I · want · to · thank · you · for · emptying · my · cup

I've moved again.
I moved last week to NYC and I have a job now so the next three months shouldn't be so hard financially. I've been having a blast so far with Ed and his friends and all the stuff we do.
Play pool, chess, connect four tournaments and going to Coney Island yesterday was so much fun. I was dressed as a mermaid for the mermaid parade and Ed was dressed as a pirate, so I guess it made sense when he threw me into the ocean along with all the other mermaids.
My job is really cool too, I work at a Latin restaurant as a waitress/counter girl/catering chef.
Everyone there is really nice, my boss is a woman named Sandy who look just like my mother only she's got a little but more of the hippie vibe and less of the cynical smart-aleciness that my mom has. I don't think you'd ever catch Sandy calling anything ghetto-mcjankity.
Anyways, update later.

I really just want to write about how much it sucks to bitch about stuff that sucks. Bands sell out, bands suck, music loses it's importance and it wasn't that big a deal in the first place. But, then, the feeling I get hearing certain music, certain sounds just revs me up and makes me wanna dance and get all that extra space around me full of jazzed up energy. Fuck, I hate that, summer makes me miss old ska and punk and I'm not even that much of a "fan" but I do miss the summertime feeling that comes from the music. Maybe I just need to know what it's like to be on my own with that fun fun fun feeling whenever I want it. I wish I had more records. I wish I was in a band sometimes or that I wasn't just trying to get that feeling from music by fucking musicians. God, I hate musicians.

http://youtube.com/watch?v=szlErXP9Cnc&mode=related&search=



FUCK IT TIL IT DIES!
WANNA BANG?

More statistics, more photos.....

I'm tired of dealing with this.
Yeah, okay, I realize that throwing away matte boards wasn't your fault, but it does put a damper on my wallet and when I ask that you help it doesn't look good when you say you can't yet you have the time, inclination and MONEY to get stoned off your ass.
What a fucking child, thanks for putting a dent in my relationship with my mentor.
Fucker.

She was just another stupid girl. I could tell by the way she used words that weren’t really words, hyphenated Franken-words like “redonkulous”. She didn’t twirl her hair, and her clothes hadn’t been given much attention; but the way she flung her hands about, flicking through the air, made me want to scream. We hadn’t even spoken more than a handful of words and I was assuming she wouldn’t mind, or at least notice, my hands clasping her around the neck and bashing her malformed skull into the concrete table.
But, as abruptly as her verbal spasms had started, they stopped and I was able to focus on the other things bothering me that day. All the women around me seemed to have the same affliction of stupid on their slack-jawed-mouth-breathing faces. “Why is it,” I wondered “the natural course of women to be ignorant?”. I’d found over the years little space for change in the matriarchal spectrum of Detroit City and thought it almost overwhelmingly funny that the same traits I hated in others I flaunted through what I assumed was my own dazzling wit. Why was it funny to be the immortal flibbertigibbet when I was the one doing the gibbeting? Why was it that no one else had the poise, nay, the pizzazz to pull off the feminine cosmic joke? Of course, it never came into my head that I might be placing myself on a pedestal of intellectual stature, because if you know that you are in a high place you can always fall down. Fall I did, right on my self-righteous face as the girl in front of me whispered “You know this is an act right?”.
“What?” I murmured to her, unsure of what she had meant. “You know, this is an act, the hair, the clothes, the lisp. I mean for god’s sake who talks like that?” I shook my head at her in amazement and wondered what could force a woman into such an act when my sense of reality nailed me with a two-by-four in the backside of my head. “Damn.” I thought “I really need to quit nodding off like that, now, where are my keys?”

I want the past to stay an arm's length away.
Is that too much to ask? Sad to say, I was finally going through my old e-mail account and decided to go through all the old junk and boot it out. I had a collaborative effort of over 200 e-mails and digital camera phone pics to delete. All of them from Josh.
What happened? Did I just allow myself an extended mental absence, or ab-sense as I would like to have it referred to as. It hurts to think that I saw so much for such a price. I have the memories of a year that we ran from the cold weather. Everytime the cold came up, we raced to warmer climates, haha, it seems silly now but I think we were chasing something elusive, I know now that this is very very true.
I lived an entire year within the confines of a car, a garage, a sofa, a shack, a tent and finally a home.
I worked in every place I was a part. I worked when I had burdens. I worked when things were rough.
I always kept up my part.
I guess that's what happens when you don't keep yours. I wish he wouldn't call, not on my birthday, not on anniversaries, not holidays, nothing.
I guess that's what happens when you mean the world to someone and you fall apart. When your world falls apart you can't remember anymore.
By the time the train left town I couldn't remember his face, calming in a way but mostly a shock, I remember the almost bitter sugary sweetness of the first french toast breakfast I'd had, alone, in months. I remember the regret and anger I felt losing every ounce of that old life during hours upon hours of exercise, just so I wouldn't look like that girl you knew in any way.
I want to try and recall your face just so I could feel something. But I refuse to recollect and dig up the corpse of our unfulfilled life together.
I'm writing a book about you, about our time.
Maybe then I won't wake up wanting to tear you a new asshole.