illmatic

aloha means goodbye. and also hello, it's in how you inflect.

Wednesday, August 10, 2005

the future of the program

because my chest feels like a nail bomb exploded inside it i walked around my house yesterday, seriously contemplating eliminating the offending organ by spending my (non-impressive) savings on an apoplectic amount of drugs so that my heart would explode. because i am a pussy, i instead walked around my house bursting into tears at various intervals and stared at myself in the mirror, amazed at how creepy and puffy i look when i've been crying on-and-off for several hours. then i made pasta and watched Dig! and after that i composed myself for exactly 2 hours, biked to a cheese store down the street and interviewed the cheesemonger about unpasteurized milk. and then i went to the gym and my iPod died.

disregarding the fact that i sort of feel like slicing my throat open, i made up a list of trivial things that i can no longer do now that the one person whom i've ever felt such intense Real People Feelings for never wants to talk to me again.

i can no longer:

take pleasure in laughing at the fat guy in the eggplant shirt who works down the hall
indulge in my fears of gaining weight/sucking at writing/wondering if everyone is making fun of me, and then having someone there to tell me i'm crazy and that everything is fine
take the elevator bank that causes me to walk by his desk
contemplate suicide and expect to have someone stop me and take me to a movie instead
watch him eat fried things covered in cheese and enjoy the taste vicariously
pick ends of the fried things covered in cheese and pretend i didn't really eat them because they belong to him
believe that i will ever be loved again
occasionally grab his ass on the escalator

this is fucking lame. i'm going to come up with some less maudlin things to write about.

Tuesday, August 09, 2005

more frabjous days

you guys are totally lucky... this morning my ex dropped the bomb that he wants to cut off all communication with me, which i predict will result in a shitload of substance abuse and ensuing tomfoolery. stay tuned!

Monday, August 08, 2005

congratulations on your fantastic acheivement. me and your mother don't understand what it is you're supposed to have done (or what's good about it)

i've been driven so crazy by this early morning shift i'm on that requires 5 ayem wakeups that every afternoon when i get home, i stare in the mirror and start to cry. some of my friends think i only do this a few days a week, but in reality it's every day. see, i have this birthday card my mother sent me on my big day, which is june 23rd thanks for asking, and on it she scanned and printed a photo of me when i was 2. i'm sitting on a beach in bermuda in a little pair of terrycloth shorts and no shirt, leaning towards the camera with a face that says, "this looks like a hilarious looking object!" there's wind blowing through my little jesus boy haircut and it's that photo that sets me off every time. because i think, i can't think of the last time i felt that carefree, unjudged and non-besmirchedly happy about anything. the caption underneath says, "happy birthday to the go-knock-em-off-their-feet girl" and it reminds me that the only person i've been knocking off their feet is myself, and it's usually down a set of stairs. it's so depressing.

i've also come to terms with the fact that i am indeed dead inside, and will probably never be in a relationship ever again, because the only people who hit on me are men who want to cheat on their girlfriends and/or wives.

Thursday, July 28, 2005

because i have no faith in happiness

this will seem lame considering how long this last blog sabbatical has lasted, but i received two messages from friends last night that i needed to immortalize somehow.

from adrienne:

"rx. it's adrienne. why don't you come over to my house so we can do dance routines?"

from BC (after i delivered a strawberry-rhubarb pie to her door, which seems altruistic, but was really just a bribe for her getting up at the ass crack of dawn to be a guest on the morning show i produce for):

"uhn. mmm. this pie. this pie is so good my lady lips are quivering. in fact, the only way this pie could get any better, is if i could eat it... with my lady lips."

the image of her eating a pie with her hairpie stayed with me throughout the evening, causing me to have a sex nightmare about achy breaky billy ray cyrus, who is coming into the studio today for an interview.

Tuesday, July 19, 2005

i am NOT a prostitute

here's a fun fact for you kids:

wearing a skirt three inches above (gasp) knee-level and a fucking super provocative PLAIN WHITE T-SHIRT will get you ONE HOT PROPOSITION from a cab driver.

i was applying lip balm in the back of a taxi on sunday evening, awaiting my change, when the cabbie turned around with dripping mouth and dumb baby seal eyes, focused directly on my crotch and said, "you on a job?"

to which i responded, "what the hell did you just say??"

to which he backtracked, "uh... i was just talking... just talking..." emphasizing his point by making a talky-mouth with his right hand.

to which i yelled, "FOR YOUR INFORMATION, I AM NOT A PROSTITUTE. I'M A JOURNALIST."

then i slammed the door. and punched the roof, for good measure.

Sunday, July 10, 2005

the postcards i bought: excellent!

i had to log this for posterity-purposes. on friday, i was busy doing adult-type things like my taxes (late, and some of the information hastily scrawled on the back of my the envelope my friends' wedding invitation came in, with the sum to be accounted for in a crooked box, surrounded by galaxies of equations). right, so i did my taxes, then some other adult things, and then went to a stationary store to buy a Thank You card set to write thank you cards on. (it was my 26th birthday on the 23rd of june.) i purchased two sets: one with gold and pink stripes on heavy stock, cream-coloured paper and a line drawing of a cherub on the front, and the other was a book of weird postcards entitled "Evil Thoughts". maybe you've seen them, the cover is neon pink and hard to miss. the first card says, "sorry i painted the word TWAT on your garage door" but my fave is this one:

YOUR ANORAK SIR!
it is the finest anorak i have ever seen. it is truely (sic) perfect in design and meticulously crafted. it is an anorak fit for an angel, its beauty stuns me

AND YOUR BEARD SIR!
it is sleek and elegrant like the coat of a mink. it is grey like the most precious silver of the mine and makes you look regal and kind like an emperor.

AND HO! I CANNOT BELIEVE IT SIR, YOUR BEAUTIFUL WELLINGTON BOOTS!
it is as if god himself had crafted them, etc etc........

jazzhands pembersnaps told me they were written by an institutionalized mind. i think that's untruthful buzz-hype.

Thursday, July 07, 2005

the psychic ironist

my favourite portion of yesterday was choosing to play all the Peaches tracks i had on my iPod, starting with the FatherFucker advance EP through to the Teaches of Peaches. i openly laughed on Queen Street when Peaches scream-sings, "some people don't like my crotch!" and Iggy Pop responds, "that's 'cause it's got fuzzy spots!!"

but the coup-de-grace came along Spadina, when i walked through a group of Little House on the Prairie-clad Mennonites in their flowered ankle-length dresses and Princess Leia braids just as this was being repeated ad infinitum: only double A
thinking triple X only double A thinking triple X only double A thinking triple X licky licky sucky nobody here can tell me they don't wanna fucky fucky licky licky sucky nobody here can tell me they don't wanna fucky fucky.

urban poetry at its best, ladies and gents.