I'm really sick. Its not like super sick, which would be better. Its sick enough to feel like crap but healthy enough to go about my day. And thus I spend the whole day feeling like crap. I dont really have anything interesting to say. Nothing written lately that hasnt been for school, and I assume you dont want to hear about Marxism in a pluralist democracy. I dont even want to hear about that, and I wrote it.
I found a great bookstore on West 10th st yesterday. But seeing as my blog is such a pop culture staple, I'm afraid that if I tell you the name it will become packed and I wont be able to get mi libros.(I completely forgot the name)
Wednesday, October 25, 2006
Saturday, October 21, 2006
blah
So this week seems to have taken a nose dive. (How's that for a first sentence?)
I didnt get the purple chair. It became an issue, a catalyst if you will for a larger problem. In the end it was decided that the chair should go to someone who could actually pay for it. So after considerable shuffling of furniture for the chair I now have a more spacious looking apartment. It always seems larger when other people are there.
I took night off on Thursday. I went to a party at the Met for college students, thinking that it was a casual thing. So not only did I go alone with hopes of meeting interesting new people, I went casually. As I walked up the stairs that are so comfy in the spring I realized I was the only person in jeans. Ripped jeans no less, with a hole in a place we neednt mention. The kicker for the night however was this: I'm standing in front a painting by Cassat, its a woman sitting at table or something like that. A guy and his girlfriend come up behind me and he sounds very snooty, like he's III or a IV or something. He looks the painting over, gives a "hmph" and then says to his girlfriend "I love Lee Krasner."
After considerable pausing done by the other people around me I turned to look at him. He was wearing a blue blazer, and had a tie. The first thing to pop into my mind was "Breeders say the darndest things." I laughed to myself. And walked into the next room as he explained to his very dumb girlfriend about how Krasner's style was so obviously French.
In other news, I just got out of work. at 6:40. I was suppose to get out at 5:15, I made plans, but then they forgot to cash out my register. After this they got pissed when I asked them to cash me out because I was kind of in a hurry. Now, defeated, I'm going to go home and eat Ramen noodles instead of Beef Negamaki. ....I hate this.
Also, there are no more boys. No more boys for Jesse. It would seem that I had a brief, in not fake moment of good fortune. But the Brit turned out to be a toad, and the boy in philosphy is most likely a breeder. At least I have books though, right? A book will never let me down.
I didnt get the purple chair. It became an issue, a catalyst if you will for a larger problem. In the end it was decided that the chair should go to someone who could actually pay for it. So after considerable shuffling of furniture for the chair I now have a more spacious looking apartment. It always seems larger when other people are there.
I took night off on Thursday. I went to a party at the Met for college students, thinking that it was a casual thing. So not only did I go alone with hopes of meeting interesting new people, I went casually. As I walked up the stairs that are so comfy in the spring I realized I was the only person in jeans. Ripped jeans no less, with a hole in a place we neednt mention. The kicker for the night however was this: I'm standing in front a painting by Cassat, its a woman sitting at table or something like that. A guy and his girlfriend come up behind me and he sounds very snooty, like he's III or a IV or something. He looks the painting over, gives a "hmph" and then says to his girlfriend "I love Lee Krasner."
After considerable pausing done by the other people around me I turned to look at him. He was wearing a blue blazer, and had a tie. The first thing to pop into my mind was "Breeders say the darndest things." I laughed to myself. And walked into the next room as he explained to his very dumb girlfriend about how Krasner's style was so obviously French.
In other news, I just got out of work. at 6:40. I was suppose to get out at 5:15, I made plans, but then they forgot to cash out my register. After this they got pissed when I asked them to cash me out because I was kind of in a hurry. Now, defeated, I'm going to go home and eat Ramen noodles instead of Beef Negamaki. ....I hate this.
Also, there are no more boys. No more boys for Jesse. It would seem that I had a brief, in not fake moment of good fortune. But the Brit turned out to be a toad, and the boy in philosphy is most likely a breeder. At least I have books though, right? A book will never let me down.
Thursday, October 19, 2006
On A Sunday
We will wake to a fine Sunday morning; a bright sunlight happening into our windows, a cool midsummer breeze blowing the frail whit drapes. A new day will be at our fingertips. Life itself will be tangible.
I will open my eyes an be greeted with my favorite qoute. The words that helped reshape my life:"...More life. The great work begins." It is a constant reminder of the burdens life brings. My side of the bed will be littered with books, stacks five high. There will of course be the ever-present manuscript. Later in life it should hope to constantly be in the middle of this project or that project, or on some escape from the chaos of modernity.
"Coffee?" he will suggest, coming through the doorway. He won't expect an answer; he already knows the answer. The answer of, "but of course ." I will don a smile as I accept, grateful of his hospitality even though he helped buy this house. He will have brought the paper as well. It is a ritual; the habit of a relationship. We both fear the idea of rocking chairs and back porches. They are too reminiscent of our lives before the city; our childhoods spent hiding from bullies, and getting beat up on homecoming. They will remind us of the reason we escaped to metropolis, to modernity. However, the reason we escaped (not our sexuality itself, but its "fringe benefits") will be the basis of our love.
We will start with the real estate section, ogling all the houses we would really want to live in. We throw out auto and stock qoutes. When we finish our first cups of coffee, he goes to refill, and acquiesces to bring the pot back with him. He rests it on the scrapped sections of the news. We sit upon the bed passin sections back and forth. I linger on the book section and he furrows his brow, impatient. "What?" I ask, "I'm learning. Eat your english muffin."
Getting dressed seems tragic. Common knowledge states that morning pajamas are just about the mist comfortable form of attire on the green earth. But the sound of sirens brings us back from out dream of civil disobedience. The whole day in pajamas, could you imagine? We dress together. He isnt the kind of man who would suggest clothes for me, not even for my betterment. I'm a big boy, that's why he loves me.
Manhattan mornins remind me of Basquiat paintings. At once alarming, and at the same time there is something so fresh about them. Sun soaked bricks all covered with dog urine and chewing gum blackened by the soles of shoes. This is why I will love New York in the future, not because of its political correctness , or its constant avant-garde edge. No, I will love New York because in the summer it smells like urine and garbage before noon, when the sun burns off the haze. I will love New York for the same reason that those don't live here hate it.
We will walk along Bleecker, with no talk of the week ahead of us. Do we hold hands? Do we walk arm in arm? Do we need to make that kind of justification for our relationship? I should hope my fear of P.D.A. would have left me. We wil talk about our homes, the news, the trip we are going on before the school year starts again, and he is overcome with responsibilities at the university. He will tell me about his parents, I will tell him about mine. (They both say hello.)
I will force us to stop at the best coffee shop in the neighborhood. It will be a small hole-in-the-wall place, with no room to sit inside, and outside only a bench. The barista behind the counter will recognize me outside, my coffee waiting for me on the counter as I approach. I will get him coffee too, making up for the fact that he is the breadwinner half of the year. This will depend entirly upon how and when I am published. He will argue because it is the polite thing to do, but he is grateful.
The B-train (it will run on weekends in my fantasy) at West 4th street will take us up to Central Park. There will be conversation along the way. The friends who've called from far away, as well as business associated things, and the academic confrences that will darken our scheduals, our practical calendars. We will exit at 72nd street, remember the advertisment in the Times for a unit in the Dakota for $6 million. There will be an inappropriate joke about murder for those prices . The walk through Strawberry Fields will of course be a good one. And as always in Central Park there will be the far off odor of marijauna.
We will walk, paying homage to Bethesda. We will qoute Tony Kushner, stressing the qoute above our bed. Up the stairs and through the rows of benches we'll proceed. I will tell him a story he's never heard; one I've been saving. He will laugh at all the right place, grimace at the bad choice of words, and say the perfect thing when its all over. The man with the saxophone will have been, by this time, taken by life. But the city will immortalize him with a statue.
The sunbathers will be out by now, getting their own jump on the day. We will continue south, to 7th avenue. I will tell him about the friend I used to have in Midtown, also taken by time. He will tell me about his days in Hell' Kitchen, barely surviving on Ramen and soda. I will retell my days in Brooklyn, in what is now a trendy neighborhood.
We will return on the B-train. I will tell him about my newest idea for some story. He will start laughing, joking about how I get into the zone when I'm working. When we arrive home he will got to work preparing for this or that. I will tell him head up to the attic, my office. My dest will be covered in papers, stacks unreasonably high. My computer will look used, though it will be realtively new. The paint on the "S" nad the "Enter" buttons will have been rubbed away. I will set into motion writing something that will seem profound as I initially put it on the screen, but will ultimatly haunt me for the coming months.(Writing is rewriting.)
In and hour he will knock gently asking me where I want to go to lunch.
I will open my eyes an be greeted with my favorite qoute. The words that helped reshape my life:"...More life. The great work begins." It is a constant reminder of the burdens life brings. My side of the bed will be littered with books, stacks five high. There will of course be the ever-present manuscript. Later in life it should hope to constantly be in the middle of this project or that project, or on some escape from the chaos of modernity.
"Coffee?" he will suggest, coming through the doorway. He won't expect an answer; he already knows the answer. The answer of, "but of course ." I will don a smile as I accept, grateful of his hospitality even though he helped buy this house. He will have brought the paper as well. It is a ritual; the habit of a relationship. We both fear the idea of rocking chairs and back porches. They are too reminiscent of our lives before the city; our childhoods spent hiding from bullies, and getting beat up on homecoming. They will remind us of the reason we escaped to metropolis, to modernity. However, the reason we escaped (not our sexuality itself, but its "fringe benefits") will be the basis of our love.
We will start with the real estate section, ogling all the houses we would really want to live in. We throw out auto and stock qoutes. When we finish our first cups of coffee, he goes to refill, and acquiesces to bring the pot back with him. He rests it on the scrapped sections of the news. We sit upon the bed passin sections back and forth. I linger on the book section and he furrows his brow, impatient. "What?" I ask, "I'm learning. Eat your english muffin."
Getting dressed seems tragic. Common knowledge states that morning pajamas are just about the mist comfortable form of attire on the green earth. But the sound of sirens brings us back from out dream of civil disobedience. The whole day in pajamas, could you imagine? We dress together. He isnt the kind of man who would suggest clothes for me, not even for my betterment. I'm a big boy, that's why he loves me.
Manhattan mornins remind me of Basquiat paintings. At once alarming, and at the same time there is something so fresh about them. Sun soaked bricks all covered with dog urine and chewing gum blackened by the soles of shoes. This is why I will love New York in the future, not because of its political correctness , or its constant avant-garde edge. No, I will love New York because in the summer it smells like urine and garbage before noon, when the sun burns off the haze. I will love New York for the same reason that those don't live here hate it.
We will walk along Bleecker, with no talk of the week ahead of us. Do we hold hands? Do we walk arm in arm? Do we need to make that kind of justification for our relationship? I should hope my fear of P.D.A. would have left me. We wil talk about our homes, the news, the trip we are going on before the school year starts again, and he is overcome with responsibilities at the university. He will tell me about his parents, I will tell him about mine. (They both say hello.)
I will force us to stop at the best coffee shop in the neighborhood. It will be a small hole-in-the-wall place, with no room to sit inside, and outside only a bench. The barista behind the counter will recognize me outside, my coffee waiting for me on the counter as I approach. I will get him coffee too, making up for the fact that he is the breadwinner half of the year. This will depend entirly upon how and when I am published. He will argue because it is the polite thing to do, but he is grateful.
The B-train (it will run on weekends in my fantasy) at West 4th street will take us up to Central Park. There will be conversation along the way. The friends who've called from far away, as well as business associated things, and the academic confrences that will darken our scheduals, our practical calendars. We will exit at 72nd street, remember the advertisment in the Times for a unit in the Dakota for $6 million. There will be an inappropriate joke about murder for those prices . The walk through Strawberry Fields will of course be a good one. And as always in Central Park there will be the far off odor of marijauna.
We will walk, paying homage to Bethesda. We will qoute Tony Kushner, stressing the qoute above our bed. Up the stairs and through the rows of benches we'll proceed. I will tell him a story he's never heard; one I've been saving. He will laugh at all the right place, grimace at the bad choice of words, and say the perfect thing when its all over. The man with the saxophone will have been, by this time, taken by life. But the city will immortalize him with a statue.
The sunbathers will be out by now, getting their own jump on the day. We will continue south, to 7th avenue. I will tell him about the friend I used to have in Midtown, also taken by time. He will tell me about his days in Hell' Kitchen, barely surviving on Ramen and soda. I will retell my days in Brooklyn, in what is now a trendy neighborhood.
We will return on the B-train. I will tell him about my newest idea for some story. He will start laughing, joking about how I get into the zone when I'm working. When we arrive home he will got to work preparing for this or that. I will tell him head up to the attic, my office. My dest will be covered in papers, stacks unreasonably high. My computer will look used, though it will be realtively new. The paint on the "S" nad the "Enter" buttons will have been rubbed away. I will set into motion writing something that will seem profound as I initially put it on the screen, but will ultimatly haunt me for the coming months.(Writing is rewriting.)
In and hour he will knock gently asking me where I want to go to lunch.
Tuesday, October 17, 2006
Out of the Woodwork
For those of you who read this, who suffer through my bad spelling, poor acronims, my terrinle grammar, and most of all my bitching, for you I have good news: BOYS!
Its about damn time I say. I mean its not the utter lack of booty in recent months that has me down, its the lack of cuddle.
*To crowd: "Hi(cough) my name is Jesse and I like to cuddle."
*crowd: "Hi Jesse.
*To Crowd: "Sometimes when I'm lying in bed I cuddle my pillow and pretend its...its....
*Group leader more interested than concerned: "its ok, I know its hard but you can tell us, we're all here for the same reason. We're just like you."
*To group:" Sometimes I pretend its Colin Farrell, or George Clooney, and when I really want to cuddle I pretend my pillow is...ummm....
*anonymous cuddler: "Let it out man!
*To Crowd: "I pretend its a mormon missionary that I converted when he came to the door. And he's still wearing a tie."
*Crowd: "cough"
*anonymous cuddler: "That is so fucking hot. Why didnt I think of that?"
So yeah, thats my life now.
But like any prime time NBC broadcast I will leave you with this suspense filled notion for now.
Its about damn time I say. I mean its not the utter lack of booty in recent months that has me down, its the lack of cuddle.
*To crowd: "Hi(cough) my name is Jesse and I like to cuddle."
*crowd: "Hi Jesse.
*To Crowd: "Sometimes when I'm lying in bed I cuddle my pillow and pretend its...its....
*Group leader more interested than concerned: "its ok, I know its hard but you can tell us, we're all here for the same reason. We're just like you."
*To group:" Sometimes I pretend its Colin Farrell, or George Clooney, and when I really want to cuddle I pretend my pillow is...ummm....
*anonymous cuddler: "Let it out man!
*To Crowd: "I pretend its a mormon missionary that I converted when he came to the door. And he's still wearing a tie."
*Crowd: "cough"
*anonymous cuddler: "That is so fucking hot. Why didnt I think of that?"
So yeah, thats my life now.
But like any prime time NBC broadcast I will leave you with this suspense filled notion for now.
Monday, October 16, 2006
procrastination
Do you procrastinate? I procrastinate all the time. Hell! I'm doing it right now. I have a 6(count 'em) 6 page paper due on Wednesday in Political Science(a class I've already taken) and no time to write it. Instead I'm using my only available time to write this blog post and bitch about how I dont have any time. Woe As Me.
Thursday, October 12, 2006
The Purple Chair
If things work out(knock on wood) tomorrow I will be the proud owner of a giant purple chair. This chair is so big that I sat in a few months ago I stood up in the St. Lawrence river. Ok, its not that big, but its fucking huge.
Now I know what you 2 are thinking. (By two I mean the 2 people who read my blog still, myself included.) "But Jess (we're on a nickname basis), I thought that your apartment was tiny, the smallest apartment in Brooklyn?" "I thought you hated the color purple?" "I thought that you didnt want anymore furniture?" ENOUGH QUESTIONS! IT'S PRETTY! And I want a good napping chair, and an excuse to get rid of the three extra chairs I have in my apartment. Plus I want to start a hand-me-down thing with this chair. When I move, and I have a friend or new someone who moves to the city I want to give it to them. It will be a symbol of "making it" or somethign cheesy like that.
In other news
I have a problem with wearing my heart on my sleeve. Not because I dont do it, because its more like I wear it pinned to the front of shirt like a pre-schooler with a teachers note about heah checks. So heres my problem: I had a really great time with Bob the other night.
I know that may not sound like a big deal to some people, but here's not for me, and I'll tell you why. I'm young and relationship oppressed, I could have a friend with benefits relationship in MI because I knew that I would eventually be leaving MI behind, no hard feelings. But I'm here now, and I want to branch out. Do I want to branch out with Bob? Am I being stupid, or naive? Overly dramatic? Its possible, I do that from time to time. But I really need to figure shit out.
If there really are people who still visit my corner of the internet, and wade through my mindless muddlings want to impart wisdom upon me, they are completely welcome to do so.
Now I know what you 2 are thinking. (By two I mean the 2 people who read my blog still, myself included.) "But Jess (we're on a nickname basis), I thought that your apartment was tiny, the smallest apartment in Brooklyn?" "I thought you hated the color purple?" "I thought that you didnt want anymore furniture?" ENOUGH QUESTIONS! IT'S PRETTY! And I want a good napping chair, and an excuse to get rid of the three extra chairs I have in my apartment. Plus I want to start a hand-me-down thing with this chair. When I move, and I have a friend or new someone who moves to the city I want to give it to them. It will be a symbol of "making it" or somethign cheesy like that.
In other news
I have a problem with wearing my heart on my sleeve. Not because I dont do it, because its more like I wear it pinned to the front of shirt like a pre-schooler with a teachers note about heah checks. So heres my problem: I had a really great time with Bob the other night.
I know that may not sound like a big deal to some people, but here's not for me, and I'll tell you why. I'm young and relationship oppressed, I could have a friend with benefits relationship in MI because I knew that I would eventually be leaving MI behind, no hard feelings. But I'm here now, and I want to branch out. Do I want to branch out with Bob? Am I being stupid, or naive? Overly dramatic? Its possible, I do that from time to time. But I really need to figure shit out.
If there really are people who still visit my corner of the internet, and wade through my mindless muddlings want to impart wisdom upon me, they are completely welcome to do so.
Wednesday, October 11, 2006
Infamous
The movie screening was great. The movie was very well made, but it wasnt Capote.
I met Bob at his place, we went to dinner at the Eatery(great ravioli) then we walked up to 66th and Broadway. When we got to the theater there were a few people milling about, wearing the writer's Guild apparel(Bob doesnt own any, thank god). They spotted us and rushed over, talking about this movie and that movie, and Myspace(terrible) and the demise of Tower Records. Bob didnt introduce me, and I wasnt sure why, but it wasnt anything to get upset about.
We got out tickets, and headed upstairs. In the theater we sat almost directly in the center. My feet stuck to the floor. A joke popped into my head: Why do gay men hate the sticky floors at movie theaters?......Why?.....Its false advertising!( Can I get a cymbol?)
I was turning over this notion in my mind when Bob leaned over to whispered "Sorry I didnt introduce you, I dont remember any of those people names. "
"Dont worry," I said, "neither do I."
He smiled at my little jab. Then the movie started.
Toby Jones, Daniel Craig, Hope Davis, Jeff Daniels, Sigorny(sp?) Weever, Sandra Bullock, they really cast the hell out of this movie. The acting was great, it was funny, and touching. Gwenyth Paltrow does a cameo in the beginning, where she sings in a night club, and the song, oh. I sound like such an art fag. But then again I technically am one.
P.s. Daniel Craig, defenitly the wonderful to look at. And he can act! Really well!
So after the film there was a Q & A with the writer/director. He talked about his craft, people asked bad questions, I think I may have learned something.
On the walk back to his apartment, Bob and I talked about Capote's writing, then Fitzgerald, then Hemingway(closet case). I made some comment about how being a writer gave me free license to be a raging alcoholic, Bob was amused at this.
So we walked back to his place, and I wasnt sure if I was going back up, or if he was going to bed...alone. Then his neighbor walked up and couldnt get his key to work in the door. Bob assisted him, and then we said goodnight. Bob reached out his hand, looking rather embarressed. I shook it, saying, "Buenos noches, amigo." The neighbor was already inside, "I'm sorry." Bob mouthed, as he walked through the door. "Until next time," I said. I turned on my heel and walked to 57th and 7th. I rode the trusty Q all the way to Brooklyn.
I met Bob at his place, we went to dinner at the Eatery(great ravioli) then we walked up to 66th and Broadway. When we got to the theater there were a few people milling about, wearing the writer's Guild apparel(Bob doesnt own any, thank god). They spotted us and rushed over, talking about this movie and that movie, and Myspace(terrible) and the demise of Tower Records. Bob didnt introduce me, and I wasnt sure why, but it wasnt anything to get upset about.
We got out tickets, and headed upstairs. In the theater we sat almost directly in the center. My feet stuck to the floor. A joke popped into my head: Why do gay men hate the sticky floors at movie theaters?......Why?.....Its false advertising!( Can I get a cymbol?)
I was turning over this notion in my mind when Bob leaned over to whispered "Sorry I didnt introduce you, I dont remember any of those people names. "
"Dont worry," I said, "neither do I."
He smiled at my little jab. Then the movie started.
Toby Jones, Daniel Craig, Hope Davis, Jeff Daniels, Sigorny(sp?) Weever, Sandra Bullock, they really cast the hell out of this movie. The acting was great, it was funny, and touching. Gwenyth Paltrow does a cameo in the beginning, where she sings in a night club, and the song, oh. I sound like such an art fag. But then again I technically am one.
P.s. Daniel Craig, defenitly the wonderful to look at. And he can act! Really well!
So after the film there was a Q & A with the writer/director. He talked about his craft, people asked bad questions, I think I may have learned something.
On the walk back to his apartment, Bob and I talked about Capote's writing, then Fitzgerald, then Hemingway(closet case). I made some comment about how being a writer gave me free license to be a raging alcoholic, Bob was amused at this.
So we walked back to his place, and I wasnt sure if I was going back up, or if he was going to bed...alone. Then his neighbor walked up and couldnt get his key to work in the door. Bob assisted him, and then we said goodnight. Bob reached out his hand, looking rather embarressed. I shook it, saying, "Buenos noches, amigo." The neighbor was already inside, "I'm sorry." Bob mouthed, as he walked through the door. "Until next time," I said. I turned on my heel and walked to 57th and 7th. I rode the trusty Q all the way to Brooklyn.
Tuesday, October 10, 2006
Earworms
I love a good earworm, dont you? Etta Jame's singing "aaaaaaaattttttt llllllllaaaaaaaaaaaast, My loooooooovvvvvveeeeee has come home" do they get any better?
But I have a bad one currently, a very bad one. Four Non-blondes. "I wake up in the morning and I step outside, blah blah blah cause I get real high, I said HEY! what's goin on?"
That dirty dread-locked bitch! who does she think she is, with that " I can sing really loud even though I'm white" voice or that "you probably think I'm a Park Slope Lesbian" demeanor? And to top it all off, she uses marvyn Gayes words!!!!! I hate her. I think we should throw her in front of the 4 train. OH WAIT the 4 doesnt run in Brooklyn on weekends or holidays. shit.
Going to a screening INFAMOUS tonight with Bob. Another Truman Capote movie, I'm slightly skeptical. Plus I havent seen Bob since what, August. Again, I'm skeptical.
Will tell you all about it.
But I have a bad one currently, a very bad one. Four Non-blondes. "I wake up in the morning and I step outside, blah blah blah cause I get real high, I said HEY! what's goin on?"
That dirty dread-locked bitch! who does she think she is, with that " I can sing really loud even though I'm white" voice or that "you probably think I'm a Park Slope Lesbian" demeanor? And to top it all off, she uses marvyn Gayes words!!!!! I hate her. I think we should throw her in front of the 4 train. OH WAIT the 4 doesnt run in Brooklyn on weekends or holidays. shit.
Going to a screening INFAMOUS tonight with Bob. Another Truman Capote movie, I'm slightly skeptical. Plus I havent seen Bob since what, August. Again, I'm skeptical.
Will tell you all about it.
Monday, October 09, 2006
improve poem
In the morning there is the rustle
I stretch awake, wither and quake,
as I yawn.
In a moment it will begin
extremes of a Monday morning
coffee, paper, traffic jams
and by 5 o'clock I'll wish
I was anywhere else.
But with snooze in full effect
I have 15 more minutes
to pretend its
Sunday again.
10/9/06
I stretch awake, wither and quake,
as I yawn.
In a moment it will begin
extremes of a Monday morning
coffee, paper, traffic jams
and by 5 o'clock I'll wish
I was anywhere else.
But with snooze in full effect
I have 15 more minutes
to pretend its
Sunday again.
10/9/06
Saturday, October 07, 2006
Mrs. Frisbie and the damn rats of Jesse's Kitchen
So, I have mice. Just when I thought it couldnt get any worse in, I hear it, the clicking noise under my sink. I thought I had gotten rid of it. I threw it outside. But alas, in this city there is never only one of something(except Trader Joe's).
I bought mouse traps and Dcon(Spelling is bad), I thought for sure it was dead. I hadnt heard from it in almost a week. Then, another one. So I bought mouse traps.
*disclaimer: There is nothing scarrier than a mouse trap! Nothing!
So I set them, with peanut butter, put them in a few select places that I thought would be certain for sucess. What did I find? Three mouse traps, set, ready, and clean or peanut butter.
What the fuck?
And what happened when Itried putting more peanut butter on it? Ask my finger, I think the swelling finally started going down.
I hate rodents.
And to make matters worse, my upstairs neighbor started having a porno-style love making session as I nursed my wounds. The cruel irony of having to hear breeders getting booty in my time of pain and anguish(and humiliation) was a swift kick in the teeth.
Fucking mice, fucking Flatbush, fucking straight people. I hate life. But on the good side, I may be going to a movie premier on Tuesday. Will tell you all about it.
I bought mouse traps and Dcon(Spelling is bad), I thought for sure it was dead. I hadnt heard from it in almost a week. Then, another one. So I bought mouse traps.
*disclaimer: There is nothing scarrier than a mouse trap! Nothing!
So I set them, with peanut butter, put them in a few select places that I thought would be certain for sucess. What did I find? Three mouse traps, set, ready, and clean or peanut butter.
What the fuck?
And what happened when Itried putting more peanut butter on it? Ask my finger, I think the swelling finally started going down.
I hate rodents.
And to make matters worse, my upstairs neighbor started having a porno-style love making session as I nursed my wounds. The cruel irony of having to hear breeders getting booty in my time of pain and anguish(and humiliation) was a swift kick in the teeth.
Fucking mice, fucking Flatbush, fucking straight people. I hate life. But on the good side, I may be going to a movie premier on Tuesday. Will tell you all about it.
Thursday, October 05, 2006
...another day...
I'm just takin a few to make a shout out to my peeps, "HEY PEEPS". MMMMM tasty peeps.
I'm writing a paper, studying for an art history exam thats going to kick my ass, and I've gotten like 4 first sentences today.
I'm going nuts. But will take a few to make a shout out to ya'll tomarrow.
I'm writing a paper, studying for an art history exam thats going to kick my ass, and I've gotten like 4 first sentences today.
I'm going nuts. But will take a few to make a shout out to ya'll tomarrow.
Wednesday, October 04, 2006
Damn Computers
Hooray!!! I'm getting my computer back!!!!
Thank god too because I really miss porn. Joking, joking.
*Disclaimer: I'm not joking.
My parents took it home with them when they visited. They had to mail it back to the company to get it fixed. (aparently I like porn a little too much, no?)
But it should be back to them by the end of the week, which means it will be to me by the end of next week.
Hooray!!
Thank god too because I really miss porn. Joking, joking.
*Disclaimer: I'm not joking.
My parents took it home with them when they visited. They had to mail it back to the company to get it fixed. (aparently I like porn a little too much, no?)
But it should be back to them by the end of the week, which means it will be to me by the end of next week.
Hooray!!
a Poem about being homeless
* Disclaimer: This is by no means a good poem, but I felt I needed to give you something.
Winters are the worst for waif
especially if its a he.
People arent as charitable
you have to fuck your way
into a warm bed.
That itself can be an ordeal.
But you develope a skill in discerning
the honest from the violent.
I heard from a German that
if you loose three teeth you should
probably consider a different
idea of freedom. Because
afterall isnt freedom a relative
idea? At least thats
what a crack head once told me.
But then addiction is relative.
So is a bed, so are
the dead.
Winters are the worst for waif
especially if its a he.
People arent as charitable
you have to fuck your way
into a warm bed.
That itself can be an ordeal.
But you develope a skill in discerning
the honest from the violent.
I heard from a German that
if you loose three teeth you should
probably consider a different
idea of freedom. Because
afterall isnt freedom a relative
idea? At least thats
what a crack head once told me.
But then addiction is relative.
So is a bed, so are
the dead.
Tuesday, October 03, 2006
Congratulations! Youre Broke!!!
I have $27. I'm trying to think about this as a creative challenge, "I'm a slave to my art" replays in my head. "this will be great for the book" is also a resounding message, but then again I'm not sure there ever will be a book.
I'm kind of amazed that I'm not more downtrodden about this. But I'm trying to remain optomistic or something.
In other news I've continued updating my gay lexicon. Andrew Holleran, David Leavitt, Edmund White. Now all I need is the musics. But that will happen soon enough.
I'm kind of amazed that I'm not more downtrodden about this. But I'm trying to remain optomistic or something.
In other news I've continued updating my gay lexicon. Andrew Holleran, David Leavitt, Edmund White. Now all I need is the musics. But that will happen soon enough.
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