Aches that shouldn't ache

It has been well noted that I have a paranoid/obsessive compulsive personality. That is why I spent a year in therapy. Now that I have finally detached from my analyst, suddenly, I find myself quite lost and confused. A sharp razorblade runs against my eye every day and my disorders bascailly rule my life. How wonderful. Anger after an obvious let-down by a party whose feelings did not reciprocate mine triggered me to consume more than I can take and almost make a huge mistake- not having made it with the second party, and being a quite forgetful drunk, I have been beating myself with a stick of obsession and insanity for the past week. I don't know why I do this. I am glad I didn't sleep with the second party, because, clearly, it wouldn't have been the right time or the right reasonings, yet I still feel guilt. I am seeing a doctor in a couple of days. Misery loves company. Friends think I am crazy, and well, they are probably right. The only thing that keeps me happy right now is my unruptured hymen as a token that I have not completely lost the one thing that many so easily lose.
I don't know where this lack of excitement is coming from, but it is making me sick. I left the big city for the weekend, only to return to the shit town that caused me so much pain and suffering for the past 4-5 years. I am glad to see the parents, but at the same time, I am nervous, depressed and just crazy, and I cannot talk to them about it. They would make a big deal of it, and not just that, but so much pressure is put on me, so many expectations that are floating in air around me, that I just cannot allow myself to disappoint. Maybe if suctioning is ever needed, I'll have to. Then I'll roll around my bed in pain screaming "I hate myself".
I am ridiculous. Things are as clear as night/day. I just am not sure. I doubt myself. I don't know why.
Part of it is the knowledge that I screwed up. I always screw up. I am not seeing Morrissey in Detroit either. Fuck it all. My god. My god. My god.
I haven't written for days, can't bring myself to pick up a book, haven't done anything productive, and during lectures, my mind is a week away putting the pieces together, trying to confirm what I already know and am told.
I am a hypochondriac. Fuck it. I can't deal with it.

Dumbing down for people

I am tired of having to be someone else for the purpose of having someone to go out and grab tea or catch a film with every now and then. It is truly a nuisance....anyway, I will have none of that anymore. I don't care whether people like me or not, but I will not pretend to think and see the world like them. I miss those old days when I could care less. Ugh.

When did I become so interested in becoming a palatable dish for people to enjoy?

Yesterday I went to the movies with a friend. All the way to the theatre men were honking from their cars and yelling out things. Men go wild when they see a lanky long haired blonde thing walking down the street. It's really confusing. And a bit petrifying. I don't know how she deals with it all the time. I get it sometimes, once in a blue moon...but she nearly caused a car pile-up by casually walking down the road.

That normalness annoyed me, because that s something I am not. Fuck it, I am a raging work of art. I am not the dull looking background friend. I'm not neutral. And if they have a problem with it, they can nicely go and fuck off for all I care.

Growing Up Is (Surprisingly) Hard To Do

I remember when I would lie to people about being older. I was 14, and far too advanced than people my age- in some areas of life...in others, I couldn't have been more stagnant, as always. Essentially, this advancement robbed me of being young. Surprisingly, my age was never doubted- at 14 I pulled off 18 perfectly, as long as I was not asked what my day activities included. And now, that I am finally old and have a room waiting for me in the big city, that I washed a heap of laundry and picked out a few artifacts I want to bring along, suddenly, I regret that need I had as a child. In a sense, "fuck it" effectively summarizes it. Are all adults lethargic? I should know...now that I am one. Now that an 8 year old addresses me as "lady". If I am making such a big deal over turning 18...I don't even want to know what turning 20, 30...God forbid 40....

There is a ball of something stuck in my throat, and I am afraid to say, I think it might be fear.

So now that I am moving away...life is about to start. The race begins. Makes me wish I did something more with my preparation time rather than worry about silly things, people, events and aspects of life I could never change. Makes me wish I took life less seriously.

I think I am getting writer's block again. It always happens when I have a heavy stream of emotions pulsing, tingling, ravaging my insides. About two years ago, a friend of mine was getting ready to go to university. She was leaving and I still had two years left. I remember reading her post the night before she left for university, and being conscious that eventually, those same thoughts and feelings will be going through me...strong and real. I am surprised that I didn't have the "that will never happen to me" approach that most young people have. It is almost as though I stayed with that post for the last 2 years....anticipating the same thing occurring in my own life..keeping it at the back of my mind, stashed, secure, alive. And here it is. She spoke of a bride she was crossing, between her childhood and adulthood. Personally, I feel like it is a cliff of a a mountain. I'll find out eventually whether I'll have to climb, or fall into a deep, dark abyss of infomercials, softcore pornos and commercial jingles.

Packing isn't my thing. I've had to do it one too many times. It is an odd feeling, often associated with parting, sadness and not seeing some people for a long time. So I have yet to pack anything. Tomorrow I move in my things....come back home...and leave on the 29th...returning only when I need..to this disgusting hellhole, simply because my parents call it their home.

I can't write anymore. Ugh. Ugh. Ugh....

Looking Siamese

What is there to say? Have we all thrown feminism out the door? I caved in. After I counted my last calorie today and observed the contour of my nose yet again in the refection of the car before I got in...I realized that I have become, and have been, the product of the very thing I am so very much against. When you start wanting breasts for the purpose unknown to yourself (I will never have children, and sex is out of the question, naturally), you should very much recognize you have a problem. Germaine Greer, help me? Actually, I don't need help. I suppose this is a natural phase. I will surely go back to my old ways in a month or so. Sometimes, this pressure just simply catches up with me.

My new theremin is on its way. For the first time in my life, I am quite content with spending 500 dollars on something- I really feel it is worth it. The entire way to Georgian Bay and back, when the occupants of the car were not looking, I practiced my aerial fingering positions and pictured myself in front of it. It will be amazing.

As I said, I went to Georgian Bay with my mom dad and friends Meghan and Brian. It was nice, which is nice. Nice is always nice. Nice, nice, nice. Like the city. The water was crystal clear, and the only thing that frightened me was a water snake that swam right by us and the bogs that we were supposed to use, which I refused to enter. I can't picture a situation where I would be in such desperation to use an outhouse. I mean, it was expected- we were at a beach at a national park, miles away from civilization...there would be no plumbing. But they didn't even make an effort... I didn't cave in. Somehow, nature and I don't get along, however, I respect her, and she has been kind to me so far, and I think we will continue this respectful but distant relationship. Driving back through the country side, I saw so many beautiful cows and their calves frolicking on the pastures. How can people be so cruel to torture and kill them? It brings tears to my eyes even now...the love that the mother has for her little baby, the way she rubs her nose against the top of its head and the comfort you can see in its eyes when it is around its mother. They have emotions just like humans (or as humans are expected to have, however, as time goes on, I am having serious doubts)...which doesn't need to even be pointed out.

I will never eat an animal no matter what. I'm not Ed Gein.

What more is there to say? No word from him yet. I lost faith I think. No, I haven't...which is probably the reason why. Usually, great things happen to me unexpectedly...when I have completely forgotten I wanted them. Which is slightly unfortunate.

Anyway....love and learn...take your turn..
Lee

Dear God, may I never reach Menopause

Today has been nothing but pure hell. Right now, I am sitting in my room, quite willingly, as there is incredible dislike for me radiating from downstairs. Father and I never argue when we are alone. Mother went away for two weeks to take some art courses, and we did not fight once. She has incredible ways of getting him and I to just get furious at each other. Mother, whether she wants to admit it or not, is of the confrontational kind. She stares at people, analyzes every facial gesture to the point of rudeness, and then, determines what she thinks of this person. She does the same with me. I frowned once when my father said "he had no clue where my dudley lock went" when in fact, I saw him quite clearly fiddling with the thing a few weeks back. Upon noticing my grimasse, she jumped to the first oportunity of saying "How can you make that face at your father, it is not his fault..!!!" and of course, I, being naive, fired back "Oh honestly, stop staring at me!!!" and my father said "Don't talk to your mother like that".....

I can't say I dislike my mother, quite contrary...she is my mentor in a sense, and was ever since I was a child, but lately, she has been changing, and I must say, not for the better. Approaching mid 40s, mother has been rollercoasting through emotions, and so many highs and lows in a day...add up for those around her. One moment she will be content, smiling and saying nice thing, next moment she will be storming into my room screaming at the top of my lungs at how I destroyed her 2 dollar paint brushes (which I didn't even destroy). Then after that attack is done, she will retreat to her calm self. It is quite frightening, with this pre-menopausal thing, it is as though all of her traits get exaggerated.

Now I stare out the window (how Jayne Eyre of me...) and look at the grey sky, and think....August 26th...come faster, please!!!!!!!!

Trotsky, I need you.

Lately I have been writing about things that I do not understand, people whom I have never met and characters whose lives I do not understand, but merely make assumptions about, based on my pathetic knowledge from mainstream culture and random thrown together articles that I have read throughout my equally pathetic life. Of course, this is a clear indication that I indeed do find my own surrounding to be too uneventful to ever attempt to record and immortalize. Everyone around me seems indefatigable...and well, if I didn't have to get out of bed, I would not.

I am actually very proud of one fact, and that is that I have finally pulled the plug on the dead-end part-time, soul-sucking, relentless job. I realized that sitting on the reeking bus, with "Heaven Knows I'm Miserable Now" set to "repeat" on my ipod, with unfocused eyes, curled up in a semi-fetal position in the seat was not exactly a fitting recurrent ritual. This vicious cycle was making me mean and apathetic, just like every person around me. The uniform didn't rub nicely against my skin, and the pants were big enough for two people to wear. The movie goers were mostly average drones- this is not simply my opinion, the statistics are all in favor of this notion, and given the demographics of a place like Durham...well...well.... besides, who would bother going to see a futile film such as "Transformers"? I saw these belly-hanging, sweats wearing drones leave the theaters every night, completely fascinated by what some guy jumbled on his supercomputer...no one really caring about the plot, or the message, or any other redeemable quality of a film. I still refuse to see that movie, however, I have seen Oceans 13, and I am ashamed to say- not only did I enjoy it, but I will probably be going to see 14, 15, 16...and as long as they keep them coming, I will keep on guzzling.

Mother and I walked into a sunglass store today. My intent was to try on a pair of Ray Ban Wayfarers....show her how wonderfully they fit my odd looking face, in hopes of her giving father a nudge-nudge wink-wink for what to get me for my birthday, Christmas, any other pointless occasion. But the employee of an official Ray Ban retailer not only did not HAVE the classic, timeless Ray Ban Wayfarers on display, but she did not even KNOW what these "wayfarer" glasses I speak of are. I was going to ask her what she is doing devoting her life to selling sunglasses if she has no clue about such an iconic style..that is like a mechanical engineer having no clue who Tesla is! (come to think of it, my father did tell me a story of when he was baffled by a "reputable" Swedish researcher in the field of electronics who has never heard of Tesla...I suppose career mistakes are made by people all over the world...some in more important positions than others). I even stooped to the level of calling them "the sunglasses Tom Cruise wore in Risky Business"...and I have never used Tom Cruises name in a sentence describing something I want before. But I figured, that's sort of up her alley...third rate actors climbing to huge mainstream, global success..she must have heard of him. But no, she handed me a pair of aviators and said "Oh my god I love Topgun". I looked at my mother, and we both agreed that we had to get out of that store, thereby proceeding to sprint towards the nearest exit.

Before I quit my job and started this luxurious life of loitering, stalling, vegetating...I had to write a "letter of resignation". I laughed at the thought really- I was serving obese people popcorn, having them spit in my face because I spared them butter and postponed their cardiac arrests another 15 minutes, having managers send me home whenever they "didn't need me", mopping up spilled drinks mixed with soggy popcorn bits of the floors, that after having done all of these unglamorous, degrading things, I had to write a fancy "letter of resignation" as though I held an important position at a reputable company....these capitalists feel it is fine to pick and choose when they want to be classy and civilized. So I wrote my first draft....if went something like:

Dear Sir/Madam,

With this letter, I would like to inform you that I am leaving my job
at AMC. I am moving to Toronto in order to study at Ryerson
University, and would like to take the month before I leave to get my
priorities organized, therefore I will not be able to maintain my part
time position in concession. My decision to leave this early is also
due to the fact that I am very disappointed at how the workers are
treated at AMC. I feel that my time was not respected when I would
randomly be sent home early, especially since it would take a
financial strain for me for transportation in order to get to work. In
my opinion, young people who make AMC the great theatre that it is,
are underpaid for the job that they do, yet have high expectations
thrown at them. I understand that these are all marks of being the
lowest life-form in a giant corporate equilibrium, and knowing that I
cannot change these factors, I have decided to quit and move on to a
job more suited for what I feel I deserve. Thank you for allowing me
to get acquainted with the capitalist worth system, working for AMC
taught me what I do, and do not want to do with the rest of my life.

Sincerely,
M. F.


...and that is just the edited, narrowed down first draft. There was a huge chunk where I wrote about Marx and his doctrine and how it could bring their entire establishment if only the shameful workers opened their eyes and realized that together they cannot be beat.......

..and then I realized this is not a battle I want to fight. I've thrown pear before swine my whole life, and decided not to continue to do so. I am unable to comprehend why people are so stubborn to want change, to want better things in life. Nothing confuses me more than when a son of a 50 year old wal-mart cashier and a laid off General Motors worker says that "communism is a fucking dumb idea, socialism...man..that's so gay", when he regurgitates these pathetic McCarthyist views that seemed to have been programed in his simple working-class mind from generation to generation. These are the people that need to fight, and yet, they are winning money of the same people who oppress them. The reason why America is so great is because Americans seem to be content with being exploited, they are told that that is the way of life, that is how things go here and that is it. It is a confusion to me, and I will never understand. That is why I will not fight for these people, they don't want to be saved. Instead they'll drape themselves in Republican, Conservative colours while they are sodomized by big shots who laugh at their fawning devoted, patriotic dedication.

So instead I wrote:

Dear Sir/Madam,

I am very sorry to leave AMC so abruptly. I hope that you will be able to find another replacement soon. Thank you for allowing me to be a part of your establishment.

Sincerely,

M.F.


And that's it. It feels better, As Veronica from the brilliant film Heathers remarked to the horny college student: "You don't deserve my fucking speech!". And now I can go to bed and dig into my Complete Works of Edgar Allan Poe.

You know who is really really sad? That bald guy and his unsuccessful band that plays for David Letterman. I bet he had hopes of making it in the industry, now he is supposed to be background accompanying music to an unfunny, unwitty, rude, carnivore.

The Journey To Morrissey (Unedited)

One would not necessarily understand why Morrissey, the legendary singer and songwriter, disagrees with the notion that he "performs" when he is on stage until one gets to experience the enchantment of his work as it nature intended- front center, ribs pressed against the barricade, the heat of the crowd pulsing from every corner, stench of desperation, stretching to reach and connect- from both the audience and the object of desire alike. Morrissey stands naked in front of the crowd, metaphorically speaking (of course, there is the shirt-ripping, a metaphor within itself, really), vulnerable, honest, simply there as he is. That is not performance, what he does every night of the tour takes courage and strength. One cannot call his events "shows", the word "concert" is too lighthearted to describe it, "event of epiphany" might be going too far- but I think "spiritual sharing" should cover what truly goes on between the creator of the music, and the crowd that stands before him. The reciprocal love and respect, sharing of true emotions between the two is astounding, and most likely a rare occurrence, especially in today's world. To many, the crowd is a faceless mass, to Morrissey, each and every one of us count.

On May 22, Morrissey decided to spend his 48th birthday in St Louis, singing to people who are there to listen. I, like many modern-day pilgrims of the chanteur, traveled from a different country, Canada, in order to see him. As the old proverb goes," if the mountain won't come to Muhammad, Muhammad must go to the mountain", so I ventured off into the wild, wild Mid-west on foot, with my walking umbrella, and a bag containing nothing but a few coins and an old copy of Arthur Rimbaud's Illuminations, to keep me safe on my quest to be entertained and understood (an odd choice, perhaps, but then again, what in life makes sense?). Through my journey, the pain and suffering I neatly tucked away by thinking what the end result of my trip would be like, and that the thirst I was feeling is in fact, creative thirst, rather than anything else physical real and boring. By the time of my arrival, 8am sharp, I crashed on the pavement of the train station, seemingly delirious to the bystanders, but actually never more composed and aware of my true self. And of course I should mention that some notions and details of my journey may or may not have occurred, but the true message and emotional value of this narrated story is unharmed by these miniscule alterations.

St Louis is no place to have fun. It is a place where some are born, others rot, and third ones, positively die. Aside from a couple of places on Earth I've heard of, most other ones follow a similar demographical pattern. Not many move to St Louis willingly, or because it has been their eternal, lifelong wish to live there (unless they want to model their lives after famous movies done by Judy Garland, in which case, may God be with them, however, I have my doubts that such people do not in fact exist)- like an unexpected pregnancy, it just happens. My first night in St Louis I spent sleeping by the river, under a bridge where I met a few other fellow Morrissey pilgrims. The town was swarming with my kind, and even in a random city, in the middle of the bible belt, I, a practicing communist, vocal vegetarian and shameful sodomite (the word itself makes me all warm and fuzzy inside), felt more at home than ever. Maybe because He, with a capital H, was cuddled neatly in freshly ironed linens of an expensive hotel, smelling of frankincense and myrrh, I felt that through him, I was sleeping in same conditions. In reality, after dining on dry instant oatmeal, I wrapped myself in a spread-out cardboard box and rested my head on a solid piece of wood that washed up on the riverbank. I intended to take a bath in the river, in the morning- an event that proved to be near-fatal. After that incident, and clearing things up with the ambulance, police, firefighters (ironically, the latter showed up as well), I proceeded to go to the Pageant, the lavish-sounding concert venue, in what I've been told is the nice part of St Louis. To me it seemed very average- even their Starbucks was really dirty. And Starbucks' are usually relatively clean. Ah, what do I know.

If I had the time to describe every person in line, waiting to see the man, I would probably be a very lucky, or unfortunately screwed over person, depending on my life circumstances and place of habitat. Even though I lack time, I will still not resort to stereotypes. Sure, there was the sad black haired goth kid with fountain pen slices on his arms to prove his love, or moms who used to be cool but are now pathetically dragging themselves through the bumpy roads of menopause in sweats and flip-flops, the old guys who get told they resemble Morrissey (those who make the remark usually omitting "...if Morrissey weighed 70 pounds more and had his face in the microwave for 34 seconds"), the usual "concert goers" who really know nothing but are just there, the lonely 30 so year olds who lost all meaning and purpose in life (I sort of fit into that category, only 10-ish years younger than that)....the rest of the crowd is just filler, and they need not be mentioned such as the quiet guy, the loud girl, the faceless cluster, the fat guy, the fat girl. Just usual, at first sight, is this crowd. Now once inside, things get ugly. Or beautiful. Or ugly. Life is a circle anyway. It is the same thing.

I befriended a quiet Alaskan, feeling we're really in the same mindset. I didn't ask for his name, because names just take up space, and I needed all the memory I could get in order to remember the event that was going to take place 11, 9, 7, 5, 3, 2 hours, 30min from now. We sat through the day, wasting time, as if no time was needed. If there and then we were asked by the Grim Reaper if we would give up the rest of time in order for that one and a half hour in pure heaven with Morrissey, adorned with a green carnation and a glass of absinthe, we would have said "whatever, take it, now that we've waited this long, it would be such a waste not to get to see him!" . And we would have died and it would have been worth it.

It is such a crazy stampede once the doors open. My heart which usually beats slowly and insecurely, gets its annual workout at events such as this. The guard picks up his walkie-talkie, and tells us to line up. Everybody knows what is going to happen. You look around, nobody's your friend anymore, it's a competition. Brother against brother. It's a bloodbath. Realization that your perfect place in heaven depends on not only how fast you run, but whom else you leave behind you forces even the purest of heart to play dirty. "Ok, let them in". It's a blur. Now or never. Gather your assets, show your claws, the race is on. I run, I run, I run, my legs are doing a modern dance more passionate than Isadora Duncan could have ever choreographed. I advance. At the corner of my eye there are people, there are people, people and more people, their faces showing strain and pain and genuine anguish. Will they make it? What do I care. Fend for yourself....

Until you reach the cold steel, catch your breath, look up to meet the watchful eyes of a security guard, who understands no love, or passion, whose currency are not emotion or words or compassion. How can you, who operates on such a different level, ever reason with such a creation? Many have tried, myself included. It is like trying to communicate with someone who speaks a different language. But what if you don't reach the steel barricade? What if you are behind someone who was faster than you? Well, you stand there, wondering how wonderful it must be to be that person. You stand there, and you wait for your chance. Who knows what kind of a sinful beast you may turn into once the lights go down, the smoke rises, and your deepest emotions surface to the top.

The wait inside kills the most. He's there, you're there. We're all ready, come out already. You stand through the opening act- she could be the most wonderful singer in the world, a talent incomparable to any other of her time, an opera star highly acclaimed by the likes of famous Italian composers whose names I do not care to remember.....- but you can't wait for anything other than him. You're unable to. On any other day it would be different but now, you just must concentrate to prepare to absorb the most of him, when he comes. And he will, he must. He will, he must. For you're here, and his name shines above the door. It's a perfect match So it can't be a mistake. Could it be? No it certainly cannot be. You're not that much of a fool.

The lights dim even further, it is either anticipation or deadly acid mingling in your abdomen, unsure of the way your bland body reacts to excitement you hope for the best, expect the worst....the anticipation rises, rises, the music tearing you one note at the time, builds, builds, the crowd is shivering, you pick up the shivers too, tears? it tears? could it be, no it, yes it, oh, there, here, maybe, now, I'm not ready, ok, I am, I think......- crash!!!!! There. He walks on stage and you've completely slipped into "dream" mode. You will wake up the next day and believe it was all a fragment of your vivid imagination, which can both be a curse and a privilege given the situation . It is impossible, the man on the picture beside your bed, he cannot be here, in front of you. And all mental preparation to remember as much as you can is thrown out the door. It is all about the feelings baby, that's all you get to remember.

To try to describe your most cherished memory is hard. I remember the woman behind me, saliva dribbling out of her mouth, diving back to catch a piece of cloth he threw into the crowd, no, I don't dive back for it, I want to absorb as much of him as I can. Read the expressions on his face, feel the sound. It's here, now. You've heard it before, never like this. As she dives back, an opening for myself is before me- the steel barricade. My ribs are neatly placed over it, I am on my toes. Pilates instructors cannot stretch this much. He glances at me. Shrugs his shoulders...there is hell behind me, a whirpool of hyenas tearing up his shirt. No, it can't be. Next second the look is gone, nothing happened. No, it can't be. There is an open wound on the right side of my chest, but it really could be from anything. Even now, I still don't know what side the heart is on...nor do I care.

And so he sings, and he sings, and hours feel like seconds. The end is nearing. I realize that subconsciously, my hand, clutching Illuminations, has been trying to reach him for the entire duration of the night. "Here I am, here I am". Did I look pleased? He kneels, and extends his arm, with a smile. A connection. He has it. Eyes connect, it burns. Imprinted on my memory, somewhere, very vividly, but I will have to figure out the access code later. He stands up. He mouths words to you. You can't believe it. You stand there and it is over. And you can't believe it. Then you get the encore after the show. Even closer. Even more personal. We said nothing to each other, but, as those cheesy novelesque expressions go- we spoke through our eyes. I am sure that those 4 seconds in some distant cosmos are worth a lifetime, that we were transported there for that duration, and exchanged something profound, because I haven't felt the same since then. Food has no taste, people all look the same, I can't fall in love (but what else is new?), nothing equals that moment. For me, of course. He is a whore, he shook so many other hands the next night. I have yet to wash mine.

I lie. I tried. I failed. It is now clean.

New Pleasure

I've had a really really bad bad bad day. Or was it??? I feel like I am constantly being watched. Meh I says, meh.
That's it for today. Nothing insightful to say.

I never Learn

It is so late and I am not in bed
Well I am
But I am not asleep
Write me already

Life Adjustments and High Expectations

So here I am, wearing shorts, sitting on the sofa after what was supposed to be "cooling off" from the one hour run that I did..but turned into beach whaleing for the rest of the evening, staring at this screen, typing these words, resisting the temptation of eating buttery, salty popcorn which mother made in order to soothe her soul, as the whiny, but tolerable voice of Jerry Seinfeld nags at me from the television screen. This is life.
I wore my "liturgy in a bottle" perfume today, and I must say that it is one of the more pleasant aspects of my day. I am quite disappointed with most people in my proximity, but the truth is, I don't bother much with it seeing how school will be over in less than a week. It is quite unreal to think that I will be leaving all of these disgusting people behind in the filth that is their own creation. I just hope I survive to move on to better things...I've always been afraid of being the kid who gets killed two days before the summer starts....it's always so pathetic and it happens all the time. I'll stay on people's good side, maybe that will save me.
I have also been afraid of being defaced by one of the angry neighborhood dogs, seeing how I've really started to admire my face recently.
I have a feeling that he will contact me within next few weeks. It is a nice feeling to say the least. And least I will say. What difference will it make? Will anything change? It's not like he will care to write me or actually have a long lasting contact with me. I mean, who am I? So wait, wait is the best thing. Wait and work.
Should I change my name to Odile Cocteau? I would, but considering how poor my French is, it would just be comical.
Ah well, ah well.
Mother asked me to assist the Serbian club in organizing a "BBQ" party...aka Barbaric Flesh Feast Serbian style....I consider eating dead animals disgusting, so serving them to people would be equally immoral. And I really cannot, and will not stand around where I can smell the cooking flesh. Disgusting. In Serbian culture, one is considered deranged if they are a vegetarian. I don't care much for that. I am no longer Serbian. I am very much against a lot of things that that culture stands for...so I can't label myself with it any longer.
Gross. I just had a thought about eating "meat". Thank God I no longer remember the taste. It's vile.
Hopefully my transition to full vegan will be made possible once I get to university. I really don't want to eat any dairy products or anything like that. Gross. Yuck. Yuck.

I need to, have to, go to Los Angeles as soon as possible.

Trying to channel my raaaage

I truly very much wonder when it is that it will all fall into place. I must admit that upon seeing that picture, I was taken aback. I won't post the picture, or clarify what it is that I saw...but it made all of their comments valid...at least for a split second. I won't give up.

My headphones broke today...just stopped working. It truly is a drag, how I have to listen to all of these people yak on and on about things that have no importance whatsoever. I hate the soundtrack of others affecting my life.

Yesterday I wrote a song about the French Riviera. I am very happy about it, however, I can't help but feel like I am not being entirely sincere- I've never been there, and well, why am I assuming it is great? Although...I don't know. I really don't know. My lyrics have been really crappy these days, but mother, who was a teenage poet like I, tells me that it is a passing phase...that I will despise my work right now, and look back on it and think "that was not nearly as bad as I thought it was". Hopefully, I won't have to wait 20 years for that epiphany. I took a walk with my parents yesterday, and felt like an adult. We're just like the Cleavers. Three eccentric weirdos that make up one awkwardly functional family. My mother is a potter/sculptor, so she is absolutely absorbed in clay and artistic things. Of course, being an artist, one struggles with finances...so right now, turning 40 and still not achieving exactly what she wants from her career, she gets a bit moody and defensive...but...I suppose that is the natural flow of things. My father still works this 9-5 job, which essentially feeds our family, while reading self help books on "How to Get Rich- FAST!" and never taking the advice that they give him....which makes sense because it is so expected that none of those bestsellers will make any of the readers rich other than the author herself.

And I, who am I? I am the person who can't even become an Au Pair! What a drag! I have given up on going to Europe this summer...
Maybe next time I will carry a "TAKE ME WITH YOU" sign...seems like my last option really...for the time being.

Confined But Hopeful

Today I received some words of encouragment from Richard Hell. It was wonderful. He is such a profound person. Of course, he did not answer any of my questions, but then again, he had the decency of at least telling me that the future, will be brighter and better. Probably a template for all of those kids who write him and are believed to, perhaps be suicidal. I have never been suicidal...I thought about suicide many times but I know for a fact I could never do it. I'm too tender, and too much of a coward.

I am going for a walk. Maybe that will clear my head. Maybe...

Syliva Plath - interesting poetess whose tragic suicide was misinterpreted as romantic by the college girl mentality

To tell you the truth, I am starting to dislike her immensely. I used to really enjoy her poetry, but now I find it to be rather repetitive and forced.
That's all I have for today.

Steppin' out with my baby

I got laid off today. Surprisingly, I did not care much. Instead I took the free evening as an invitation to rant to Richard Hell, asking him all sorts of existential questions. Let's see what he writes back. Basically, I asked him how he feels about the anthem which he wrote 30 years ago, and the fact that it still applies for today's generation...and whether he still has any faith in songs being able to change the world. What a cheesy question, I know. I had a few other ones as well, but for some reason I can't think of them right now.

I finally got around to watching Godard's Tout Va Bien, and I must say it is nothing short of brilliant. One aspect that I really hated about it was the fact that the factory in question was a slaughterhouse. But not focusing on the type of work that the workers did, the film poses and exposes truths. The long take at the supermarket at the end left me inspired and touched. I suppose that is what a film is supposed to do...Godard had a really interesting quote in the video added to the DVD's special/bonus/ect that goes something like "the exploiter does not tell people whom he exploits HOW he exploits them" stating that as the main problem. And I agree...most people who are exploited have no clue that they actually are...

Fred Astaire is ringing through my ears...what a talent, what a life. Almost makes me want to be a dancer. I sing. But I can't dance. At all. It is really disappointing...I wanted to take a dancing class once, but I didn't have a partner. For some reason men of today do not believe that dancing is something to do when you're a man. I suppose it's for the best- I am not looking to become a part of the whole dance craze that seems to be taking over the world of television.

That's all for today. Actually, I was trying to calculate how rich I'd have to be in order to afford a nice sea-side Italian villa. My calculations have led me to believe- pretty "fricken'" rich. Maybe I'll sell out for a couple of my films, and then go back to my roots. Isn't that how they all do it?

The picture above is of Montenegro...not Italy.

With all the carnivores...

People want their freedoms and don't want to be pushed in any direction that is not their own.



Right. How much of this is actually true? The above statement should be completely endorsed when it comes to human beings, but when it comes to animals, they just don't cut it.

Carnivores fighting for their rights is like right wingers trying to prove how capitalism actually works. Sure, it works, but define "works"! "Works" can mean it benefits all, and "works" can mean, barely functioning to keep one class floating above the rest. How selfish of one to ask to "not be pushed around because of their views" "not be called barbaric", "to have their views respected just as they respect mine". All of these things that carnivores demand are exactly what they are depriving animals. It is not enough that their direct consumption of flesh costs millions of animals their rights and freedoms, but now those of us who have been illuminated should keep our "hurtful" comments to ourselves. I don't know if hypocritical is the right word, but I can't think of another one right now.

Anyway, I am really happy that I am in the low percentile that has gained enough strenght to go against what I have been brought up on. All of the "going vegetarian" attempts that I have made since the tender age of 8 could easily add up to 4 years. I kept being dragged back in, my Serbian heritage and culture smearing my morals. Anyone with a clean heart and an open mind can realize how immoral it is to kill and eat animals. There just is no grey area within this argument. People who are trying to argue the opposing side are just people who are attempting to soothe their own guilt and realization that they are disgusting, vile and unable to change.

I won't respect your views if your views directly inflict pain on another being.
Your tradition is not my tradition if it hurts, and any tradition that does involve pain of another being should be completely abolished.
Culture is no excuse, there's always ways to change.
There's no such thing as an omnivore. If you actually need a word to make yourself feel better about eating flesh, then it's apparent you know it's wrong.
Those who eat animals are egoists, and nothing but. There is no compassion in murder.

Those are the things I believe in right now. I assembled that short list to keep myself reminded.
Once again, I do think I am absolutely brilliant. They know it, I know it, so what is the deal then, Thomas?

I am in, I am in, I am out

Pulsing throughout my body, there is a strange, strange sensation. I ignore it of course, and go on with my daily happe-n-ings. The Wise Wound indeed. There's not very much time left, there never is. I have never been this disorganized in my life. Throwing this everywhere, forgetting to dust...nothing seems to need to have a place, perhaps because I feel like I am soon to be misplaced myself. Will money make up for it? Will it be worth it? I can only hope.

During the course of a dreary, boring English lecture, like they all almost are (I blame the curriculum, and the environment), I overheard people's chats, and realized yet again that I am quite sane. Large amounts of liquor make people do quite peculiar, if not idiotic, things. I have heard of a girl who defaced her entire mid-section by getting a large tattoo across it. Always a smart idea, to get a non-representational tattoo during prom weekend. I need to put that on my "to do" list. I also heard of people having intercourse in the oddest places. I don't see the fascination with genitalia rubbing, like I previously mentioned. It appears to be vile and disgusting and primitive, but I suppose when one gets the nature's "call" they must act upon it, no matter how grotesque the act itself may seem. So I will wait...

Isadora, Isadora. I want a portrait like that.

P.G.Wodehouse and Tea

I went to the library, made a poor Korean intern go down to what they call "stacks", basically a dust covered graveyard for books that none of the local hicks are interested in reading (of course, anything that isn't about towing, manure and homemade abortions is incredibly irrelevant to them) and told her to bring me all the Wodehouse books that they have. In a couple of long minutes, I was standing in front of what looked like heaven. They have a really nice collection of what I believe are old originals! My Man Jeeves, A Damsel in Distress, The Inimitable Jeeves.....etc etc...I took a different pick this time...always rotating my choices, as well as a Jean Luc Godard film with Jane Fonda and Yves Montand (I picked it mostly because of the latter!) Tout Va Bien.

Today in the car, riding in the backseat going home while my father was voicing out all the injustices faced by the engeneers of the auto industry, I dreamt a very shallow dream. I thought, for a change, why not dream inferior dreams...so I dreamt of having in my posession a big Dr Pepper Slushee machine. What an orally driven dream! I could see myself, just like in those 1950s television ads, walking up to the machine, staring at myself as though I am a viewer, and pouring myself a big...bigg...biiiiiiiigggg cup of the good stuff from the inside. Then just as I was about to have a drink, I could think no more. I can't remember the time (last month) when I thought Dr Pepper is absolutely repugnant...those times have passed and well...look at me now, mom!

Due to my pertinacious cold, I have not been able to smell anything. I have been overapplying perfume (personally, I don't believe there is such thing as overapplying, if it's the right type of perfume...), getting toothpaste on me and not noticing, entering a classroom after a hot, sweaty group of grade 9ers had just left (a lethal stink on a regular day)...and well, generally, it's not good.

That is all for today, and probably for tomorrow. We shall see.

Truly

Wilhelm Reich

Friday, Saturday, Sunday, Feeling like one big long day

The weather outside is incredibly dull and uneventful. I spent my weekend sneezing, coughing and shaking from fever...amongst other extremely attractive things. It feels as though time flies by in an insanely unrealistic fashion, but I suppose that comes with age. When I was younger, an hour would feel like an eternity. But youth itself wasn't much of a reward.

My cat has been following me around everywhere, currently lounging infront of my computer, occasionally obstructing my view. At times I feel like he is the only person who can understand me, in a profound way that no one else dares to. Maybe it is the reluctance on his part to engage in conversations, that passive stare, that gives me the thumbs up to extract all of these feelings. He understands nothing, and that's fine.

August 28th seems ridiculously far away, but as we all know, if all goes well, it will surely come.

I should organize my room...but I feel too broken to do anything. Viruses are not fun at all. Jesus.

That's all for today. I know, nothing much to say.

Well, I knew that you would like me...

..if only you could see me..

I'd like to be able to say that it was unreal...but it wasn't..it was very real and I am actually glad to be able to say so. I expected it and I predicted it and I was just hoping it would happen some day, it just happened to be his birthday, and I just happened to look brilliant.

I find it difficult to write about what happened. I am sure that if he ever happened to read this he would have no idea of the magnitude of his actions, and how touched I was.

However, once I am back in this hole, in a different time zone, with a different set of expectations and no chance of crossing paths with him unless I get up and follow and know...

It is really stupid. Or not it, but I am. I feel silly. I feel like I've opened that department inside of me that is waiting to receive some kind of...what's that thing called...love?...but as we all know I've really badly deceived myself to open it for such a brief encounter...and it's not a surprise that it hurt now, and it is not a surprise that I keep my eye open for him around the corner, and it is no surprise I am like a soap opera character without a plot....

I will probably end up spending more than enough money on therapy again. I don't know how suitable psychoanalysis is for me...it is just like talking to myself, only I have to pay. And I don't know how honest I've been about my problems, which makes the whole cause even less effective.

I am Virginia Oldoini...Comtesse de Castiglione...what a horrible way to die; toothless, obese and bald. What a shock...what a shock

Excitement could kill my dull flesh

I should not be exposed to more than small amounts of excitement each time.

Every person in this world has some sort of an advantage, a trick they can use to get privileges that other people normally don't. Some people are good at getting free "stuff", others can avoid getting punished for criminally inclined acts- I fall into neither of these categories. However, I do fall into the "get the best out of a concert for the least amount of money" category. Whether it is getting in for free, moving to front row despite having paid for the nosebleeds, meeting the band, getting an autograph...I can do it all. But I can safely say that I have outdone myself now. Or at least, the preparations for my success at the upcoming Morrissey concert have extended beyond belief. I don't think I have ever prepared this much for a concert. It shall be grand.

That's all for now.
Let's see what I write in about 3 days time.


Life, so unpredictable.

My new collage...

Earl Grey

I am extremely nervous, to a point that I really have very little to say. Unfortunately, my writer's block has yet to leave me. It lingers, it lingers. I am not good with these drastic changes, all that I knew will be gone, and I tend to write about what I know...and I know nothing right now.

Perhaps I'll make myself into something...maybe one tenth of Luisa Casati. But in these bland clothes, with a clean face and conscience, I won't get too far.

Sometimes it is good to rejoice, unfortunately, others always find it as bragging. The older I get (I'll be 18 in a couple of months...) the more I start believing in karma. One cannot get anrgy because another person is doing better (especially when that person is me). Just remember, you were the queen of subculture, the social butterfly invited to all gatherings for four years in a row. And now, your glory is over, I move on, you stay in this filth, you chose it. Everybody gets what they want. I, unlike you, don't need instant gratification...and from what I have been told...good things happen to those who wait.

Or not.

Time to retire, perhaps?

My recent hobby is a rather vile one, and I will be the first to openly admit it- I have been reading gossip columns/blogs/whatever those things are called. It is like a sick addiction, and I don't know how to stop. Ever since I visited Los Angeles, it seems as though I am hungry, starving to even catch a glimpse of people in the surrounding of the city that evoked rather curious feelings inside of me. I don't think I really care much for those people, their lives, their pathetic attempts at being famous for a week, I just love the setting of these photos. I look at the sun and the trees and it is almost like the feeling that I had while I was in Los Angeles is reborn inside of me. Of course, it was a rather short trip, and I am sure that I would go absolutely crazy and most certainly dislike everything and everybody in Los Angeles, finding myself like a prisoner...because being in captivity, even a "perfect" one, as you may guess, is not....fun.

What happened to my writing? It seems as though everything has gone downhill in my creativity department. I use simple, predictable words...and if this computer was not blessed with a little function called "spell check" I would seem almost illiterate, I assume. Maybe just for the time being, perhaps it shall all get...better.

During art class, I went through a pile of old magazines...some were rather boring (American Science, and as deep and up-to-challenge as I may pretend to be, I will be honest and come right out and say- no I am not intrigued by these gadgets and scientific ideas...I like shiny, purposeless things, and emotional weight...) but then I came across a 1969 Seventeen magazine. Since I was looking to get into feminist collages (heavily influenced by Linder Sterling as always) this magazine fit perfectly. It gave me lots of material, while it also shocked me at how the society has not changed one single bit. My uneducated assumptions that 40 years ago, a person like myself might have had more room to breathe were completely wrong. The only thing a girl was geared towards was a finishing school, to either become a secretary, a nurse, and of course, a mother.

Maybe I will post my collages. Some people said that they looked rather disturbing- just the way I intended them to be.

And there goes another piece of my writing that really...does not sound great or good....but who reads this thing anyway...of course, my greatest client,-me.

Yours truly
Tennessee Williams

The Lee Millers

I have been thinking about a good name for my future band, and The Lee Millers sounds pretentious enough for me. I was going for something with "Cocteau" in it but then I realized that, well, I remembered, Cocteau Twins, and I don't think that Liz Fraser would be too happy about that. And I wouldn't be either.

I am nursing a nice headache right now. It is a drag. I wish I had more to say. Maybe if you scroll down, there's more to read. Yeah. There. Wowsa.

Not exciting enough?

What do you have against walls?

A great future is ahead of me, unfathomable by most. I got accepted to Ryerson University, Film Directing/Screenwriting. They say it is pretty special/difficult to get into the program, I don't know why they'd want me. Anyway, I hope this is not the only achievement I make in life, and knowing that next year I will be studying in downtown Toronto, having an intership with a good production company (I heard rumours about Columbia and Universal...but I am not getting my hopes up too hight)..eventually going off to Paris or London to study (probably Paris...London is too much like here...I am tired of Anglosaxons anyway)...it's all a comforting feeling, with a pinch of bitter realization that I am not a child anymore. And I feel like one, very much, still.

My head is throbbing and I feel very faint. I miss mother. She's been away since Sunday....and I can't wait for her to come home. It's much nicer when she's here. We talk about a lot of great things and I really like spending time with her. Dad I don't see too much because of his work, but when I do, it's nice to talk to him as well. Sometimes, I like my parents individually much better than when they team up...only for short periods of time. It's nice to have a family.

So cheers to yet another film directing hopeful. First we take on Cannes film festival, after that, the world.

Cause honestly honey, they just cost money...

Meghan and I have been planning the St Louis trip yesterday while stuffing our faces with chunks of English toffee and chocolate. It was a rather pleasurable evening. So far, we have some things figured out, and others are still being planned. Constantly reminded of our class, we are flying lowest fair possible (but if the plane crashes, everyone dies anyway..regardless of their class..although I am speculating one group goes to heaven, and other to hell) staying at the cheapest hotel possible...going to the grossest city possible. All for one man. We're insane, they all say. And we laugh in their face. So far, we have a nice sign planned out. "Unhappy Birthday in Misery". Hopefully he'll get it, and hopefully we won't get beaten up for being witty.

I am listening to the Beatles again, I don't understand why I was so fascinated with them 4 years ago. They are so plain to me now and evoke that long lost feeling called "hope", something I was taught to get rid of....

I know you, you know me....

Klaus Nomi, however, is pure revolution.

So is Kitty Kallen.

I am surprised I don't have more to say.

Pull the plug, for the love of a deity

These past few weeks have been dreadful ones- I truly hope it does not get any worse, but seeing how I work on Sunday, my gut tells me- perhaps, maybe, it will. Mother is off to her art school...father and I are left to fend for ourselves for the rest of the long week. I made vegetarian sushi which we diligently decided to eat all week...the house is starting to acquire a musty essence, and the cats appear to be rather malnourished. In short, I really miss mother, and I hope she will not leave us for a handsome art fag, just past the threshold of the 50s, with sophisticated grey streaks in his hair and a reminiscence of what the world looked like when he was considered to be a young chap. If that happens, both father and I are in deep, deep trouble.

I got rejected from one university the other day- it may come as a surprise, but I was not particularly depressed about it. York University representative told me the reason why I was not chosen was because for my interview, although I showed a lot of enthusiasm, was because I did not manage to show my filmmaking ability. To this remark I laughed out loud, asking what kind of a moronic numskull can expect of a highschool student to exhibit proficient filmmaking skills...especially when the program one is trying to get into is the "filmmaking basics". Was I supposed to show them my poorly recorded, digital camera films of me yelling at Alice Cooper "My God Alice, that's an ugly shirt!!!!" when he last visited this disgusting little town I live in, and not only disgraced himself by this appearance, but boldly decided to try to fit in by parading around in a purple plaid shirt.. it was disgusting. Shock rock ended for me that very day. I never really wanted to go to York- it is in the middle of nowhere, with a degree that prepares one for a life of non-lucrative pretentiousness.

Average, at best- apparently, that is what I am. Some people think that they have a God given right to fire judgments and random negative observations at me, but they are mistaken by my placid exterior..I fire back three times worse, and when I do, I hit bellow the belt. Yeah. How you like them apples? I was recently told that "people don't know who you really are", when I talked about my private personality. I was informed that people can't decode me, or know what I really think, act, and who I am behind closed doors. That made me really happy with myself, I landed a huge pat on my back and decided to keep up the good work. I think ones life comes to a screeching halt when people start figuring them out, and knowing who they really are.

I have yet to receive an e-mail from Linder Sterling. Quite disappointing. I wonder if she will ever write me, just a sentence, because if I could have her address, I would send her all of these wonderful things that make me one of her biggest admirers...and we'd make imaginary feminist babies, talk about life and our disgust for the society as a whole. Oh Linder, why won't you write me?

The yearbook class is making everybody write a message for our peers which will be published as a "goodbye" sort of thing. I had a couple of drafts. It is due tomorrow. I think I will settle for a "bye"..but these are some of the drafts I have been working on:

Unfortunately I have no last words of wisdom. Just pull the plug and get it over with. I'll spare you my honesty and instead say "I will miss all of you dearly". Seems like an appropriate ending. Ladida. Yours truly, Sir Quentin Crisp. P.S. Every time I said I was sorry....I didn't really mean it.

I also had something like this in mind, although they are screening these for content:

See you in hell. Yours truly.

And another witty one:

I did have a witty quote to write here, but seeing how this is the end, I
can now stop throwing my pearl before swine.

And just a mean one:

Best wishes to all of my friends and foes, and whenever you're down about
your future career, just remember that you don't have the most degrading job in
the universe- teaching.

As you can tell, I have nothing positive to say. So...I don't know if I will say anything at all. I think a nice "bye" would be well suited, have me remembered as a plain Jane....hopefully I will be remembered for more in a tactile, visible, non-fading way...other than a lame graduation yearbook entry.

Maybe not.

Annoyance and Suffering, Jeeves and Wooster

I watched the entire Season Two of Jeeves and Wooster. How I love that show. I think I might have a slight crush of Stephen Fry...but alas...must it always be this way for me!?!?!

I really have very little left to say- or do I?

There is lots of negative energy in the house at the moment, however, it has lingered for quite some time. Everybody seems to be ticked off for whatever reason, ready to bite and argue, our auras are oozing anger and bitterness...at first I thought it was my fault (you know children, they always blame themselves...) but then I realized that it is not my fault, and that, after I tried to get to the root of of the problem and failed due to lack of cooperation, I decided to really not care. My mother is going away for two weeks to complete some course, taking our only car. I will have to walk everywhere...which isn't that bad I suppose. Father has been too busy trying to tie me to the house and the family...the realization that I have only 5 months or less left to live here and be under 24/7 watchful eye of my caring parental unit has left all feeling scared for their designated roles that have been cosily fulfilled for the past 17 and a half years. Unfortunately, the times they are a-changin'...

I sit often while The Jam's "That's Entertainment" plays, with my head leaning on my hand...thinking about how I could just pack a nice little bag of clothes and memories, get a one way ticket to somewhere better, maybe Los Angeles, go out there and finally face the world- take the first step to getting what I want. Ironic that I dream of this as I listen to that song...I really don't know why. It used to be Frankie's version of "New York, New York" but for some reason, I just want to go somewhere warm...somewhere less hostile (I don't know why I want to go to Los Angeles then....I am obviously very lost). But I have been too moulded into a person who fears any "irrational", spur of the moment decision...everything has to have a plan...when I know very well that life does not have a plan and that nothing happens for a reason. And sometimes, one must make an irreversible decision to achieve more than those who follow the stream. We shall see. Maybe next year. People who put things off...well...I won't say anything.

I want to go to St.Louis to see the Mr. on his birthday- my friend might be coming with me..either way I just want to go. Midwest though...Misery...(I know the right spelling). My parents are having a "huge freakout" about this. Although they won't admit it, they can't stand the idea of me leaving..they've always been very good at putting on an attitude of "liberal" parents who understand that their child will one day leave, go, come back at Christmas and call them with much dislike of the idea, just like they treat their parents. Last time I was growing independent they blamed it on drugs. Half of the time, I wasn't even doing drugs- I just wasn't at home. The moment I became a nun, everything went well. The moment I locked myself in my room and rarely left (can't complain about this notion however) they went "whew, she's ours now" and everything was back to normal. Now I am off to university, not very interested in learning anything...and this proclamation of independence cannot be removed.

Having said this- I will never be a parent. Girls who plan their children's names, boys who decide what games they will play their kids and what sports teams they will cheer for, make me sick. I never was one of those girls. Sex itself is a dirty act, from a non religious perspective. What is the big deal with exchanging bodily fluids and rubbing your body together? And in the words of a 7 year old- "ewwwwwww!". Not just that, but pregnant ladies are absolutely disgusting. They look like dung beetles.

Jayne Mansfield and Other Contemplations

People are talking about the coming of summer as if it's a threat. Melting off negligent fat, remembering all of the painful diets, beating themselves over food's domination in their lives. My god, we have all gone insane.

Today was rather nice. Rather, rather, nice...actually, what am I saying? I was grumpy, tired, sore from painkillers that wore off, not in a good mood (but then again, I can never be in a good-enough mood compared to people hopped up on Prozac with unnatural takes on life)..I went to school, literary sat for 6 hours...absorbed no knowledge whatsoever, walked home, contemplating life and taking Hamlet too seriously. I never did before. Somehow...to be or not to be...makes a little bit more sense now. I realized that I need to become much smarter than I am, and yet again, I am left without an answer on how to do it.

I thought about my vanity- for others, not for myself. And then I thought what would happen if suddenly, an angry rottweiler appeared out of nowhere, devoured my face, left me scarred for life. What would I have to offer then? I really don't want to know. Thank you, but no. I am too vain, Woody Allen type of vain...I am not perfect, but everybody I could possibly, hypothetically ever be involved with must be "perfect". Meh. Meh. Meh. As long as I have a choice..

Here's my nightmare:

I have actually concluded that Jayne Mansfield frightens me...a lot. How many decades did she set back women. Look pretty for your husband, keep your vaginal tract neat- the rest will come naturally. What type of mentality is that? I am tired of being presented these fabrications of femininity as the aim of what I want to aspire to. The story is old...it seems that every day they advance further, and further, and further. I am being accused of not being a feminist just because I dislike women who willingly make themselves into marketable pieces of flesh. No chauvinistic man can tell you how to be, at least not today, and if you sink low enough that some low-life person dictates what you should do with your life, how you should be- then it's your own fault. At least in the Western culture, one of the few positives I can think of, is that women have the choice of saying "fuck you buddy!" and doing their own thing. I know this is arguable, but that's my experience so far. So what if you don't get whistled at by construction workers, so what if they make fun of your frizzy hair and books? If you truly don't care, and that is how you think you should be...give them the middle finger and move on. It's your own fault if you fail and mold yourself around what they want you to be like....

I was disgusted by a guy (I was going to say man, but that's not what he is) who looks like he could be about 11 (he is actually my age, 17-18) in my art class described how his prom weekend is going to be like: "I'm gonna be surrounded by all these hot bitches...and they'll all like take off their tops...-". I nearly burst out of my seat, smacked him in the face and told him not to speak until his genitals fully develop, which they never will. Then I thought of all of those poor girls who will present their bodies like a smorgasbord for this low self esteemer, who'll put their own integrity on the line.....

Done.

I will not wear a Fred Perry shirt...

Person of the day iiiiisss- Elia Kazan! How patronizing, I am sorry. I just want to be him badly. Anyhow, I really have nothing on Kazan to report other than the fact that unless you understand he is breathtakingly amazing and dead...well...yeah, then you still don't understand very much. Or something? Anything? I don't know where I was going with this...

I had a very nice talk with my mother regarding success versus fame- it was all triggered by an essay by Tennessee Williams that I came across. It really made me wonder if the two go together. Apparently, they do not. But then again, there are so many types of fame, and so many types of success. I'd much rather be successful at what I do and content with that fact, that be famous. I think I have been mistaking success with fame for way too long.

I just want to say that really did have a quite unique dream last night. It wasn't very pleasant, no...unique isn't always pleasant. I, through my dream, re-experienced a short-lived, suffocating, liaison that I had about a year and a half ago. Luckily, I cut the umbilical cord on that one before it was too late and all of my "self" had been completely trampled and sucked out me (now I fully embrace solitude, in all of its soothing tranquility). But in that dream, I was still in that non-reciprocal relation...I felt as though I could not breathe...and when I woke up..I was rather shaken. Talk about fear of "relationships"...my God...

This has all been triggered by a talk with a friend about how I should perhaps, maybe, stop being so reclusive, and maybe get a relationship...have a relationship. The problem is..actually...there are a couple of problems with that. Mainly, I am not just looking for just anyone. And that is what is mainly being offered. A bunch of random anybodies. As well as being terribly picky, I am also extraordinarily vain.

Not just that, but I generally prefer older men when it comes to having any sort of "relationship" (and I quote the word relationships because I really very much dislike the sound of it). My parents would not be too happy about that- not at all. I am hoping that next year, I might be extraordinarily moved by a poet, an artist, a man with experience and metaphysical powers that only come with age. But age really has nothing to do with it....people limit themselves with age, gender, race etc...no, not me. I am just looking for someone equally out of their mind as I. Actually, I am not looking...when you look for something, you can never find it.

Never keep up with the Joneses..drag them down to your level

I seem to have a rather tough time coming up with these titles. There is too much emphasis on the title...I bought into that however, and have no one but myself to blame.

Feeling rather deprived and somewhat sore, I chugged down about 600 calories worth of 7-11's Slurpee over the course of this weekend. My God. And then I marveled at the beauty that is "collector's" cup, right now they have Spiderman...and he moves when you move the cup. People who believe I am above Earthly amusements are in complete oblivion. One look at me standing in amazement in front of a stack of Spiderman collector's cups at the 7-11 would have sent them running off to find another messiah, another prophet..another me. As long as that security tape stays where it should, we should be a-ok. In fact, if they rewound that tape to about...2 years ago now, they would find a very different looking me, stumbling to that same Slurpee machine, experiencing both heaven and hell on a very nice, artistic psychedelic drug. However, those days are long gone, I am now a clean little whistle, and all I have are random flashbacks to hold on to...

My obsession with Quentin Crisp is a serious one. I might buy a signed copy of The Naked Civil Servant...on Ebay. However, the seller wants me to pay $20 for the book, and another $20 for shipping and "handling" (I never really understood how much "handling" is required for a package to be sent from one place to another...). It is not like $40 is too much...not for Quentin...but I really hate the feeling of paying an equal amount of money for both the book and the shipping. It feels weird. Maybe I am weird. Ugh, weird is such a silly word.

Instead of going to "school" tomorrow, I have decided to do something a little bit more productive (anything is more productive that going to an institution that resembles an insane asylum..), which is, take day off, lounge in the backyard, read some mandatory Tennessee Williams, sip on some Earl Grey...and learn Italian. Maybe I should learn French completely first...finish what I have started.

Speaking of Earl Grey... these past few days have been difficult. Due to the stitching of the empty space where my wisdom tooth sat, I have not been allowed to drink any tea. I think I took my addiction to tea and transformed into a Slurpee addiction- not very wise, seeing how tea only stains your teeth, but Slurpees equal hours worth of exercise. Can I make it? I hope so.

Are all Dentists Sadists?

You'd have to have an ounce of joy in finding other people's suffering... at least slightly pleasurable...otherwise there is no point in doing the job that you do, right? I wonder if that applies to dentists. Having said that, I had one of my wisdom teeth removed today- and I feel only slightly less, well...wise.





Currently, I am hopped up on some sort of painkillers...and have guzzled down almosta litre of Seven Eleven's Slushee- my best friend and long time companion in times like these. While watching 1964 Goldfinger (I have a sick obsession with Bond films, and although I watch them too much and too often, I always find myself hating the plot, unable to suspend my disbelief etc...it's peculiar why I even bother with these films...) I decided that I must do some important things in order to perhaps, be able to fit into the high society some day, and beat them at their own game. I am tired of the classic communist syndrome, I must be proactive. Here's a brief list:

• Learn to play golf.


• Learn to play tennist.


• Learn to ride (horses).


• Learn to operate guns (ok, this knowledge is pretty much universal...in the 21st century, however, I believe this desire was subconsicously inspired by the Bond film playing in the background...and Pussy Galore screaming "more, more, more!!!").


• Perfect my French.


• Buy/Sell stocks and shares.


• Learn about different types of wines (time to move on from teas).


• Learn proper etiquette.


• Learn to fly an aircraft (I should probably put this one off until I can manage to get my driver's license, and take a left hand turn without having my car totaled).

Seems like I have a plan for the summer. That makes me feel moderately well. Knowledge is key. It would be nice to know a lot of things. I don't have enough money for it, but, I suppose, knowledge cannot always be bought. Well, it can't be bought...but an opportunity for acquiring can be available if one has a certain amout of mula just sitting around.

If Morrissey could do it, so can I. My times as a stereotypical proletariat are over. Maaaaark my worddddd

Ice tea, without ice, please.

Why is that mostly overweight people get Diet Coke? How ironic is that? But what is even funnier is something that happened a couple of days ago. Here is my recollection of it, and if you could read the title, well, it slightly gave it away...but stick around for moderately amusing commentary:

Some man (I am guessing he was a man, but you never know these days..) came in and asked for "An Ice tea with no ice", so I, having a false assumption that most people have a sense of humor or at least can detect a witty remark, said "So you mean, you'll have tea, right?" and he looked at me and said "No..I want ice tea. Without ice". And I said "How ironic, sir, don't you think? Ice tea, without ice." He didn't seem too happy, kind of looked around and said "I want my ice tea"...so I walked over to the pop machine, gave him a nice big gob of snot, charged him $10 and felt sorry for him...no I didn't. I chuckled to myself, gave him his "ice tea with no ice" and watched him wobble to his auditorium, going to see "300" alone, probably jacking off in the back row to all the hot Spartans and their perfectly chiseled bodies. Nothing wrong with that, I'd contemplate doing the same if I were a middle-aged, balding, overweight, grumpy, sedate man suppressing his true sexuality...stooping to the level of ordering "Ice Tea Without Ice" and making a big deal of it.

There. That's my recollection. It happened. Don't you believe?

Things to do in Denver when you're half-deceased

What better way to start a daily update than to say "Everything is a mess, nothing is right, kill me, kill me, kill me...please don't miss the jugular...it's right here...". But of course, to say that...well...to say that I'd have to be in a rather big rut. I will not say I am lethargic; no, I am more on the livid side of the spectrum. Yes, I have crossed that thin, thin line.

People in my proximity are generally unbearable, and I am truly hoping that there is a place where there are some people who have an ounce of redeeming qualities left in them. Heaven, hell, in-between...-somewhere.

You might or might not know that I work at a movie theatre, AMC theatres, the breast and brightest (yes, I did say breast. Why? Why not?). I just got my first paycheck today: $150 for 20 hours. 20 hours!!! 20 hours of my time...20 hours that I spent smiling (a very demanding, difficult task for me) talking in a high-pitched voice to mask my unhappiness about many many things...20 hours of serving utterly defective people (who else would pay $11.40 for a bag of popcorn and a large drink???)..20 hours of serving people hot dogs...even though I think that carnivorous activities should be punishable by law and "up there" with child molestation and first degree murder.........20 hours of my time!

I demand a raise...and this is why....when I become the first woman to ever win an Oscar, they will be hanging pictures of me and showing the cash register where I worked at...young film enthusiasts will be licking the glass display in which my name tag sits neatly on a piece of blue velvet fabric.. Imagine the money it will bring them? Imagine the press and the "yeah I knew her she was an odd character, awfully cheerful on the outside, but quite puzzling on the inside" interviews....I can't wait to see all of those people who don't care if I live or die, pretending we were best friends on the Biography channel special about the life and time of_______(I need to come up with a good, strong name...so that people can say "I knew her as simply- Milica"). Yeah. I'll laugh...and crash my Mercedes while getting drunk on Earl Grey tea....

..but until then, slave away simpleton...slave away, until you have absolutely no desire to do anything productive/constructive/positive! Until the idea that $7.50 an hour is all you will get is instilled in your brain- then the capitalists have succeeded, and you will be flushed away to the fringes of the society.

My God. What a pessimist. And all of this at 17. I can't even imagine what she will be like when she's 20. 30. 40? I won't go on. Decades are so easy to skip...they're like pieces of popcorn. Ugh. Popcorn. Gross.

The Virginity Lost

Here I am scribbling my thoughts for the very first time. The trend of blogging has caught up with me. Who am I, what do I do, what is my purpose? I can't tell, but what I can tell right now is that I am probably Monica Vitti...or Jeane Moreau...or maybe both. I am tragicomical, I am a character right out of Kafka's own ramblings. I am Woody Allen. I am Morrissey. I am Steinbeck and Kazan. I am Plato. I am Pandora. I am Jean Marais.

They all pulse through my veins, eventually reaching my heart, my brain.

Today was rather dull, and as long as it stays that way, all shall be well. My plan for the future-make a lot of money,
cheat people into thinking I have depth
get a transvestite to play keyboards for my band
figure out what I am to do with my hair
move to Los Angeles, then sit on Sunset Blvd and weep.

It's all perfect. All makes perfect sense.
I smell like Laszlo's dead sea mud soap. It's a good thing.
And it's a very, very good night.