I’m Fuller

I’m regressing.
Here I sit, drinking a chocolate martini and listening to the Pogues.
This time around, there is no heartache.
There is no anguish.
The loneliness has withdrawn.
There is only me and the Pogues and my chocolate martini.
Tonight, I will go out and have fun.
I will take pictures of pretty people.
I will drink myself silly.
I will return home, dumber than when I left.
I will have lived and loved, much like I did the first time around.
This time is better.

Look Away Forever!

I’m watching a tv show for a survey.
By “watching” I mean I’m in here writing while the show plays in the other room.
I’m not getting paid to do this survey, but I get entered into a draw that could land me $500 in paper plates and dish soap, so why not?
The show sucks. If you never have to hear of Rocky LaPorte, you can thank me for keeping it off the air. I’ll accept thank you gifts in the form of paper plates and dish soap.

I Hate Because I Love

Does everyone live a life of emotional extremes?
Do you all love certain bits of life to the highest degree?
Do you also hate certain aspects of your life? Fist clenched, angry that your life is being wasted on performing this particular task?
I hate waitressing like that. I feel like it’s killing my soul, one customer at a time. I have been waitressing for seven years now, and I really don’t see an end to it.
I sometimes wonder if there is some reason, karmically speaking, cosmically speaking, that I am forced to continue with this aggravating tedium. I’m stuck in this Samsara and until I can reach a certain state of mind in my head, I will continue to waitress and to hate it.
I also love with that same passion.
I love being with friends.
I love big parties and large groups of fun people.
I love getting drunk and acting like a ridiculous monkey.
I don’t really love the next day, where my body is full of toxins and I am forced to deal with whatever stupid thing I did the night before, but I prefer it to waitressing.
I love laughing myself into a crying hysteria.
I love that it’s spring, and I will soon be able to visit High Park and feed peanuts to the baby chipmunks.
I love more than I hate. I’m not a bitter person, I’m passionate. Sometimes over-sensitive and over-emotional, but the feelings, so far, have remained on the good side of feeling.

With a Gun to Mother Earth’s Head

Why don’t people ever give up religion for their forty days of Lent? I gave up religion years ago and never looked back. Didn’t give it up for Lent, mind you. I’m not Catholic.

I gave it up for sensible thinking and a feeling of unity toward my fellow humans. Yep, I no longer think that people go to hell for believing in the wrong god. I don’t even believe in hell.

I believe in decomposition and fertilizing the planet with my carcass.

I believe that we don’t come back as bugs or birds or people or trees.

I believe we don’t come back at all.

I believe we only have one life to live, and I try to live mine as enjoyably as possible, so long as it doesn’t infringe upon the enjoyment of others, so long as their enjoyment doesn’t infringe upon mine.

I believe that people, as a race, will soon be extinct.

I believe that we are an inferior species, with our tribalistic ways, and I don’t think we are capable of evolving beyond that.

So we will go the way of the dinosaur.

The earth will barely even notice.

Unless we take the planet with us.

Monogamy is For Lovers, Suckers

This was the first video I watched on Youtube way back in the summer.
I think.
Maybe not.
But it was the first video I watched after I broke up with Captain D that made me feel free and single and aware of the world of handsome men.
I’m remembering it through rose coloured glasses. I know that I was lonely and scared about what the future would hold.
Would I ever get laid again?
Yes.
Would I get laid before I turned 30?
Yes.
Phew.
Now that I’ve had several months of single life under my belt, and now that I’ve been able to have sex, both ongoing and one night stand, I feel great. I love being single and I never want to be in a monogamous relationship again. Even if I met a man with small, neat teeth, tight red pants and a Jack White bellow, I would still prefer the single life.
More selection, right?
The world is my oyster, right?
Fuck yeah.

Countdown to Nothing, Or How I Love KevyB

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Sometimes you get those days where everything happens altogether in one big chaotic kaboom.
Good things.
Bad things.
Irritating things.
Insignificant things.
Long ago, in a blog far far away, I mentioned Kevin Blechdom and how her music reminds me of my brains, not so much in content, but in melody.
I’ve since changed my mind. The lyrics now mean something to me, too, which is nice, because I’ve always enjoyed her lyrics. She’s super talented and wicked kickass.
Back to my kaboom day.
Ugh.
I won’t get into specifics, those aren’t your business, nor are they my business to share.
I’ll try an overview:
Haunted house nightmare.
Guilt turns to indignant anger.
Model fittings for upcoming fashion show.
Double booked the evening – concert and book reading, neither of which I shall be attending now.
Passive aggression at my expense.
Drawing of anus.
Argument with good friend.
Argument solved, followed by my sharing details of kaboom day.
Sympathy from said good friend.
Now a forecast for the rest of the evening:
One last appointment.
Groceries.
Finishing clothing for fashion show.
Less chaos.

Save Some Moonshine For Me

I’ve got a real wet spot for hillbillies.
The missing teeth, the fiddles, the dirty genitals.
Damn.
I realize that this is only a stereotype, and that my love of hillbillies does not actually cross over into real life. In real life, I only like nice Canadian city slickers.
In my dreams, however, I love hillbillies.
The skinny ones.
With the floppy leather hats.