I
considered writing a whole month's worth about girls, but then I
decided I needed liberty.
Cathy O'Connor.
We worked
together at the Canadian Home Shopping Network. My God, she was so
beautiful. She had a boyfriend, so hankypanky was not on my mind
(mostly).
We went to the Royal Ontario Museum together. In the
cafeteria she told me that her sister had told her she didn't trust
her with her children. Cathy cried about that, got up, left. I caught
up with her out on the street.
She was a girl I loved. She
might be dead by now.
Groovy, man. Really groovy. Can I have some of that? Man, the chicks here are hot. And cool at the same time. I guess that makes then lukewarm overall. Get down! Anybody seen my comb? Yeah, shake it! Can't believe I'm really here. Just a minute ago I was sitting in my basement, now I'm here! Hey, she's taking off her clothes. Wow. Naked and beautiful. Oh man, she's coming over here! Touching me! Shamelessly! She's so wet I can't believe it. Wow! That feels really good! I'm coming! It true what they say about fiction being better than reality.
Self-fulfilling
Prophesy
I'm
terribly frightened of doors.
The natural method is to push
through it.
But what if someone's on the other side? What if
his hand is reaching for the knob at that exact moment? His hand
would be hit, possibly broken and crushed. In any case, it would be
quite a fright.
This afternoon I wrote in my little notebook,
"Fear of opening doors, fear of door opening." About an
hour later I was about to go out of the smoking room. I reached for
the knob. Just then it swung open. I jumped and looked foolish.
Women.
I am in bed,
too awake, convulsing, looking for a spot in which I cannot hear my
heart beat. I keep my eyes open, trying to hypnotize myself.
But
maybe I am
asleep, dreaming I'm awake. It's a strange dream.
I am in
bed, asleep, dreaming I'm looking for a spot in which I can't hear
the radiator convulse so I can fall asleep.
But maybe I'm
only dreaming I'm dreaming I'm awake. Strange dream. Maybe I'm not in
my bed at all. Maybe I'm in a park dreaming I'm in a hotel room
dreaming I'm in my bed, awake.
Great, Jeff. Why didn't you post
a warning somewhere, like, "Writing here could get you in lots
of trouble?"
Today Sierra, one of my bosses, called me
into her office. A man was there too. Word had got around, and one
particular item I wrote (I'm not gonna say which one because there
might be a lawsuit in the works) had been taken very badly by one of
my co-workers. Even though it was on my own time, the collective
agreement stated etc. etc.
"This gentleman will escort
you out of the building," she said.
So thanks, Jeff! I'm
fired!
Breeder
Peeder
Played
poker this night against this total PRICK named Peeder. He was
constantly goading me. It's not like he took any money from me, he
pretty much broke even, but he thought he was superior to me.
So
is it that assholes breed children, or is it that children breed
assholes? Cause Peeder's a breeder. Has some kids.
Just an
observation: that people who have kids are generally nastier than
those that don't.
Me violent me fuck you bitch me don't give
fuck. Slap me hand over your mouth bitch 'cause I like fuck. Don't
care no baby.
I have been very well trained, by many of the best. My mother taught me how to relieve myself in the correct places. My father taught me I should always go along with the pack. My many teachers taught me how to stand up straight, obey orders, and report to the proper authorities. Woof! Excuse me, that was improper. My first female taught me the importance of loyalty and love and sex. And my children? Well, they taught me the importance of proper training in its own turn. Now will you please turn around so I can sniff your asshole?
Dog
Blog
The
NYT
has an article today about man's
best friend.
Sure, we're their friends; so why aren't they ours? Why no
reciprocation? I mean, I like the water and the canned food,
sometimes I like the kibble even, but does that mean he's my friend?
Check out this article about working
dogs.
Slavery, it's nothing but slavery. But even worse, look at this PETA
site. (If you can't read, just check out the pictures.) Such good
friends, yeah. But we've got our revenge, though, haven't we? Because
you and me both know we're actually woman's
best friend.
(NSFW.)
The King's
Royal Diary
Why
is everyone always trying to poison me? I've always tried to be a
good, good King. He seemed like a good servant, and I trusted him
with my wine and my hounds. I thought of him as a friend, almost like
another son. We even played faro on several occasions. Then I caught
him putting arsenic in my wine. Well, it hurt me more than it hurt
him when he was drawn and quartered with his entrails thrown to my
starving bears, let me tell you. So why is everyone always trying to
poison me?
Warning
When
your eyes get to wander where your hands do itch to go,
When your
eyes get to wander where your hands do itch to go,
Don't never
speak her name because then your pretty wife is sure to know.
(moan
one verse)
Baby baby please give me that thing.
Baby baby
please give me that thing.
Don't never trust a woman who tapes
what you talk in your sleep.
Don't never trust a woman who tapes
what you talk in your sleep.
You'll hear so much of it you'll be
wishing you were more than six feet deep.
I was the first-born daughter of
a very powerful King.
A powerful king had me. I will have
power soon.
My father was very powerful and I'll be given
things.
My father I knew for a time, 'til he died.
Hello,
father. Father? He was once a somwhat great man.
A mansion. We
were always on top of one another.
He was tall. He could reach
the high filing cabinets.
I was a princess then. I must still
be one?
Why does he stoop so? When did he get old?
My
King disappeared sometime. I was left with a man.
I remember one of my first poems.
Let me paraphrase.
It's about an astronomer shutting down his
shop for the night. The log is closed. One last look through the
telescope. He sees a glow. It's a supernova. A thousand planets
destroyed. He jots down the co-ordinates on a scrap of paper, slips
it into his pocket, and promptly forgets it.
His wife's doing
laundry next day. "These pants?" "Yeah," he says,
half-asleep. And the note is destroyed in the wash.
Inspired
by a girl's phone number in some jeans that got washed.
Will
you miss me when I'm gone?
I resent
constantly that other people are more important than me. And I seek
revenge!
Today I went into the smoking room. Suhana Meharchand
was sitting at the nearest table. She's a personality.
I plunked myself down at her table and opened my Lovecraft book. I
didn't look up once. She has to know she's nothing
to me. (When in fact I think she's probably really nice and I'd like
to fuck her mulatto pussy.)
So I read, and she finishes her
smoke and leaves.
End story.
I know my life is
clownlishly directed.
Maybe next time I'll say hello.
I Remember
Adolph
I
took some books I'd never read and went down to Queen Street to sell
them so I could buy cigarettes. Vanity
Fair
and others. Sold them for five dollars which was enough.
Out
on the street a honk. A man was gesturing, like there was a fire
somewhere. I opened the passenger side of his German car.
He
said, with a German accent, "Come with me. I will pay you
well."
"Oh, no, I'm meeting some friends. Sorry."
I closed the door.
And I crossed the park. Kicking myself. I
really could have used the money.
Music For
Dancing and Sadness (I)
Whoo,
I'm all out of breath!
Where did you learn to dance like that?
Pretty cool!
Angelica. What's yours?
Nice, means Gift
of God, did you know that?
Mississauga. And you?
It's
so noisy in here, what?
Real downtowner, huh? Well, I want to
move here soon.
Go to U of T.
I dunno, I guess an
English degree. Are you a student?
Well, school isn't
everything, right?
You're welcome, it was fun!
Um, do
you come here often?
Cool.
Oh, c'mon, it's early.
Will
you be here next Saturday?
Oh.
Okay.
Okay.
Bye.
I miss being
able to burn
my work.
I
wish I could burn
the internet.
Pile
it in a great pyre, in a clean and open field, upon an autumn day;
douse it with gasoline, and burn it down. Melt it to a plastic goo.
Send
all these words to the sky.
I
know a painter who regularly goes down to the lake and burns
her work.
I've always admired her for that.
I know, I have burned
relatively few things by comparison, but it's the ability to destroy
myself
that's the important part.
I
would love to burn myself.