist on this planet because of a now-defunct cult in Carmel, California, so yeah, I’ll have a rye on the rocks please. That doesn’t sound so unreasonable to me. Give me a call to let me know what you think, but know that I won’t be picking up.

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Posted in lurklurklurklurk, scabby frightened kitten, ugh

Posted by: meow mix | August 3, 2010

Airport Barz & Shooting Starz

Golden consolation prize!

So, and this should come to no surprise to any of you, I am alone in an airport bar at 7:50 on a Saturday morning. By bar, I mean glorified booze kiosk with two walls open to a tremendously large and gray terminal with virtually no defining characteristics except the theme “Other Peoples’ Children Are Fucking Babies About Everything.” This rowdy little juke joint has the motto “Food*Sports*Fun,” but I have a Sharpie and will be retagging it “Forget*Having*Fun” before I leave. Ok, as I leave. Ok, just on this blog. This farce of a bar’s favored genre of music is super lame classic rock, which is my very least favorite genre. “Bat Out Of Hell” by Meatloaf is the best thing that’s played on nearly-silent volume since I got here, and I bet you another screwdriver—vitamins!– that the Eagles come on before I leave. Ew sick, and yet, I’m kind of having a killer time. I am on an adventure!

I am on this adventure because—three guesses!—I 100% missed my flight to New York. I remain completely unbending in that this is in no way my fault, but American Air was kind of pretty sure that it was, and I do acknowledge that if I were a third party with access to my truancy/tardiness record, I would just laugh and point and then cast my vote for the airline. At any rate they changed my ticket to a standby for 9:15 for zero more dollars, and that’s cool, but this does feel like an exercise in futility because I know for a fact that there are four seats open and nine people in front of me.

All nine of them are in a group together, and they missed their flights too, except instead of going to Brooklyn to be amazing, they were going on a cruise. I’m hoping to find them in the waiting area—I’ll be looking for the middle-agers in tropical-print windsuits–and I’m really, really hoping to hear one of those uncomfortable discussions where you can see little alliances forming and if you pay attention you can tell who hates who and which couples are completely dysfunctional. Four seats, nine cruise-bound losers. Who will make it to Bermuda and who is destined for a divorce based on blowing the vacation fund on non-transferable tickets? I have an idea for a reality show.

Ok, so now it’s an hour later, and a lot of shit has gone down. Let’s just start with that the lady at the check-in counter took my bag and said, verbatim, “Don’t worry, your bag won’t get on the flight if you don’t.” Ha ha! She play too much. My bag will in fact be getting on the plane, but I officially won’t be. All flights for today are full as fuck with a dickload of stand-bys, so my options are hang out at Forget*Having*Fun alone all day hoping six cruisers have heart attacks, thereby leaving a seat open for me, or leave. So I decide to leave and the lady at the gate says to just let the people at baggage claim know about my bag and they’ll get it for me. She, also, play too much. The people at baggage claim basically did point and laugh at me and said, again verbatim, “You won’t be getting your bag back today.” Super glad I packed all my favorite clothes and belongings!

So now, five days later, I can say I’ve had the best staycation ever. I made an appointment to spend my vacay money on tattoos. I haven’t woken up once before morning was like three hours ago. Nick and I have started a homemade television show called “Our Fragile World” with segments like “Dick Moves” and “Pet Stories”, and we started shooting last night. Right now I’m in a hammock on a gorgeous day smoking cigs and reading Stephen King, and the birds are going fuckin ca-ray-zay!  So kind of the opposite of a nightmare, all things told, but hey Universe? You know how I ordered that gold jet pendant a few weeks ago because I thought it looked neat? Well, it sure is, but maybe you could not leave it in my mailbox to find when I get home from disaster airport visit? Classic Dick Move.

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Posted in b as in bonerz, fallen from grace, hurrah, I need a life coach

Posted by: meow mix | July 23, 2010

B As In Bonerz

It's not all fuckery. We also spend kind of a lot of time getting beautiful. See?

At the current time, which is 10:43 am on a Friday, which is a generally sweet time anyway, my house is full of just me and my dog and Radiohead. Look, I know what you’re thinking, that that’s super cool and perfect, but lately my house has been so much dag fun that I feel a little ignored somehow. Like, five minutes ago I was in bed with my devastatingly handsome BF while laughing at my roomie’s pretend situation that she was describing while she brushed her teeth in the doorway, like all leaned against it and creating tears in my eyes with her words. What kind of world is it when your fucking supposed best friend has to/would rather go to work than to continue to chatter at you about going to a pool supply store and saying “I am very wealthy, and I have many pools to decorate. I would like all of your vinyl pool-liner samples, and I would appreciate it hugely if you could just hurry the fuck up, as I have several important business items to complete today.” Bear in mind that she’s in an angry cupcake t-shirt with the sleeves cut off with her toothbrush rammed into her mouth the whole time. That is the way to start a day, ladies and jerks. Ooooh sweet the Pixies just came on, bonus round. Anyway, the reason we want said samples is to make cutouts of dinosaurs thinking obscene things in thought bubbles to decorate our dance party with (!!! http://www.citrusface.com/ewsick.gif !!!) which pushes the whole thing from giggle-silly to throw-up hilarious. If you’re me, I mean.

There’s been a lot of this type of fuckery afoot lately. My house has changed kind of a lot this summer. It used to be a trash hole that I came home to to relax and sober up, whereas now I go to Reservoir to relax and sober up (ha! ha!) before I head back to the trash hole, aka Unit B As In Bonerz (motto: Weeeeeee’re…Pretty Amazing.). This is where me and Bobo and Bestie live full-time and where I have sedated and restrained/convinced above-referenced boyfriend to hang out with me at night. As a result, I am underemployed and overstimulated, but that’s kind of my bag. Instead of the late night heart-to-hearts that I understand is normal for roommates based on every movie ever, we cause each other actual physical harm from dancing on each others cars or writing down the fully retarded things that the other says and making a Photobooth video from it and then laughing until we have to put our oxygen masks back on. Would you guys be upset if this blog devolved from a place where I try to actually write things into a venue for me to post these videos? I think probably I’ll settle for a mix. Huh.

So back to getting hurt from laughing, yesterday at the lunch at the Weave I got a lentil lodged in between my throat and nose (for like 45 minutes, ew sick!) because of this 100% sober (seriously) idea we had. So what had happened was, I was still in bed with BF one morning while Bestie was getting ready for work when the Fedex guy came to the door. It turned out to be for me, and I thought it might be the gold pendants shaped like jets that I ordered for us the other day, so I ordered Mule to bring it to me in bed. When I realized that it was a document of some kind, I got a little terror stricken at what might be inside, because BF was right there and I care if he likes me or not and what if it was like a subpoena or a summons of some kind? Like, “Your divorce has been ungranted and your DNA test came back, you are genetically horrible!”. So while we were at lunch we started talking about all the worst things that he could have found out about me, and here’s what we came up with:

Dear Applicant:

We regret to inform you that after reviewing the results of your recent physical, we have deemed you an unsuitable candidate for a baby seal-clubbing expedition of this scope. The reasons for this are almost too many to detail–the doctor who inspected you broke his arm in three places while writing up your report–and we kind of can’t believe you even agreed to this medical examination in the first place. That said, here are the highlights of why we must regretfully decline your application: 1. AIDS.  2. Hepatitis A-Z.  3. Cleft Pallet.  4. Brain Cancer/Club Foot Combo.  5. Pregnant With Six Babies By Five Different Men And One Pony.  6. Tadpole Infestation In Your Butt (Your Butt, Especially, Is Really Unhealthy).  7. There Is A 100% Chance That You Will Pass On Your Irresponsibility To Your Children.  8. Parasitic Twin That Controls Your Brain Who Indicates That He Hates You, But Loves Ponies, Like Wants To Love Them (see item #5).

Please Never Contact Us Again,

The Foundation For Destroying The Environment That You Keep Sending Your Resume To

So that for sure would be the worst case scenario. Turns out it was just a new debit card from my bank because the last one experienced getting violated in the form of being used to buy what I’m sure were tickets for terrorists–from Air Arabia, with a layover in Mumbai, before hopping on the Air India flight for an unplanned landing at the nearest heavily populated hotbed of religious contention. I made up the terrorism and hijacking parts, but the rest I swear is 100% true. So new debit card, sweet.

But like wow, right? You can see why our motto is what it is. I’ll leave you with the knowledge that our dance party is tomorrow, Saturday the 24th of July, at Reservoir at ten, and it will be every bit as stupid as we are. Like, projection screen playing Wayne’s World stupid. And actually it would mean a lot to us if you came, and you will mean very little to us if you don’t. So, have a good day!

speaks for itself.

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Posted in b as in bonerz, hurrah, rulez

Posted by: meow mix | June 21, 2010

Space/Time Continuum Vs. Me. Hint: I. Lose. Every. Time.

Outfit bff told me to wear; also, what I do with my time instead of becoming even a little prepared for anything.

Sooooo, let’s just talk for a quick minute about my getting-awake skillz, especially as they pertain to this weekend. I had a date last night–yeah, like an actual person date, so give your ideas about me needing to pick up gigolos on the corner of Church and Rosemary straight to the Trash Mule (although as I’m sure you suspected, I did have to ask him out [editor's note, way late in the game: really wish I had not done that] and at the time I looked like maybe I was dying of Appearance Cancer, so this guy deserves a medal of some persuasion just for saying yes)–aaaaand yeah, that’s too much punctuation for one sentence. My main point is, I truly do suck at getting not-asleep.

So the date was for 9 pm, and I am terrible at makeup and showering and whatever, so while it’s usually like ten or so minutes to get from zero to Go Time, I was like fuck that, Ima come correct and look moderately ok for this one–in fact, let’s call Jess and have her tell me what to wear. Big things is in the works. Well ok, so I day-drank for not a small portion of the day (hey, thanks, Randa! All your fault.), and both before and after that I needed sleep like oh my gawd so bad, so I went to bed and set my alarm for 7:30. Good planning, right? Not so much. I have had my iphone for, oh, a year or thereabouts? So, like, normals know at least the basics of working it by now? Mmm hmm yeah but not me. I set that fucker for Weekdays Only which as it turns out Saturday is not one of them. I’m sorry, is that not a day of the week now? Could you please define week for me again? Because I did not get that memo. Pure fuckery. Thank the fucking stars above that I have a bestie that intuitively knows when I need help (badly) just not to fail in even the most menial of tasks. So she magically calls me at

Oooo my gawd I just set some of my hair on fire by accident. Tragedy averted, small hair fires never (rarely?) killed anyone. My hair is basically used to this treatment. It is good to keep it on its toes.

Continuing: magically calls me at 8:24 and wakes me up. Let me just clarify that I needed to: shower; put on makeup that allows me to look 28 instead of 97; find where I hid all of my bras and shoes which invariably come off the second I get in my front door; flat iron my bangs so I don’t unintentionally rock the Punky Brewster Look; put all of my gold on; find my keys, wallet, cigarettes, and phone; and still have time to look completely casual when homeboy knocks on the door. You will probably not believe me when I tell you that I accomplished all of these things, yet I did, so bump all that noise you’re making through your nose, thanks. Maybe baby jesus is real? Unclear. But just for the record, during the date, I did manage to get stupid drunk, drop my keys on the bar floor, walk home with this guy, have no keys, and leave him with no choice but to drive me back to find them. And uh I work for said bar as well. So I have all that going for meh. Pret-ty sweet lil catch, I am.

So, I felt pretty confident that in the morning, when I had to meet my family for Father’s Day brunch at 11, I would have learned my lesson and wouldn’t pull another complete boner wherein I need to change the course of space and time just to get there (2 minute walk) on borderline time. Um not so much. Also, no present for the dad as of wake-up. He’s like nutty for this kindle phenomena for whatever reason that remains unclear to me, because I’m basically sure books still exist, but I still printed out a gift certificate for that (literally while brushing my teeth) which was hugely inadequate when compared to my competent person/sister’s present which was a FRAMED PICTURE OF HIM WITH HIS SOULMATE/GRANDSON ON THE BEACH LOOKING HAPPY. God. Damn. It. I just cannot compete with that kind of caring about things. And when he unfolded my “present”–who has time for envelopes?–he said–I swear–”I was hoping you would burn me a copy of She & Him, Volume II.” What the fuck, my dad wears black socks with sandals, how is it possible that he’s as cool as me?

So back to the crux of the issue, which I have done all that I can do to avoid: Magical psychic ESP-specialist bff calls to save me at what time? At 10:46. Like, I’m in dire need of whatever she can do for me and all, but I believe I need to enroll her in a class designed around honing one’s sixth sense so that she can call me with just a lil bit more time on the clock before I’m in huge trouble. Like, hey, J, could you maybe give me an hour or so instead of 14 minutes? What the fuck is wrong with you, anyways? It’s almost like you don’t know me at all. Bitch.

So got there late, duhz. But things could be a small amount of worse, right? Without Jess, I could have completely slept through the whole shebang, which would not have surprised my family even a little, which makes me bad. Or, I could not be able to invent dances, a field in which I fucking excel (see: The Golden Snake [Late Editor's Note: I have a friend who matters or whatever in the Music World who was backstage at Bonaroo and who TAUGHT THE GOLDEN SNAKE TO CONAN O'BRIEN WHO THEN DID SAID DANCE--I am such a big deal] The Glorified Robot, etc.). Or, I could exist as this mega-catholic guy a friend of mine dated in high school who had dead fetus pictures pasted to his wall, probably with chewed up body of christ wafers as the adherent. I can see putting a picture of a deceased baby on your lingerie drawer or whatever, just a little reminder of why not to get pregnant no matter the level of whoreishness you’re experiencing, but right on your wall instead of band posters and soft-core porn like a regular high schooler? It’s like, you’re a dude, dude, you can’t even get an abortion, so why put yourself through seeing that every morning when you ultimately wake up, unless you’re me and destined for a lifetime of never getting up almost ever if it matters that you get up? So bonus round, because, those are all for sure worse lives than this one that I have. Wait, right? Can’t be sure because I’m super late and have to go like right this second, no time for thinking. Latez.

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Posted in fallen from grace, I need a life coach, scabby frightened kitten

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