Blogs are for lonely people who want more attention and think they're clever.

I stumbled upon a few blogs today that are operated by people I know. It's a treat, finding someone's super-public, super-private space. It's like spying on them/confirming your earlier suspicion that they think they're so special.

Get all tribal on it.

Just last night, I said to a friend that once or twice a year there will be a day or week in which ex-lovers, ex-boyfriends, ex-whatevers of mine will reach out to me. They come out of the woodwork to say hi or say they're sorry or to promote some new project they're working on. I must have been feeling clairvoyant from the bubbly because today is that day. One phone call and two texts. The texts were within 2 minutes of each other. Three old flames in one hot ass day. Lucky me.

Now, I don't believe in much, so I won't call it fate, but can you explain that this is all happening in the same week as the DVD release of the world's latest (and sexiest?) Christmas Carol remake?

Double lucky me.

When something good comes your way...

...and it's so unexpected but it just fits and you wonder where it came from, well, maybe it came from here:



How could you resist it?

I heard...

Brit Brit was at my work today. I didn't see her, but remember when she did this?


And this?


That's when I realized there was a little Whitney in Britney. I know I'm supposed to obsess over someone more indie, like her



or her


and, don't get me wrong, they're lovely, but can a girl have a guilty pleasure?

Saville couldn't sleep last night. He came into my room and we watched this video together. When it was over, he paused and then said "Whoa. That's pretty awesome."


Take that.

It was anticlimatic to most: people drinking PBR, swaying to some music I couldn't be bothered to recognize. If I'm being honest, it was anticlimatic to me, too. Just all the same people I always see acting like they're not all terrified of turning 30 and still being at the same shitty party.  Linda was talking to a tranny.  

Linda: (whispering to me) is there weed on my lip? I'm so stoned. You should make friends. Then you can be too stoned to leave, too. 
Tranny: (passing Linda an overly phallic pipe) So if you wanna go to the Bob Dylan show, I can absolutely get you in. You just have to wait by the back door. Wear something exactly like that. You know, casual. Flannel. I'll be wearing a yellow mini, but we can't have too many of us dressed like that. 

I felt like I should be amused but I was too busy feeling like an asshole for going to a party where I knew I'd see He Who Shall Not Be Named with his new boo.  As I halfway partook in halfway conversations, I couldn't help but think how on the other side of the screen door, the dude I'd lusted for for months was pretend fighting with a 19 year old. Pretend fighting as a method of foreplay which is both fascinating and gross if it's someone you used to fuck that you're observing. I wondered if he was too drunk or too outside of the realm of morality to recognize how rude he was, even if we were attemping (again) to be just friends. I began to form this half-assed daydream about exacting my revenge, dry-humping on the dancefloor, etc but as always, I grew tired when I realized that there is no way to make someone give a shit about you if they don't give a shit about you. And he does not, will not ever give a shit about me. 

The weirdest part, though, was that when I actually thought about how it was that I felt, I noticed that I felt nothing except kinda bored. It was like realizing that my favorite toy, the one I'd been playing with for months, was actually a piece of fossilized dogshit that had turned white from the sun. It had no value. It had no purpose. It didn't even smell like shit anymore. It was just a tiny little nothing.

I worked my way through the room, hugging every person I knew and answering questions about my impending move. How the fuck did they already know, I wondered. I hadn't even uttered the words. Was everyone at this bullshit party fucking psycic? No matter. This was as good as any other night for an impromptu going away party. I played it up, telling people I'd miss them, I'd write, I'd be back, I'd give Bianca a hug for them.  

On my way out, I passed Voldemort again. He barely looked at me and when he did, his eyes were red and watery. I knew he was shitfaced. I didn't say anything. Instead, I smiled, extended my arm and offered up a truce in the form of a fist bump. He looked vaguely guilty, like a child that shit in the bathtub, but I was beaming, thinking that if I'm lucky, I'd never see that silly little fuck again.      
   

And beyond...

I wanna live here.

Hooker with an eye for gold...

Ms. Bobby Gentry. Is or is not her dancing the most awkwardamazingness you ever saw?

And incase you grew up in a rural area in the 80's, too, Ms. Reba McEntire's own take on the most fantastic ode to the justification of prostitution the world has ever known.

It's like what would happen if you mixed an MJ mini-movie and Glamourshots. Which is to say I love it.

Tax Money, etc

I saw this.

Smeh

It's no Kanye at the VMA's but these are some photos of things.

The Standard Hotel
Ruining Good Music for Me Since 2007

Please?

Someone buy me this bed or at least show me how to become a master reupholsterer in like a week.




(bed from chaircouture)


Thanks.

I wish

Wish I had long, straight hair like a Japanese woman.

Wish I had a house on the beach.

Wish my powers of telekinesis would kick in already.

Wish I didn't have to work every fucking Saturday night so I could go to this:

Okay?

Teaching Myself to Draw Part 3

And in case this is weird out of context:




P.S. One day, we'll all awaken our red-wig-wearin' inner Congradulashayla and the revolution will begin.

Something

Last night I dreamt of flying
I swear the air was sweet
And when I awoke the air was stale
And tasted of defeat. 

My life as a social experiment

I've been taking my breaks in the park by the library for sometime now. Some days it is just me and the pigeons. Some days there are other humanoids. Today, there are 9 men of various levels of apparent junkie-ism, ranging from Business Junkie (see inset) to For Real For Real Junkie (see other inset; allow yourself to imagine the heroin nod).








The experimentation comes in the form of a certain baby blue dress, frilly apron and super high Chucks (see super hot inset.). Suffice to say, my slutty uniform brings all the boys to the yard.


I think it's time to get a real job. Any ideas?

Trying To Teach Myself to Draw-- Part Two:

Fail Hard or Try Dying

Trying To Teach Myself to Draw Again-- Part One: