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Below are the 20 most recent journal entries recorded in chris_kaasi's LiveJournal:

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Thursday, January 9th, 2003
5:02 am
subconcious gloating within dreamstate
Something like the fading of a dull trance and I’m standing outside the gas station under almost greenlit flourescent lights staring at the concrete, slightly aware of someone walking past me (over to my right.) He seems like he’s drunk. I personally, have only had a beer, but it’s come at the end of a two hour skate session on top of no sleep and no eating, and now I’m lightheaded and unsure of exactly what it is that I’m doing. It’s right around midnight and I once again have that otherworldly sense of something important – paying attention to myself with that sense of no really, do you realize who I am? (yet I’m keeping my celebrity to myself – blanked out tight under strict lock and key.) At the skatepark earlier tonight I bailed a frontside grind on one of the ramps in the street course. I ran out of it casually, though I didn’t realize my board was right behind me. It nailed me right in the softspot of my achilles – something I blew off at the time, though now, a few hours later, is killing me. My shoe is rubbing right smackdab in the middle of this ugly swollen bruise – almost in a good way – almost like purposely picking at a hangnail and vaguely enjoying the pain. I’m limping across the parkinglot battlescarred and slightly self-righteous thinking of Dwayne earlier tonight. He may very well be a meth-head these days. His mind was all over the place. He was talking distracted, rambling scattered thoughts nonstop with nothing in mind. I’m standing in the middle of the streetcourse listening to him almost in awe – almost starstruck, only part of me can’t help but remember it wasn’t that long ago that he was a pain in the ass little kid, bumming rides off me ‘cause he didn’t have a car (and still doesn’t, though now he’s in his late twenties.) I’m amazed that his insanity has taken on an air of sophistication. He’s crazy, yet dignified and charming. Everything he says is hilarious and people crowd around just to hear him talk. People know him. He’s had plenty of coverage in Transworld and Thrasher, not to mention ESPN – though it should be pointed out that he was the kid who bitched through his entire interview – the host is simply trying to ask him questions about the newfound popularity of skateboarding and he’s complaining incessantly that ESPN never cared about skating until it was an obnoxious fad – just another t.v. network jumping on the fucking bandwagon – something I thought was cheesy and made fun of – something he later admitted was dumb, telling me how he’d been drinking all day ‘cause the event was catered and the beer was free. But now he’s reached some new level of genius. He’s talking to me like an excited child. He’s pointing at this that and the other thing, calling his tricks ahead of time, insisting that I watch him. He rushes off, hits a backside 180 kickflip over the hip, tailslides the quarter pipe, and nosegrinds the longbox, hurrying back to me to tell me a story of how he gave skating lessons to a four year old girl who’s father was a total dick, and who’s mother was really hot – she was probably about 25 or 26. The night fades on brisk and cold. We’re in the blacked out parkinglot after closing time and he’s insisting that I have to start skating again. (This was my first day back after a ten year absence – a decade I unintentionally dedicated to drinking instead of skating.) I tell him I’ll probably see him on the weekend. His girlfriend picks him up. I drive to a bar, have one beer and then drive to the gas station near my house where I buy a twelvepack and pause spacey for a second while staring at the concrete. I head home and drink my beers while listening to music on the computer.
Tuesday, January 7th, 2003
5:07 am
kast out and fighting off the daybreak
it seems like i remember something like bronzeglow streetlights shimmering liquid and lost -- loving the midnight, loathing the twilight, passing out softsilk cozy and quiet with "the money and the sweetspot".
instead i'm breaking resolutions, noting the revolutions of lives past and the nighttime tastes like black gold. smooth, dry, fading, and i forget what the fuck i was talking about.
Monday, January 6th, 2003
1:46 am
yesterday's ho-hum
Rather than point out I'm drunk at 4:58am like I always do, I'll simply point out that it's nearly 5:00am in the morning and I'm lost rambling, looking yet again for something indefineable - something without name or form - something that makes me drink through all hours of the night, searching the internet for porn and cd's and memorabilia from famous writers and movies, and really none of this is anything I actually need - all the kind of thing that I open up excited right outta the mailbox and forget about five minutes later. I know that life was supposed to have a meaning, and I can barely justify my empty existence - the kind of thing that would depress the hell out of God - the kind of thing that would make God think, "Jesus Christ - I give this kid everything and he doesn't have one goddamn idea - not one single inkling in terms of simply living out his human existence.", and I feel embarrassed. The latenight in terms of early morning is always strange and spindly - some godforsaken drunken spiral of whatnot and the sun rises, and people walk their dogs and get ready for work and I stand drunk on my patio with a beer in hand simply confused by the sight of it all. It's always so beautiful - so unbelievably precious to the point where I feel guilty and think, "things should be different", yet my dumb lostness and loathing for goddamn workdrone corporate america forces beer in hand once more at the end of the day - end of the day being midnight, and hence, drunk and awake until daybreak yet again, and really, part of me thinks that a solution could be as simple as a girl - just one nice girl to fill this goddamn void, and all the while my pessimistic side says, "yeah, what about Mandy? You asked for a girl. She came into your life, and it was horrible - something like prison if you learned how to like the sex." Apparently, the one true definition of this feeling is a hollowness - an emptiness - a void - something missing - something that makes you drink to all hours of the night with no satisfaction looking for porn and music and memorabilia of famous writers - searching and searching and searching until you realize how unbelievably corrupt the internet's become - corrupt in the sense that there's no longer any quality - just a billion idiots looking to make a quick buck, and I swear it wasn't like that just five short years ago. Back in '97 you could find high quality porn sites for free. Back in '97 you could search a topic and not be bombarded with a fucking barrage of "sponsored" links that don't pertain to a single fucking thing you searched for - hell, back in '97 I was miserable but atleast I felt something. I was miserable for a reason. I was miserable 'cause not only had Sherry and I broken up, but that was right around the same time I saw the infamous sex tape of her and Mark White. I was miserable but life still had feeling. Summer still meant something back then. Beer still meant something back then. Being drunk in the middle of the night still meant something back then. Fuck - I had moved back in with my parents back then, but everything was still fun. Clubs still meant something. Watching t.v. still meant something. Listening to music still meant something. Jesus, now everything feels so dead. All the zenmasters claim the ultimate happiness is having no desire whatsoever. I say fuck that. Life is not living without desire. I like wanting things. I was miserable in '97 because there was so much I wanted that I couldn't have. Now in 2003 I want nothing. Nothing means anything to me anymore and I couldn't be more unhappy. I'd rather have the comfort of wanting and not getting than being riddled with the lostness of having no interest in anything. This is not zen. This is existential angst. This is living death, and I want nothing more than to live again.
Jesus Christ! Remember the way Eclipse used to feel? Remember what Saturday night used to mean? Remember the way life always felt like a movie back then? Drunk intellectual kids who were obviously on the verge of some sort of earthshattering breakthrough - the feeling of buying extra beers at the gas station right before they stopped serving alcohol at 2:00am, and heading down to the riverbank behind the Haskell building - all the drinking - all that fucking drunkass conversation on the riverfront overlooking the nighttime cityscape - back when all those things used to mean something. Remember the feeling of the parking garage in the middle of the night? So drunk and agonizing over which girlfriend is sleeping with which friend and now at thirty, I have no girlfriend and no friends - ironic ain't it? My modern life is built in confines - the clich same four walls of apartment dwelling (drunk night after night) and the same ratrace clich of modern corporate america day in and day out and the hilarity of the way word spread fast amongst my old friends (in disbelief) when they found out how much I make nowadays - as if I were king of the world - and of course no one realizes how horrible and lonely I feel - nor are they the least bit interested. Everyone has a life. Everyone has people. And maybe that's the problem. Maybe I'm fucked up because I have no friends. Think about it - in movies they always portray the depressed people as the nerds of the highschool - you've got the popular kids at one table and the rejects at another. If that's the case then where do I fit in? I mean, atleast nerds have other nerds to hang out with - I don't even have other losers to hang out with. There's nothing - no one - just me, drunk at home every night.
Oh fuck this - fuck all of this. I've completely lost interest in this entire train of thought. (Too drunk, perhaps?) I'm guzzling more beers and the modestmouse 764-hero split CD is hitting the bizarre slow goopy sloven part. (one of the remixes) Atleast there's music. Atleast there's beer. Atleast there's computers. Atleast there's porn. Atleast I have a job. Atleast I have my parents. Atleast I have the future. Atleast there's reason for hope.
Saturday, January 4th, 2003
4:51 am
Midnight in line at the grocery store - dull flourescent light - greenish haze and I'm staring at the ass of the woman in front of me - mid-forties with black pants and black and white french-style shirt, heavily perfumed - a department store type (carrying the see-through bag of the store she works for) - and I'm thinking I'd like to fuck her. She's not necesarrily the most beautiful woman ever, nor does she have a perfect body or anything like that - just something about her - I think I'd fuck her - no, I'd definitely like to fuck her. Her perfume smells like someone clean - like she just got out of the shower, and perhaps that's where my intimate train of thought came from. I'm standing here, staring blank at the candy display in the impulse-item section that's always strategically placed to catch your eye when you're bored and standing in line, staring blank at nothing. But yes, I'm standing here looking at the candy and a group of boy-geniuses have now lined up behind me - fratboy types - backward baseball caps and baggy jeans - ironically dressed similar to me, though I think anyone with half a lick of sense would realize that we stand in stark contrast of one another. The one boywonder is talking on his cell phone ('cause he's obviously the kind of guy that's important enough to merrit phone calls in the middle of the night at the grocery store.) He's talking full volume - something about going to L.A. and he has that gay pseudo-surfer drone like Spicoli in Fasttimes at Ridgemont High - the sort of accent I didn't think people had in real life. He's asking how long "the fucking flight" to L.A. takes - keep in mind he's not the least bit angry - he's just the type of mental giant who uses the word "fuck" full volume in line at the grocery store, and I take an instant disliking to him. The two guys behind him are amazingly less inteligent. They say "fuck" too, even louder than the first idiot, and with even less reason. They're conversation runs something like, "Dude, what the fuck is that shit?"
"I don't know what that shit is."
"Yeah, but that's some fucked up shit." (Keep in mind they're simply looking at a magazine rack stocked with things like Glamour and Cosmopolitan.)
"Dude, it's gonna be fuckin' one o'clock before I even get to start drinkin' if this fuckin' line doesn't hurry up."
"Fuck, I know dude.", and one of 'em gets a call. He answers his phone by saying, "What up bitch?", and it's at this point that my loathing for so much of humanity begins to boil over - look, I'm no stranger to the word "fuck". As a matter of fact, some might say I use it frequently - but there's a difference. I say it out of passion, out of anger, out of exaltation, out of extreme excitement, out of an inability to find another word that matches the emotion I'm feeling at the time - but these idiots - no, these idiots use it without passion. These idiots use it as if they know no other words. Not to mention the fact that they don't seem to have any concept of the fact that they're in public. I'm glancing back at them and the two incredibly hot girls that have now taken places behind them in line. The girl at the very end - a blonde girl with huge tits in a tight white shirt and jeans, tall and thin lurking bored in model-esque perfection is pretending to be distracted. Yet sadly, the hot girl closest to the fratboys not only isn't put off, but seems actually attracted to these jackasses, and now my heart fully sinks. She's asking the fatter fratboy with gay spiky frosted boyband hair something about something, and I just wanna lay down.
The store phone is ringing over by the manager's counter and fatboy fratboy is saying, "Can I answer it?" He's moving over towards the phone, then decides not to answer it at the last minute - a gesture that perhaps was for our benefit - something to let us see his gregarious side - something to let us know that he's the life of the party that isn't actually a party, but people simply trying to buy groceries in the middle of the night. The middleaged woman in front of me is being handed her groceries. She's walking out the automatic doors that are always open nowadays. I'm watching her ass, until she's out of sight. She's seemingly fading into the night - off to take care of feminine middleaged things - relaxing after a long night of work and feeding her bird - I had seen her groceries - just two eggplants and some birdseed. And now the cashier is ringing up my stuff. She's a little girl, probably about twenty-three or twenty-four - sort of cute in her own little girl-next-door kinda way - hair in a pony tail and black hornrimmed "nerd" glasses. She's bored and sleepwalking through her night. She's paying no attention to me, nor does she seem aware of the sixty-something bagboy who's unusually tall and has a Frankenstein quality. She's robotically scanning my groceries and handing them to him one by one. I'm glancing past the fratboys who are seemingly doing some goddamn moronic song and dance that no one's paying attention to. I'm staring right at the girl at the end of the line who's still trying to pull off the "bored and distracted" look. She's staring at the floor, down to the right of her, which makes it easier for me to stare at her tits. She's perfect - utterly perfect. The fratboys have lost their existence. The bored blonde is god now - an all-encompassing perfect bored beauty - a tall thin monument to everything art was ever supposed to be about. My trance is snapped by the cashier telling me my total. I slide my debit card and ask for twenty dollars back, figuring that I'm definitely going to get a tattoo tomorrow, and I'll need money for tipping the tattoo artist. I'm picking up my groceries and wandering through the open glass doors, to the left through the automatic doors and out into the black midnight parkinglot desolation. I'm empty, anticipating my all-night drinking.
Tuesday, January 16th, 2001
5:28 am
for the luv of gawd, let's just go to bed.
softiepie beauty's somethin' most folks don't get -- just wanted to say thanks to the jetset for lettin' the wretch-fetched losers letch off the grandstand. bigplansandyou'll all be rewarded handsomely.
thanx,
m. louis lebris abispo de kuldesac
(dig the crack stashed in the back -- unused and we're all growing in stature.)
lectures're wasted once tasted by the grounds crew.
Friday, January 12th, 2001
4:35 am
icon envy for the upper eschelon
Yup,
posted the truelife sickness complete with the quickness of recognition -- transmission shoulda been blurred and everybody heard what i was actually sayin' (o! shock shock horror horror!) and tommorrow'll feel dumb while all the bums sift through crumbs of whatever the fuck i was sayin'.
(whatever the fuck they said.)
aww man, i'm too drunk to even fuck with metaphors here --
damn C, see how pretty you look in that picture?
fuck man, laugh if you will, but that's the kinda thing that makes lostkings and dudes lackin' the blingbling drink like a bastard -- so i plastered the storyboards with all the lameness of fatass depression.
seriously Sea -- Eye think you look like a million bucks in that picture.
hope you don't mind the glumness of my slumfest.
Ess.
Saturday, January 6th, 2001
4:24 am
glumpack westcoast offerin's (end of the land gladness)
No, really Jill -- check it! Crispycream gleamdream wouldbe starlets, tightdressed and gigglin' for the camera crew (though, they were too busy to notice), but seriously man, these chickies're so hot swoonin' for the drunklot (yeah, me!) (who'd ya espect?) -- aw, but I was wrecked, hipchecked -- no! BRAINchecked! (Yeah!) (diggin' me brilliance) and all hungup on secure order pornforms (man, things oughtta be more drunkfriendly) (but no one espects the spanish inquisition) (to be sweetn'drunk that is...) but wait...
The why? The when?
See then? -- How things shapeshift and my facelift was botched by bad attitudes (in hot latin lattitudes) (and of course it's "n-n-n-nodody's fault...") (dude, cockrock says it all) (and Zeppelin musta known me), but wait, I was tryin' to quote the most famous person I've ever known... "Damn Jill, d'you remember what that dude said?"
"She was talkin' about softbeds or foamheads."
"Who?"
"That one with the uh..."
"What?"
"Seriously, I remember it like it was yesterday."
But at this point I realized my head was buried under 8 inch walls of black sand and even Ayn Rand couldn't comp the dayglow near the dullspots -- O! the dreamteam hotshots and even THEY couldn't fill the seats -- FINE, stomp yr cleats on the doormat, walk back to the sea and feel the saltwater curl around yr calves -- laugh sweetheart 'til yr ready to go to bed -- "Aw babee I'm tired -- dig the salt in the air and the dreamy ocean softcrash... Wake me in time for the luau."
Thursday, January 4th, 2001
4:50 am
metaphysical longing for belonging
"Porquoi un homme dans la lune? Wyendonc!"
"'Cause baby, people ain't perfect and yr dad's still criss-crossin' in the nowhere tossin's of boozehound dreamvillages."
"When's my turn?"
"Don't know if you get one."
"Are you fuckin' kiddin' me? I spent like forty something years trackin' the dull shacks all over hell and high Mexico."
"You think this shit's easy?"
"Non, mon pere."
"I'm just sayin', they run this shit like a talkshow and I don't know if I'm winnin' anybody over."
"You slurred when you said 'winnin' anybody'."
"Sorry sweetheart."
"See, the deal is, I bet you think I'm sleepin' on some kinda starbed, but the truth of the matter's I'm hangin' vague on the notion of this blankwant void."
(I'm pausing drunk - don't have a response - she continues.)
"Je m'ennuie de vous."
(Damn, why'd she haveta hit me with that? Better say something good.) "Life's all about longing, but eventually it all falls into place."
"You promise?"
"Je promets."
"Then why a man in the moon?"
"La lune fait a des hommes la sensation."
"So you know what I meant back then?"
"Oui, il brise mon coeur chaque jour."
(with tears welling up in her eyes) "Well, then just hurry, I guess"
"Baby, I swear, I'm thinkin' as fast's I can."
"Bonne chance, pere."
"Thanks honey."
She turns and fades while I slip back and drink the way any rotten father would do in the wake of his lacking freedom - reincarnation a des gosses - Ma fille est la seule chose qui importe.
Gawd please help me to fall into place.
Friday, December 29th, 2000
5:22 am
softnights at the checkpoint
Fuck me! People are always dronin' on sayin' shit like, "angels aren't real", but that couldn't be more wrong - ever since I became intimate with my own death I see 'em all the time - seriously constantly hiding, giggling fading in the softlight sweetness of nowhere spaces. Man, I was drunk the other night (deathverge bullshit and all the usual qualms of heartbreak) but uh no - yeah! That's what I meant - check it! I was all nauseous (you know the way booze tastes like poison when yr body trembles from the excess of no recess?) - gawd I was so sick on like, nine, ten and eleven cursing the worsenings of the infinite lowdown showdown that never showed (and how can we have faith if yr constantly gonna blank want the priestly beasties of loopholes?)
But that's when it hit me like an ounce of feathers tossed from the snowflake softhands of fortune tellin' lostlands (or the inhabitants thereof) SERIOUSLY - she just kinda laid back (soft blonde hair shoulder drape) with innocent sweetheart smile and matching gray seethrough mesh top and hotpant bottoms, lounging in the loveliness of my lostheart longings -
"Baby, you've been drunk for a while now."
"What?"
"Come to bed sweetie."
"I'd feel less nervous if I was dying."
"Please honey, death is for movies - life is more like a cartoon."
"I guess I didn't get that memo."
"I left you a voicemail, but you were staring at that girl's tits."
"What girl?"
"My point exactly."
"D'you ever see the way the fog hangs over lakes on Florida hotnights?"
"Yeah, there's a billion connections lost in that haze uh, baby", and she softgrabs my face and looks into my eyes, " You wanna 'nother beer?"
"Yeah, I wanna watch the moon slink past the horizon."
She hands me a beer, takes off her clothes, slides under the covers, and I drink on the balcony soaking in the crispness of infinite possibilities - warmly assured for once and all.
Thursday, December 7th, 2000
5:39 am
drunkdreamjournal - kaasi_stevens
miserable fucking drunk fishbowl life at the bottom of the ocean -- house is beautiful square glass pressed against seafloor and one side of caverock -- i was drunk when i got here and can't remember how long it's been, but i got all i need's and the view's beautiful -- sweet little fishees press their tragic little fishfaces against the glass, and I (drunk) trace the lines with my dumb fingers -- they swim around and all the while the radio's blastin' -- t.v. in the background (cloning the slackdown) droning empty -- and I'm planning my dinner -- though the kitchen's closed (blood in the butter, plus the whole holiday thing) -- I pleaded drunk sad hunger pangs, but gawd was bored with me, and besides, I spent my last token trying to find poolsex under the harvest moon (no dice, and she was out the fuckin' door) (boyfriend, etc.) -- skipmeal void and I pass out cold.
DAY 15, 50, 5000 (i'm bad with numbers -- fuck it)
"The pain is unbearable, and I now realize there's no point in fighting the inevitability of death."
quickrot lostness, drunk, slowburn dumb and the scenery shines with the same beauty, but i'm broken and bend with the light shapeshifting through the clouds and water -- t.v. in the background (implying the breakdown) -- cloning desperation.
weather program and the hurricane above is supposed to be relentless - I'm senseless and relinquish my lifeluv - linger in the lostness (and this is pretty much what people expect from me anyway)
rope'send and i shave -- put on a nice suit.
(stupid fucking post-it note) (the kind my mother would morn)
hop into water pod ready to launch outward and upward -- slam forward and trust me death is no big deal
control the controls and look up lamby and sad -
- near surface and I'm bracin' for the crushin' headbang hurricane deathslam - cringe like an idiot -
- surfacebreak is soft like the sweet blackmother I lost a hundred years ago - (she was busy and hadta move on - )
(but oh, thank you Jebus.)
bubble up dumb and walk onto the shore - my sister's laughin' so hard she's cryin' and her pornchick friends did their nails for me - we all hug and the limo's waitin' - concrete jungle (no beach) and we rush downtown. ("I don't see the grass and the fields, I see an epicenter)
fucked up elevator rush and the business clods can't even begin to comprehend the pornchicks - all the way to the top and the terror twilight fades to Hawaiian Silky - it's my birthday luau - lush green plants and trees that I wouldn't expect to see on a rooftop - cityview's amazin' and we drink to the blurred sunset. (Fastforward) I'm about to pass out (really late) (alone) ('cause kidsisters don't count) (you know what I mean)
This city is so fuckin' hot in the summer - me and Aimee had some mozzarella triangles in the kitchen - it woke me up enough to have another beer and a small glass of port wine - Aim's sloppy and silly the way kidsisters get when they're drunk -
"Honey, make some more cheese sticks."
"I don't want no cheesecake."
"I said make some more cheese sticks."
"Take some more sleezepics?"
"Lay off the clambake."
"Who'd you say you were?"
"Here ya go baby.", and I hand her some peach schnapps.
"Y'know, Stevie, I ate this fuckin' seaweed at a sushi bar that one time but that was when I was drinkin' all that sake and Sapporo didju ever see those fishes that were swimin' in that little stream by the restaurant?"
"What, at Mikado?"
"Yeah, that little river let."
"Yeah, me and Sheri ate there a buncha times, but I was drunk every time."
"I just like the way the fish swam."
"Yeah, they'd glitter and glide kinda blind."
"What I liked was how alotta times I'd drink and look out the window and they'd swim off uninterested."
"What?"
"Goddamnit Steve yr burnin' our pizza."
"I want some ice cream."
"Stevie, hold this." (Aim's winecup and I finish it while she rescues our pizza.)
"You're too drunk to eat aren't you?"
"Huh?"
"C'mon Stevie, it's time to go to sleep."
Tuesday, December 5th, 2000
5:19 am
drunkjournal - steve_isaak
Latenight frontseat and she's all hung up on "Jason" (I'll call him.) -- She's melodramatic and dumb, picking at her lips with her fingernails til they bleed (and they really do bleed.) -- "I like to bleed when I'm sad."
"Seriously honey, that's fuckin' crazy.", but she scratches and pulls, and I fumble til I find a leftover cocktail napkin -- She blots the blood, shows me the napkin -- fuckin' bloodstained poorman's Rorsharch. (Don't know how to spell that.) She's girlnextdoor tall with pale skin and long black hair -- Hungarian, and I spend ten minutes droning on about how I like Hungarian chicks -- Christina from Roadrules 6, mainly, but I ultimately stare down at that tight little black skirt and those soft white legs, and really I just wanna fuck her -- but oh my gawd, she's too lost, even for me.
Ex-girlfriend Sheri shows up drunk, and I'm embarrassed that she finds me and Kristi in the car together -- hop out nervous, and try to play it cool. (So drunk myself.) Sheri's been gawdknow'swhere with gawdknow'swho, and I feel so sad (even though I was trying to fuck her best friend.)
Kristi unlocks the front door to her house, and Sheri hops onto my back, drunk piggyback style -- I'm not paying attention (offbalance) and we fall down -- I cut my fuckin' palm right above my wrist and Sheri drops the happyface stamp-ring she'd been stamping people with all night -- Kristi's freaked and Sheri (instantly sad) starts apologizing all crazy and emphatic. My fuckin' hand's bleeding bad (though I don't really care), and the mood's immediately wrecked.
"Oh my god Steven, I'm so sorry -- this is the worst fucking night." (Kristi's just staring off into space, and I'm ultimately just trying to figure out where Sheri had been before she got here.)
"Nah honey, it's o.k."
"No really Steven -- I'm so sorry... (pausing with tears in her eyes, and I know that look --) oh, fuck...", and she wanders into the house with Kristi.
I stumble through that wet grass looking for the stamp-ring that she lost -- can't find it -- grab a beer outta my back seat and walk in to see what the girls're doin' -- they're sitting on the couch quiet and sad.
"Hey kids, I'm gonna head home."
Sheri jumps up -- "Honey are you sure you're o.k. to drive?"
"Yeah baby, I'm fine." (Kristi sits in the background still talking about Jason, and I wanna drive off a cliff.)
Sheri walks me out to my car, we kiss on the cheek.
(At home) -- feel restless and lost -- drink another sixpack to prove a point.

Current Mood: drained
Monday, December 4th, 2000
3:23 am
Dreamt @ 2:30 This Afternoon
She's soft and sweet -- like nineteen or twenty with delicate features, blonde hair and a coy little laugh that gives me a strange, comfortable prickly sensation on the back of my neck. She's a famous naked internet model who's been introduced to me by a friend. Her name's Rachel and she's handing me a birthday card (though my birthday was six months ago), "Yeah, but I didn't know you back then." -- and I'm wondering why she didn't just give me a Christmas card -- that woulda made more sense.
It seems we're sitting at an airport bar (though neither of us are going anywhere.) She's talking about Paris or somewhere overseas, smiling and leaning closer to me. I'm trying to pay attention, but I'm so drunk I feel like I'm about to pass out.
Scene shifts and now we're sitting in someone's house -- sickly, dull beige lighting, and I'm still drunk trying to stay awake. She wanders off to the bedroom with one of her girlfriends -- It seems she's lost interest in me, and I turn to someone and complain that she's forgotten about me --"How long's it been?"
"Like fifteen or twenty minutes."
"You can't complain."
"But I feel so empty."
Scene shifts again, and I drive up to a party. I'm wearing rollerskates -- apparently I'm the only one. "Dude, the rollerskate party was last week."
I feel like an idiot, and go out to my car to change into my shoes -- come back in, get a beer from the keg and sit down. (more sickly, dull beige lighting) My mother is there -- hands me a few pieces of paper and says, "Read this."
I'm trying to read, but someone is crowding me -- looking over my shoulder, then standing right in front of me, inches away from my face. I get pissed and yell at the guy -- causes a big scene, but I'm drunk and feeble -- sick and irritable -- don't really care -- go back to reading. It's a poem my late grandmother wrote -- apparently unbeknownst to everyone. It's a sarcastic poem that lampoons the adult film industry. I feel somewhat depressed that my grandmother was anti-porn. I walk outside tired and drunk, and realize my car's been stolen -- step back inside for a second, grab another beer, and head back outside to wander around in the black void lostness of where ever I am.
Woke up right here.
Tuesday, November 28th, 2000
3:46 am
lateglitter slums
drunk latenite beachwalk and it's freezing (frozen) (i'm fucking freezing)
feet squishin in the coldsand -- one beer in hand, one beer in each front baggyjean pocket -- however many beers had at sloppy hyped beachbar (more dull beige lighting and walked outside to the deck -- sad couple 'inluv' -- lame and whispering) (fuck that)
blacksky and cold crisp diamondstars sparkling -- (sorry, but yes, again) see this and that Jill? the russian kids were lookin' at this six hours ago -- they went to bed uninterested -- i'd say something, but i'm longsince nothing.
oh, the girls in san diego'll sweettalk, kiss and probably even fuck under these stars.
they had no idea i was here cold and drunk, and cut my hand on this fuckin' bottlecap.
Sunday, November 26th, 2000
6:08 am
um --
full club, blacklight and spectral blue neon haze -- crowded as fuck -- the kids are lost and rollin' -- i'm hopeless and drunk -- run to the upstairs bar (that's the easiest one to get a drink at.) bartender 'misty' -- gorgeous and it hurts -- silver bikini with seethrough sarong.
hang over railing -- watch the endless sea of sexxxed up kids.
local radio d.j.'s emmm seeein' -- see the one girl d.j.'s thong and she's actually hot.
'nother drink. (drink) (drinks...)
dragshow void and i'm writhing on the inside -- for fuck's sake, anybody coulda lipsynced to madonna -- why this sad prissy bitch?
however many minutes of house music.
drinkin'.
ten minute hip hop tease and the crowd nearly fucks itself. (dirtydancin', etc.)
"flaming whips" segment and i still watch from upstairs. (it's just too crowded.) hot chickie in black g-string with electrical tape on her nipples hangs onto big 'X' shaped thingie and gets smacked with (no joke) flaming whips. (like this --) she cringes and faggy, pale, shirtless long dyedblack-haired scrawny goth dude hits her with whips and then rubs her ass. (he's actually checking to make sure she's o.k. -- y'know, the way magicians check their assistants.) (he really IS concerned with her wellbeing, which kinda tugs at my dumb heartstrings.) (she has black hair in braids and the most beautiful blue eyes the world's ever known.) segment ends.
mo' music -- mo' drinks.
still upstairs, drunk and the music is fuckin' crazy. two girls step in front of me, look over the balcony and begin grinding on each other. they're young (like nineteen or twenty) and start lifting up their skirts. they're kissing and i wanna fuck both of 'em -- hot little bitches who know exactly what their doing and i pretend to be distracted -- chickie on the left is dirtyblonde with a tight white dress and a little white g-string to match -- chickie on the right is slightly redneck with a blue dress and a lavender g-string -- they keep digging their fingers into their thighs, grabbin' the bottom of their skirts and lifting them to chestlevel -- high enough so that i can see the bottoms of their tits.
i drink more.
dirtyblonde grabs me, licks my earlobe and says (no joke), " i bet you're enjoying the show..."
"Yeah, this is the first time i've been in the right place at the right time." (i'm drunk and i consider sliding my hand up her skirt.) (i can practically feel that pussy.) (but instead i'm realistic.) (she staggers and says.)
"this is my friend lisa."
"hey, nice to meet you.", and bluedress (lisa) looks at me, but she couldn't care less.
"hey.", and bluedress is tapped on the shoulder by some fuckin' sweaty little ravebitch with no shirt and the mandatory devilhorn hairdo. they start talkin' and i'm bored. i get yet another drink and ask Misty for a pen -- she fumbles and hands me one that was stuck in her wasteband --
i grab a cocktail napkin and start writing this shit.
misty hands me a matchbook (under the impression that i'm giving these girls my number.) "here, this is a little more classy."
(i'm embarrassed.)
"oh no, i'm just makin' some notes to myself."
"what?" (it's really loud here.)
"i'm just making some notes -- i ain't givin' anybody my number."
she laughs (both girls walk off.)
(get a free drink along with a complimentary body shot from some girl with scary implants and a kind of annoying personallity.)
come home -- drink and rot in the cliche lostness of rainy six am's.
Friday, November 24th, 2000
4:18 am
o.k. so one night my mind slipped -- i was drunk, but i wasn't sure if i was dreaming or just remembering all kindsa holy golden old rolled ancient stuff -- we oiled the driveways and the cats would slide down like a slip'n'slide -- see, but the point was yes -- no really, i know i'm washed up and lost (oh please -- blah, blah, blah) but as always what i'm sayin' is uh... look, beer will always taste the same, no matter how much you have -- but see, waht (what) i really meant was these things're so fuckin' temporary see? no really -- that line's already gone (sit back and relish it) (relish these words too, 'cause they're fading before i even say 'em) (wait -- this is no epitaph) (and i'm fuckin' adamant about that) but yeah really... no really -- like i said before Jill -- see those stars? no really -- really look at those stars Jill -- that's the point -- holy christ, we can traipse along all these goopy, tired, wet, dewy mornings and make as many notes as we want about these fuckin' ghostly lostmountain fogs, but all that really does is take up space in a useless notebook (or taperecorder) (and the techkids'll be thinkin' stuff into i don't give a fuck) -- just dig the here and now (no pun intended) -- sometimes i hold my cats the way you'd hold a baby -- they purr and paw at my fingertips.
(Stream of conciousness written listening to AIR)
Friday, November 17th, 2000
4:04 am
JEBUS! who does my girlfriend haveta blow to get my horoscope updated???
Dude, seriously, watch these lameass bluestars gab and sink in these fuckin' molasses barrels --
I once heard me sickness was eternally nationwide.
too much lookie lookie lookie, to much watchie watchie wah... (BEP)
goddamn man, that girl's all lips and glasses...
my heart keeps gettin' raked over the fuckin' coals by fuckin' pearl necklaced whoevershewas's -- (see ...) (just turned 17 yr old) thin, blackhaired tanskin unbearably cute checkoutgirl at my grocerystore.
LIFEHURTS -- i'm sick of this shit.
eye deserve to rot.
it took 11 notebooks to write a worthless book -- boom the radio in the parkinglot sweetheart.
thelowly(s.)
Thursday, November 16th, 2000
3:38 am
sickdrunk in the lostgloom of cliche imagery --
sad talk sick walk rock wok
the kids rock -- lost my talk on the last chalkwalk.
po'try's for the bedridden
actually, what i meant's i'll talk direct if my chalk comes correct.
"Hey teengang! the bathroom wall's got free sharpies!"
bein' a grown man, i got drunk and went to bed.
Monday, November 13th, 2000
11:44 pm
(Straight up stream of conciousness)
The Falstaff's infrastructure is cool midnight blue and pristine -- gleaming and soft and waiting for me to lay down -- sure, you can sleep under the stars, Jill -- But wait, what I meant was, see, this guy walks into a star with a beer in one hand and a two foot salami in the other -- no, just sleep -- see the moon? and look, that over there's Venus -- isn't it pretty? It seems then, that I remembered that I couldn't remember something, but then I saw my daughter's bright little face -- see, she had just woken up -- sleepy -- brushed her long brown hair out of her face and said, "Dad, I remember I dreamt this cool thing the other day, but I forgot to tell you, but then last night I dreamt that I forgot to tell you, and so I'm tellin' you now." I'm tryin' -- I mean me -- I'm tryin' to explain what I meant by 'softspace'.
2:43 pm
Here's some purposely bad po'try inspired by TheClaire:

The silence is
deafening
I scream
to
hear myself
think
Language is useless
in this
junkstate
Why
did she
have to fuck
Paul?

(written in 5 seconds just now)

For MPM -- yes, biatch I'm workin' diligently on some new stories -- and please, change that picture of me -- I can't stand that gadamn vidcap.

Current Mood: touched
Sunday, November 12th, 2000
6:11 pm
O.K. forced myself outta the house to get something to eat and everything feels like a dream -- Dusk in Florida is heartbraking and these pink whispy lateclouds seem to remind me that I'm somehow missing something -- Goddamn, a million bucks to anyone who can drag me outta this gloomstate. Christ, I'm as dreary as a heavy-set gothchick. (Oh, my pain is so painful!) (joke)
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