28.dec.2003
maybe i should cut my hair, do some laundry, make an atom bomb.
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deplumed and thus featherless.
Welcome to another uselessly exciting edition of RavieSlave's Sesquipedalian Methods of Over-Dramatizing Menial, Daily MisAdventures(tm). Though, I'm quite certain I'll just bend this entry into another enigmatic segment of stream-of-conscious blathering.
I am wearing my navy-blue fleece blanket like an Elven cape, while searching for antique broaches among my jewelry collection so I may classily secure said cape-blanket and hope some strapping vagabond will stop by to unclasp it roughly and mysteriously ...
... merely to find I'm wearing a purple Mills College tank-top and corset-tied black trousers beneath it, grand and anciently-adorned dirt trollop that I am.
Speaking of strapping vagabonds, Tony called me earlier, in search of a mutual friend of ours. He paused briefly, inquired about my Christmas celebration, my mother's well-being, if I still have plans to take off to New York to explore every possibility in existence, and if I'm returning to Oklahoma City.
I told him I didn't know, that I'm firmly aware I feel no passion here, just obligatory bonds to family members, as it's been this way intermittently for the past, oh, nine years. I am renown for taking off to different states for visitations, lengthening the stays, and eventually moving there.
Though my impulses have predominantly led to failed attempts, all insanity-qualifiers intact, it's not going to stop me until I'm successful.
I'm disappointed to hear you're married, Tony, and I'm sure if circumstances were different, we'd still be beating your Buick's dashboard with fuck-bass and flesh together on drug-induced, hourly bases.
But pack my bags, unclasp my broaches, and toss a dime into my styrofoam coffee-cups.
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Blatant realization spawned by four months of intense introspection:
All of my relationships were products of drug-love, hallucinogen-lust, psilocybe-tongued denial and specious, emotional freedom.
I don't know who any of you are in my hours of sobriety.
If I could trade you in for comic books, virginity, and plane tickets, with my experience-subtitled-impenetrable-prescience beside me, rest assured I would find the "rewind" button and erase you.
Thanks for the sex, though.
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In regards to relationships, I tend to lean more toward severing all ties completely once a union has unwittingly and ceremoniously crashed. I prefer this dramatic method in lieu of one day finding myself engaged in a trite and shallow conversation with someone who once drunkenly stirred the sinuous streams of my subconscious whims and traced fingers along the post-coital lower fibers of my trapezius.
There is no lie in human touch, there is only the brutal misconceptions of our wasted propriety following.
Sometimes, ones will follow me past the breaking point, brush off the remnants of hollow romance-cum-mind-fucks and light a cigarette for me to say, "Great game, great game. Shall we have another go?" Sometimes, I'm lucky enough to have someone make the effort to end the bond for me. Most times I just saunter off before the credits roll.
Then I intoxicate myself on Crown Royal and reminisce until my stance turns into liquid and seeps purple into all the wrong directions, and that's sheer humility at its most neon. You might even find me chastening my own self for actually publishing the line, "saunter off before the credits roll".
I relinquished my alcoholic gluttony on those terms alone. It's proven to be effective, however, I've traded vices, and I like my recent choice of substance abuse much more than whiskey on a hot August night.
I'm not sure why I feel the need to write this. I've surpassed the 'writing-about-it-makes-me-feel-better-because-I-can't-afford-therapy' stage and descended into middle-class ambivalence. Reflection, observation, temporizing, hypothesizing, the usual gamut, run until it's vomited all over its striped Nike socks.
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I am up to eight SPAM e-mails an hour. You don't waste any time, do you?
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VH1, Rolling Stone Magazine, Billboard, and basically every music-press consortium on the face of the planet have deemed Dave Gahan's solo album as "emotionally naked". I want to bitch-slap all of them and bellow, "Everything he has done in his lifetime has been imbued with emotional nudity, you stupid writing fucks!"
There are few lines drawn between obsession and devotion. My bladder disagrees.
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Christmas Present Update: Barry Adamson's The King of Nothing Hill. Moist and appeased and hollering "We're finally free!" at the moon? How uncanny of you to imply.
Ooh, there's something about you, baby.
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Sexuality is fucking innate. Never let anyone tell you otherwise. You can't be taught. Stop fooling yourself.
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It's unfortunately been a day that even languidly pushing my piano's light keys hasn't been my saving grace. What a difference a sharp makes, though.
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It's always raining when others play the guitar for me through miles of telephonic wires and mounds of psychological insecurities. I result to altercations with my conscience when this transpires.
"Oh, God, he broke out the guitar."
"Why are you shimmering? He's an asshole."
"But he's an asshole with a guitar."
"Would it be different if he had a kazoo?"
"Wait. Electric or acoustic?"
Be happy I never think aloud.
Incidentally, the voice of my conscience sounds like Jubal. Incidentally, I'm still waiting for one in the morning to roll around. Incidentally, it hasn't.
Making my daily plug-o-Jubal, I sent him Placebo's "Blue American", to which he wrote me an e-mail as I was sleeping and informed me he's "quite liking it". It makes me wish for more money so I can fold him up and utilize him as carry-on luggage to New York City. He needs eye-liner, though.
God, what a fucking wonderful thought.
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I never befriended Kurt Cobain, but he's gargling "Come As You Are" into my ear, and I asked the random shadows, "Skinless?"
I won't argue the platitudinal magnitude of his faux-genius with anyone, namely because I don't have that much time to convince the rock-steady he's not.
I have things to attend to, such as Microsoft Excel, cookies, black skirts, masturbation, eyebrow tweezers, bank account numbers, and the nefarious sighs against my bathroom mirror.
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Dance me hair-free and sexy.
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time & machine