EATFLAMBEFUCK

My Dope Book

2017-07-30T02:05:00.000-07:00

Hey Skanks!

I wrote a book. It's really good, legit. V professional and spell checked~ish!!!!!

Don't bother paying for it, I'd much rather know that you saved your precious coin. I'm sure there is a way to illegally download it.

My New Story

2014-02-19T00:33:00.002-08:00

Does he have to be so old? What is a contrarian? Should I google euromaiden?

The dark embers of hate that are fluttering out my heart emanate from the secrete place and destroy my soul.

How can I better learn to take criticism? What is my problem? Do I have chlaymidia?

The secret banter the is overflowing crushes the car in front of me as a dry heave up a dead pigeon.

Where are the Kennedy’s now? Is my roommate sexually attracted to me? Did my banker friend secretly check my credit history?

The make out lasted for three quarters of an hour and included fifteen minutes of vigourous dry humping that left both parties panting for more.

Will the children of Louis C.K. ever speak publicly? Does my landlord have Asbergers? Why hasn’t my coworker tried to fuck me again?

The windblown curls flapped over her cigarette and extinguished the last cull of hope from a dying crop.

Do dogs just like me because I masturbate a lot? Is my blush blended? Should I stalk my two ex boyfriends today?

The fervour at the cash register left her nauseated and pale as she left Sephora, clutching a bag of powder in her claws.

Do I dress like a lesbian? Do I have Aspergers? Will Stu ever text me again?

The hardened chocolate flakes away from her elbow as she turns over her pillow.

True Love at Last!

2013-05-21T18:34:00.000-07:00

Love Poems!

2013-05-21T18:31:00.000-07:00

Album Review: Scratch - Bela Lugosi - ft. Track "Prealudium"

2013-05-16T11:32:00.002-07:00

I drove into the ethereal last night
without cause I waded far and left it all
behind me the quivering home i shunned and dove
into the midnight trove
of well combed hair and sheer crop tops and brushed gold chains and ombre mops
of granville street

and then I saw someone so ----- I could barely even dance

we stood and swayed and some girls brayed and dropped their hips on phantom dicks and elbows pumped and pretend rain
and on our faces, painted strange we feigned this toughed out look of pain and called it posing for the camera

(and then amid the eyebrow paint, in the vibrating mass a freight call of supremecay echoed out from the coated throats of the young men as they jumped and whithered, akimbo knees knock to deliver, and the bass grew louder and the lights stayed dimmer)
i shiver as again I see something I can't help but want

i hug my crotch and move around and toss my hair and pretend frown and try and fit in instead of standing still in awe as is the want of lusty desire lusty calm.
floating bereft as we chat later, i'm barely controlling the inward mater
I regain my sober composure,defeated by limitations imposed on myself of dress and then I

leave.

////// /////////
Last Night, looking like a blown out doo-hickey (That was me)

The only thing that is making this morning less cry-baby is this song, scratch the rest of the album. single repeat.

Album Review // Relaxed Fit - Naturally Paula

2013-04-24T12:56:00.000-07:00

Relaxed Fit by Paula

Somedays, when the saltiness of the crispy, roasted burmese cashews that have nestled so sweetly inside a little red dish on the coffee table is really bumming you out - I mean harsh here, you are in a fugue (slowly descending, a breathless figure caught in a body)- you probably should have made more tea sooner - your mouth is dry and full of nut bits - then you realize you should have went to the liquor store after you had finished showering this morning at 10:39. Also, the calamity you know about is one text away.

Somedays when the tears won't flow and you're left vibrating in the hot sun shaking
Everything is poo
The little voice inside my head is telling me what I should have said
All this poo's for you

And I had,
so much more to say
But then you left, left me here ya babe
Your just a throwaway

At the end of the sixteenth century mr Fitch gave my own love to me
He saw me struggling

Every ball mr wa gave to me, hollow with a clapper chime
a silky string, these dapper times

And I ran, I ran so far away
I just ran, I ran all night and day
And I ran, I couldn't get away

My favourite part of listening to this album is that after, I listen to bubble pop electric by g. Stefani. Without feeling weird.

(It's a little more melancholy than even if its true, which to be honest, is the only song I really care to listen to in the morning anymore. But that's because In The mornings I'm still butt's out optimistic on life and whatever. Touching closer than closer is real - I can't hear what the lyrics are / I don't know what people are trying to communicate to me half the time - a lot of the words are being repeated / life is just a big swirly loop of repeated patterns and behaviors and life cycles and stardust becoming you, some unique being that isn't actually unique if you take into account alternate parallel universes, where chances are, you exist there already, atom for atom YOU. )

You definitely want to listen to change the subject when you're drunk - Blonde when you're sober.

Never make out to any part of this album, don't ruin this shit.

Fucks Taken

2013-04-23T14:47:00.001-07:00

Blocks between the work places of the largest cock and the smallest cock I've ever seen irl - 1.5

Number of people whose mouths I've bled on that are now sleeping on my couch - 1

Athletes I am unable/willing to identify - every athlete

Texts I am too hungover to read - 19

Missed calls in a half hour from a single person in the middle of the night - 23

Ringer volume - 0

Play count of Under The Earth in the past half hour - every play counts

Times Jacob told me we were meant to be together together while he had a girlfriend - a lot of the fucking times

Times I wanted to make out with a guy asking for change last night - 1

Positive value adjectives attributed to me during breakups - a lot

Crazy volume - 8

Dead things I saw on my walk yesterday - 2

Girls in the bathroom after a DMX song starts at Emily car free-for-all-dirty-crayon-breathe-strawberry-scented-faux-lesbian night at fortune - (-1)

Male sexuality - start a dialogue

Scale value of my attraction to x________, the prettiest Chinese man with the gelliest hair to size of my engorged labia 4:3 [_____________] 5m

Fucks given - 6

Bic pens for her. Giiiiiiiirl get some pens!

2013-04-12T13:07:00.000-07:00

I suppose it started last year. My boyfriend at the time would come and stay over, 2,3 nights a week. Our love making always seemed so deep and meaningful, we often wept together during. Undulated joy is how I often described it to my therapist the following afternoons. Sometimes my lover would enter me while I was standing, slightly bent over, with his fingers. He had long tender fingers that felt like fleshy probing rods inside of my private, slippery little sand balloons.

After he died while his cheating ass was being choked out -autoerotic asphyxia-by his male lover - now in prison/accepting pen pals - I felt a huge, gaping hole where his privates, my privates/his digits/my mouth, had intersected so incessantly before all that nasty death hollabalub.

I purchased these pens on a cynic's whim. I don't want to get into a detailed description of what I have been doing with them.....suffice it to say, ive been spending a helluva lot of money on stamps lately.

Album Review: Alex Calder / Time EP // ///

2013-04-04T12:26:00.001-07:00

//////////////
captured tracks. brooklyn. when was the last time you were in the womb? Was it when you had dropped three tabs of acid in your hand lotion and masturbated yourself till you were sick and bleeding all over the gingham picnic blanket? Was it when you listened to track three of Mr. Alex Calder's most idyllic, avuncular, body of work yet (Location / 3:43)? Are you currently penetrating a vagina, deeply?

Like this?

i sat immobile for thirty six hours, letting the xxxxxxxx and the xxxx wash over me, the resounding sounding sound of the universe crawl over me. my spine was afire suddenly, and as i stood up at the end of it, i knew // i walked for twelve kilometres, it didnt take me long to get to the mouth of the park. a trail of racoons led me deep, past the lagoon, led me far, under the moon. my head was quaking peace and soot, the sleeves of my shirt were stiff with frost by the time we arrived. the fire, symbols lucid, hadn't survived. i clasped hands with every slivery blade of grass and crawled up the lawn.

"i think i most want to listen to this album when im in da shower." - ng

A cookbook for individuals mixed up in loveless marriages and long distance relationships (also, single people).

2013-04-04T12:15:00.001-07:00

P

You are quite comfortable when you are alone, letting the blissful honey of solitude trickle down your spine like a little nervous shiver. You often smile to yourself - benevolently- and also at the crowds of coupled people and incomplete family units pushing through the aisles of whole foods/nesters/urbanfare/ famous foods, laughing and cheering, crying. You came for a single litre of almond milk, and breeze past everyone. Onliest you, a wondrous phantom escaping with the time they all seem to be fighting for in your rear view mirror.
This is your city, you don't have to share these moments with anyone. As you strut, across the Cambie bridge, ( a little overburdened, yes, on days when the load is vast. But today your limbs are free in the traffic blown wind as you laugh at the sky, and the watery creek below you) you take it all in with a sorrow free breathe, your lungs nearly bursting with the air, teeming with sunshine - you aren't fighting for oxygen with anyone right now.
You are inside suddenly, rising. You make your way out of the elevator, and a warm dark gust of incense perfumed air greets you after the door has been unlocked and the beads have been parted; you enter, you are home, you are whole.
A little jazzy purr ripples through the candle smoke and kisses your ears as you prepare for the meal. Your apron is tied steady, the cutting board in position. You toyfully test the blades on your thumbs (still razors) as the sudden vastness of time and space before you unfurls itself, unencumbered by the dead weight of xxxxxxx. Or xxxx.
You pause, and consider xxx and xxxxxxxxxxxx as well. You had cooked [for] all of them, less a display of affection and more a platform for you to perform. Suddenly the White Light is bearing upon your eyes, blindingly, the curtain has rose and everything else is in shade, you tremble, as the refrigerator pours itself on you, the. Star! The only one there! The only Being worthy of its sparkling gaze. You begin to See The Meal You Have Been Created to Create, filled with gratitude you part ways from the beast, arms laden with the dismembered bulk of the meal. Every item is carefully placed. The liquids are poured now. It is all gently set by your knife. The milky din of the jazz and the candle hugs your sides as you twirl, time suspended, the breathe of a figureless audience bated. The mis en place is assembled.

Hot Pickled Onion Sandwiches

-Gingerly place paper thin slices of red onions in body temperature apple cider vinegar. -Weep silently, leaning against the newspaper covered hallway as the red rings pale into the frothy pink of a severed artery.

Only listen to lambchop. Stop feeling [important/unimportant]. Stop telling people you make out with about the health benefits of raw onions.

2013-04-01T03:37:00.002-07:00

Several notes learned in an airport

1. Love letters are silly. Never indulge
2. Rule one is silly
3. Your feelings don't matter. (this only applies to you, schizoid, because you keep them locked up in a little Nic, far away, where they forever remain unscathed, untouched by the hand of every Vancouver man. Parenthesis complete.
3. Beach house is perfect right now. You will calm down in seven seconds flat. It will be magical
3. There are twelve different types of carbs hiding, and twelve more that are in plain view

3. Stewardess. Love em or hate em? It depends on what type of credit card yøu have, I think

3. Plan your escape 24 hours before the return flight boards.

Which one of us is free.

2013-01-25T00:53:00.000-08:00

Every year this happens.
"It's me again! Oh hello mirror." I'm sitting on my bed, looking at my body. Its naked. I've spent the past two weeks in a flurry, hurriedly exercising (IF YOU DON'T TRAIN INSANE, YOU REMAIN THE SAME!) spreading honey over my body, painting parts of myself, removing hair from other parts. I've crunched, and plucked and exfoliated and provided ample amounts of moisturizer to everywhere. I'm sore and clean, and I kinda feel brand new. As if the cold, dreary sludge of winter that I let get caked into all of my pores had finally been sloughed off, as if the outer protected shell had been released and here I stand now, at my tentative best.

I think I'm ready finally. I quiver in my bed smiling maniacally Upward into the darkness.
My empty tummy groans but it's worth it.
There are only two sleeps left.

I start to become uneasy, tossing and turning, flinging an arm/pillow; it becomes hot suddenly.

My passport, sitting at attention on my nightstand consoles me.

"It's okay! Just rest. Just BREATHEEEEE. You're alright." I am clearly not alright, I am weary and sad I realize.

"No one will even question it! They think you are a lesbian anyway!" I flip over away from the nightstand, slamming a pillow Over my ear. Yet I still hear it.

"They were all ALONE at one time! They were all lost man! The beginning of their careers were milestones on the journey, not the starting point."

I start sobbing silently. What the heck does that dumb little booklet thi-

"STOP FEELING SORRY FOR YOURSELF! Everything is incredible right now! It is about to become more incredible-er if you would just hush your mouth and fall asleep, just let it happen."

I slowly calm down, and eventually roll back, eyes pointed towards the planes.

I snorted in disgust so hard that I farted so hard that I ripped the seam in my jeans so hard that everyone on the sky train is now peering at me in the relative silence.

2013-01-06T18:16:00.002-08:00

Phases of Loneliness - A guide for the groping.

Part One - Are you even actually lonely? Sometimes we manifest the gaping hole of uninhabitable solitude that is loneliness in our hearts when dealing with vague and unquellable symptoms. Perhaps you should use this simple symptom checker to asay your mind, and bring awareness to the actual issue.

1. Am I cold?
2. Am I wet?
3. Am I hungry?

If you answered "yes" to questions 1 through 2 - Congratulations! You are not lonely! Just damp, which, come to think of it, isn't that great either. So, yea, I suppose just good luck with that.

If you answered "yes" or " no" to question 3 - you have an eating disorder.

If you answered "maybe....?" to question 3 - YOU ARE lonely. Please proceed to the next section for helpful tips on suppressing this unpleasant emotion.

Part Two - Phases of Lonliness - or alternatively - Suppression: An Arc of Acquisition ...

....:;.:.:.;:..;.:;.…;;.;

Well, I made a new plan! For the new year, maaaaybs.

Im just going to exercise. And stay in my apt, and maybe sometimes leave. Only if I have to! Hahahahaha. Hahahaha. I have a little sippy cuppy that holds the most perfect amount of beer/tea. I have the sound of the rain. Falling down and etc outside my window.
I might have more......but it's exhausting to recount everything. I'm just thankful enough for right now, and don't want to look too hard at what may be missing now.

Bad date ends with blood everywhere

2013-01-03T16:21:00.001-08:00

Fucking artists. If you are friends with one, you will probably, at one point, have your your eternal solitude broken as they gallop along with you to east van, ears turned to the left, as you hunt out the abandoned warehouse that the kids are hanging out at that night. By hanging out I mean, in a cloud of expensive cigarette smoke (which is rank) people ranging from 16 to 47 are dancing badly, drinking shitty beer, having to scuttle past the Amazonian/androgynians in line for the washroom.........beards are frizzing out and scraping your body all over as the humidity is high, and the square is low.

I don't know if any of that made sense, because it shouldn't.

Anyway, so I remember being in this place, and really enjoying myself..... - Because the music is so good, and the people are so beautiful, you're brain can actually process these horrific conditions as enjoyable - when all of a sudden a Talker strolls up to me. He starts talking, in the middle of the room where the dj is. I am directly in front of the dj. I have a hard time dealing with shocking and obscene behavior, so I cold shoulder him and float away, taking a drag offered to me by a bisexual girl dressed as a flapper, and then crawling over two twinks caressing each other horizontally, escaping to the back of the stage. I felt like we were all on a stage, except we were the audience too.

It is hard to dance in public unless you are caught in the shoestrings of the party beast, the beer behemoth. And I wasn't really drunk that night,so I fake danced in the back for a bit. Time continued, the dj kept on, gorgeous, and eventually another talker approached. Except this time, I was obliged to ....maybe not social norm but definitely a response.

It was this older grey haired/ no haired fellow, with a face that was jolly, although you could probably see visible bones if you were to look down his clavicle. He was friends with my friend, and had slept on our couch a few weeks prior. I remember that morning vividly, I had emerged at one point, as Brian slept in my bed, and had bantered with my roommate and the jolly fellow briefly while I made tea. We watched this YouTube together, it was of a girl dancing in the street, to this song. It was his girlfriends daughter, 12, and we were discussing pedophiles etc, was it weird that she was wearing so littles clothing? Etc. To me, it was so devoid of commercial sexuality, it couldn't possible be dangerous.

Anyway, so here he was... Chatting to me. I couldn't hear him. All of a sudden, my body had to piss. And I thankfully went, surprised when he asked me to re confirm that I would return after and chat with him some more.

I emerged from the toilet, which was dirty. It existed though, which is amazing in its own right.... Anyway I came out and he was waiting fore me there, a full 180 second walk from where we had last parted.

Anyway. Next I'm at the Waldorf, in a room, where there is no sink because it's been removed, and books and records are cascading over it..... Miniatures are everywhere..... And I remember I was just bleeding everywhere and he was laughing. Because his face was full of blood and he liked it. And then I slept, and then I went home. And as we walked down the hall, there was this boy, in front of 132, fetal position, ground. He was asleep, and he was bleeding too. I wanted to help him, vaguely I remembered something about vomit and rock stars under the age of 27.

It was so strange, both of us covered in blood at the same time, so close to another in physical proximity. Except he can tell his friends the story of that night, and I'm not sure if I want to tell mine.

That moment of bliss right before you realize your fake personality is ONE HUNDRED times worse than your real one.

2013-01-01T23:35:00.002-08:00

Sooooo Merry Christmas! Happy New Year! Texty text text tappity tap screen swipy whooxoxoxo can you tell yet that this text is forced, and the face of the sender is completely devoid of emotion/Christmas cheer/ tears of friggin love and hope?

I feel an appropriate sense of joy and happiness right now, moderately enthused..... Probably going to take a nap. All of this holiday fakery has rumbled my slumber bone.

I hope I may write here, without causing offense, a paragraph about a thought I had two weeks ago, in lieu of some countdown/recap situation about last year. It all started with my phone, in my hand, loneliness personified, a bottomless pit of shame and regret forthcoming, inputting; send. It seemed to cease not, the banter and the late night phone calls, .....The coffee date that was rescheduled and cancelled, proposed and accepted over the span of one million texts. That is an actual figure folks.

And then, I suppose something dramatic happens here or whatever, immediately before I SLEPT WITH HIM. WILLINGLY! And then it became clear....... So many truths that have fogged over again since then. The main truth, I think, was that I am actually not that interesting, and clearly could not even friend zone a puppy dog if I had a penis. Soooooooooooo yea. This was hard for me to take. ........... So ooooooooooooo I decided to drop.

The Dom Bomb. Of friendship.

It's hard for me to go back to that day, but to my best recollection, I was just walking down Robson when I had the thought. It came unexpectedly, cluttered in with the anxious thoughts I was having about coming back to my apartment from Jacobs, clutching a coffee, hair in a swarm, piled on my head like greasy nylon. It was awful, walking along all midday Mary shame walker amidst stylishly dressed asian girls with puppies. The thought billowed up, soundlessly encompassing my mind, like a cloud of soft, silty, insanity. It was Time, 12345766899 End text. The text to end it all.

"have you ever heard me fart or poo"

I sit here, on my little wooden stool sobbing, trying to type the details, but it is useless to try and explain.

Roughhouse

2012-12-04T02:34:00.001-08:00

Here, for the first time in my life, I will not dive

straight into the cool, uncalculated waves of despair and self loathing that lap at the edge

There was no personal rebuff this time. I slept in rather, languidly shrouded in the dim gray afternoon light, only disturbed by the gentle rustle of traffic and dishes rattling around in my kitchen.

Perfectly tempered beer stands cold in the fridge as I dress in the dark room, prepare my body for the ethereal Vancouver cold, one that gently holds you, untill it's pushing you from your own door to the next. I am not going anywhere in particular tonight, so I dress warm in case the walk is long.

I wear my long mittens, and put on a story from the New Yorker. The Christmas lights that have sprouted up in trees across the city paint the streets with thick ribbons of truth as I trundle down them listening to American tragedies and their analyses. I purse my lips and furrow my brow, deep in thought, trying to broaden my scope.... on cowboys and marriages.

Pushed by the early hour, needing to pass an entire evening here, I delve deeper into the westend, curving and twisting around the blocks, avoiding some streets, gingerly padding down others, earnestly continuing among the holiday shoppers and post work revelers. Coming closer to the wall.

My phone is in my pocket. I turned the vibrate off earlier that afternoon, as it had been silent for what seemed like an eternity. It's painful, to always be so close to your phone, and it to sit there so immobile. Not actually connecting you to anyone, purposeless, defunct metal and glass.
"You don't need a phone," you sometimes say into the black. "What you actually do not need, are the people that are ignoring you."

The frosty air, filled with a silty breathe of the burrard inlet brushes over me as I loosen from the crowd. I can't help but think of the daytime, and the soft decaying smell of leaves, the beautiful leaves that had decorated the city so splendidly in October.There are memories in October, red leaves cascade over them, the mountains in the background, plainly languishing in the light of day. I hustle now past them, walking towards the blue raindrop, alone in the dark.

The glittery lights from North Vancouver parallel me as I continue westward. My journey is not long tonight, I walk faster, listening intently. It would be awful to slow down and lose the thread of the story, to become enraptured in the view I had pondered lustfully many times before. I lose myself in the darkness, the narrators voice, letting the stillness of a Coal Harbor evening wet the slate.

There is no one else out, but I don't notice till I reach Denman. My phone starts to hangs heavy in my pocket and I grope it feverishly, all of a sudden chaffing everywhere. My mouth feels dry, I notice the story has ended and the only thing I can hear is the gently patter of the rain. I look over my shoulder, lights from late night cafes and the small restaurants spill into the street, their patrons probably tucked inaudibly inside. I continue.

I start to remember how much I want my phone to be alive again, I want it to tell me nice things and beg for my attention. I have now come all the way down to English bay, pan-faced. I slip down to the water, away from the lights. It's easy to be here,moving, alone. In the black. Eventually a runner passes me by, and then another. It's reassuring to a degree that the earth hadn't magically emptied. I am almost home, but I could linger if I needed to here. I realize as the bridges overhead recede into the background, I can see myself, amidst the sparkling city lights, on the ground. I had been on the opposite side of the creek the night before. There had been an oval patch of dusky blue sky left, and i had let it all in, all of downtown and granville island. I had started another story soon after that point, I had been so far away that I had listened to two before i returned home. I must continue in silence tonight.

A running group passes me by, chatting breathlessly. It dawns on me, perhaps prematurely, that I have done all my talking for the day. I have no one at home waiting for me to return. No more business as usual to do - no phone calls. I had planned to go to bed after a shower and a tea. When would I speak next?
The Next day suddenly sprawled out in front of me, on the carefully laid brick that waved around the lush grasses and soft shrubs. Tomorrow, was desolate looking! I was staying in tomorrow to study and had groceries already... Plenty of caffeine to keep me jived. There was no one to talk to till perhaps the day after that. And then who was I going to see? A coworker? W would probably talk, but after a whole day of silence it seems absurd to only talk about .what? A bisque?
I walked incredible fast now. The whole city had it in on me, the expansiveness of false creek only compressed me further. I eventually can not bare the darkness anymore, pulling up to coopers park. I am so close, and it seems foolish, to look at it now. It would be safer inside, but i cant wait. My mitten fingers carefully take out the black thing, that awful oppressive thing. It glistens, gleefully reflecting the light of the city. It lights up, full of brightness.

Bags of Broken Mugs/Back on dicks

2012-11-04T22:13:00.002-08:00

So, yea. Here we are. Mid semester. Having the time of our lives.
Little note: stop reading now. Nothing good happens.

It's so strange how literally, (I didnt originally want to use the word literally here, even though I love that word! L s and t s abound! [gahhhh, I hate how people write these days, exclamation points mid paragraph, bleary, wide eyed enthusiasm abounding, everyone and their imaginary fucking exclamation point quotas that, actually, do NOT exist. ]. I should write, actually, instead. Maybe even use proper grammar and stuff?) I can't form any cohesive thoughts because I am hungover, but I am going to keep going. Because I need to see what's in my head.

Anyway.
I have been accumulating apology texts! They are just stacked up in the ol phone. Sighing at me. Unaware of the fact that apology texts fucking suck, and pale in comparison to the steadfast, tall, gooey benefactor of reconciliation that is a tower of nutella and waffles. Or orchids and juice. The point is, I don't care anymore, about anything really. Except for my plan, and my new earrings. And for people like this guy I know, who gives really great compliments. He is the strange part, because last Monday I decided I wanted to make out with him, despite the fact he works at bw cafe (in the kitchen) and then, it totally happened. He just came to me. Zero effort. This is why I am so lazy, people just me give me things, like money and booze, accolades and friendship. Jobs. What have I ever done for myself? Certainly not my taxes this year.

*if you are waiting for a climatic point of this post, esoteric revelation, or exciting recap of the past few months, I have to apologize but it isn't coming. What is coming is several thousand more words of listless, monotone commentary.

So there's that.

September

2012-11-04T21:51:00.002-08:00

As I stare in the corner, at the plant, and continue to drink my cheap wine, as my greasy forehead undoubtedly reflects the pathos emanating off of the shattered iPad screen in my lap, currently viewing, my Facebook page.

What is important to you. How do you feel about being Canadian. Do you lie everyday. How drunk are you on average.

Do you ever just feel so completely, fucking insane, thaaaaaaaat your roommate has finally caught on. That you are bombed the night before orientation.

That you thought making a fucking gazpacho, sepertingthe red and yellow tomatoes, and the herbs and cucumbers, and layering it in a fucking bowl would look anything other that some fucking hippy rastefarianbullshit. As your sous chef looks on, sadly acknowledging that it tastes amazing but looks like some sixteen year old threw up his bong water soaked dreams in a bowl and tried to pass it off for cold soap. ...... I dont know about you guys but labour day weekend is officially over and I am getting wasted to celebrate.

The last time you have felt something this prolific, ou were sitting in an empty tub in a motel overlooking the shitty part of okay again lake, drunk, fully clothed, writhing aroun like a fish whilst your friends took pictures and pretended along with you that this whole situation was hilarious. Please stop embarrassing yourself.

XoxoxoxoxoxxoxoxoxoxxxxxxxooShow

Album review. Drunk. (Things you decide after the world decides against you )

2012-09-24T06:41:00.001-07:00

Things you decide after the world decides against you Is your biased, reddit informed, pre caffeine knowledge of the current state of the world causing you: stress, severe depression, headaches, pelvic cramps, tear/rage sessions with your lover as you sit on a white couch staring at the yaletown moon/morose and somber, decidedly unaroused as you talk about - italics- current events.-end italics-

You should consider taking up smoking, you neurotic, under qualified, unmotivated lump of misguided intentions.

Upon first listen of David Byrne and St. Vincent's latest album, I have decided that it is a post modern solution to the depraved craving of this generation; folks, within here lies the menthol cigarette version of huey and the news. Press play at Lazarus.

Now, I would like to venture a guess of the exact words running through your jazzercised hopped up cranium as your body morphs into a gaseous matter and is carried away by a lung gratifyingly clean and effervescent beat -"Menthol Huey? That sounds like the most fucking on point, cool, neat, just generally fuckibg best thing EVA." to which, if you had said aloud, I would reply , please do not become overexcited dear reader! "Love This Giant" is only seven degrees above the tropic of mediocre, which is still pretty good, and to be quite frank, to sustain the chain smoking level of listening love I have for cigarettes/ breezy, superflously articulated new age music, it is probably better that I learn to balls out fall in love with "love this giant" through familiarity derived from repeated listening, rather than being wholly/completely instantly gratified on the first listen, leaving my body limp and love soaked on a sheet less mattress in some kits bachelor, listening to the rhythm of the shower water, contemplating leaving, but held in place, naked, by the glittering promise of post fuck croissants.

We all know the croissants were a ruse.

Cunt-Throat

2012-08-16T04:59:00.000-07:00

How many times must I abase myself in front of the this narcissistic, stimulation starved, apathetic and morally decrepit generation of entitled Vancouver 20 somethings?

When will I ever be good enough? When will I ever be good enough to hear another person's true fucking opinion of me?

Is there a reason why? Why do I have to exist if I am so useless? Day in and day out, we try to better ourselves and push forward, heralding a new day in the hope that it might be better than the last, that we might achieve a full 24 hours relatively unscathed by calamity and disaster, aching to be blissfully unaware during our quiet moments of the dehabilitiating truths that exist about our bodies, our personalities. We are not good enough, we are going to experience pain, but if we try hard enough to focus on the fucking roses perhaps we can manipulate our reality into becoming "positive". I can't handle myself right now, I have no one to cry in the general direction of right now, and once again ###################.

I think being completely alone is the only way out.

NEVER google calf rennet....just stop eating your fucking Parmesan, and live in blissful unawareness.

2012-08-15T16:39:00.000-07:00

Is this neccesary? Answer: NO

Fun things for Vegetarians to do in Vancouver.

-Go to Meat and Bread when it's smokin busy, order a grilled cheese and a beer. By yourself. Not only will you definitely/probably be able to squeeze your skinny butt into a seat inside, you can cry a little after your meal in their super dooper comfortable and discreet washrooms. (I am particularly partial to the "bread" room) - {I actually feel awesome when I do this, their mustard is to DIE FOR.}

- Walk up and down Davie/Granville/Denman. Particualrirlily exciting at any hour from 12:30pm-4:30am, espeicially when you are starving for vegetables. Your quest for "food" that isn't nauseatingly unauthentic "pizza" or plain fries will be peppered with chance encounters with drunk idiots, friendly idiots, homeless people, people you know, taxi drivers that want your blood on their windshield. Duration: never ending. Pro tip: Don't ever go to fucking Granville street, you desperate alcoholic.

- Work in a restaurant that on principle, hates vegetarians/vegans

- Date boys. This is fun because you get to imagine all of the gross, dead, chewed up carcasses that have been in/around their mouths.

- Go to gorilla foods. Three words, "Bonobos Carnival" Aaaaand "dessert".

- Go to Stackhouse. ....unless you are afraid of eggs, you aioli snubbing square.

- Go to the grocery store. The farmers market. Your fridge. Your garden. Smile at all the vegetables and tell them your secrets, take care of them. Hold them and love them.

Dear django django, please tango my mango.

2012-08-13T09:53:00.002-07:00

Play this sweet tits. Last night I came home from work and sat in the dark for a half hour of silence. Without the Internet. Without my phone. Without a book, or a lusty thought. Without food, without water. No tv, just me on a couch. No pens.

I was dying for something, a thirsty ant in a desert of wanting, changing into a raven, pseudo suspended in the air, circling above a dry archipelago of sand and death. I hover under the sun, with one purpose.

Below me appears a vast expanse of water,growing and twinkling gold. I change again into a rain drop, surrounded by my brothers as we move together to infinite enlightenment, readying ourselves to become one joined by all.
The plane changes and suddenly we are horses racing into the horizon.

We look to the future as our bodies hurl themselves ceaselessly into it, a hopeful horizon that holds change and peril in its infinite depth. , our existence is finite and we only have as much of that horizon as we allow ourselves, dropping to the sand from whence we came as our journey to the never reachable dissappearing point steals our years and asphixiates our muscles.

(I am the problem, I am the ennui filled vessel. In order I become something more satisfactory, even just to painfully inch towards it, I would need to shatter and become empty and nothing simultaneously, in the past only being rebuilt to a )

We are the bugs in the trees, as the dawg by ze breeze suddenly becomes our sole focus as the perspective shifts to round. The woes and rigors of our own personal cuntathalon gets caught in the branches as we expand and become too heavy for the branches, weeping softly as they lower us back to earth.

I am free of words, of fire and ice. No boys. My heart, although not intact is not unintact either, no bedside squirmishes, but if there were, (I would tell myself, it's probably happened to snooki. And feel better, instantly.)

We regain awareness of ourselves in the pool, coming back to our bodies, suddenly becoming disjointed as the sun illuminates our slippery skins. The logistical existence we have turned into our aesthetic experience washes away as we swim, slightly apart from another, wanting to be together more than anything else.

^£ We.

Album Review: Sean Nicholas Savage - Flamingo

2012-07-22T15:34:00.003-07:00

You have been spinning around your apartment for the past week trying not to forget, not only that the love of your life has moved to middle Canada, nonplussed, but also that even if you meet someone TODAY, five minutes from this lung-numbingly unneccesary breathe taking moment of existence, you will be unable to fuck them for at leaaast two years, that is how fucking damaged you feel. You don't want to forget these things because your whole fucking life has been one fucking chainé from disaster to monumental disaster, learning nothing, ruining everything. Today you pass out for a "nap", unshowered, barely clothed, at 12:20 in the afternoon listening to the blissfully optimistic album "In Rainbows" by the popular and undisputed positive juggernaut electronic ambient ensemble, Radiohead.

Your mom texts you that she thinks your beautiful, which, oh perfecto, So aesthetically, your mom thinks your still spot on, however, your personality though, which you have been told since fucking birth is THE ONLY PART OF YOU THAT MATTERS fucking sux, you silly little, bitchy little, dumb girl.

You get off the couch and decide to eat and slash or find some different music. You find this really "great" song. His name is Sean, and he takes you to this sultry, this sexy little seventies elevator with velvet curtains.

You begin to touch yourself as the elevator ascends, loving yourself in public like no man has ever loved you before. You find parts of your private that roll waves out of all the water in your body, you're liquid all over from that moment on, moved only by the moon and this pretty boy, Mr. Savage, and his voice.

There are purple and gold tassels everywhere, swaying to the beat as a whiff of a fruity SPF passes you by. It's summer out there somewhere, you care barely, you will get back to the temporary flux of the seasons after this temporary influx of seratonin moving motion. The elevator continues to soar.

You wonder if this unexpected oasis in your day will ever stop, but stop wondering because the song never stops, the elevator never stops, and I don't know if you end up showering in the end.

I showered.

Flamingo by Sean Nicholas Savage

Standing in T&T, face to face with Jenny.

2012-07-05T23:32:00.001-07:00

.....the saddest cashier in the world.

Even when shit is falling apart, everything is still pretty peachy keen. I am not an optimist, just to be perfectly clear. I have taken a pointed, cold-hearted gaze at the facts and come to the conclusion that.... I do NOT need to panic, I repeat, I do NOT NEED TO FUCKING PANIC SO CAAALLLLM DOWN BUDS!

At the end of the day, every person that I allowed, yes, that I ALLOWWWWWED to demolish the fragile little kittykat sized balls of emotions that are my privates/heart....... They have all been really,really great guys. Super nice, considerate, etcetcetctetctetctetctetperfectetcetcetcetcsooperdooperetcetcetcetkindetcconsiderateetcnotabusiveetcetcetcetce.... So I suppose even if 100% of the romantic relationship pies I have partaken in have FAILED......
FAILURE! Gahahahahaha.

What was I talking about? I can't remember. I think I am actually going to close up shop for the summer though, no more sexy pie time, no more friendly pie time, no more mother fudging, dickin around, text me text me stop texting me for weeks text me text me texty pie bullshit. Just regular mid day pool, worry about my zinc intake, lay down on the grass and feel the ants bullshit.

Because, at the veeeerry end of the day, when you are huddled up in your bed alone, listening to valtari as the dying city lights twinkle outside of your window, your crotch twitching and your mind racing, somewhere out in the world there are at least # people that have known you, and liked you considerably, and also consciously chosen to live their life in a parallel universe away from you and your private.

Some mornings, you listen to You are the Quarry, and groan, because we live in a world that will never know how Steven Patrick Morrissey actually feels.

2012-06-22T12:09:00.001-07:00

I don’t know that I can point to a moment when things changed. All I know is that last summer I was in a bikini, and this summer I’m not. Several months ago, I hardly thought twice about what the effect of what I am wearing will be on the men I meet out in public, and now I never leave the mirror in the morning without thinking about it.

This girl in California, that recently stopped wearing bikinis. TRAPPED.
I would like to start a discussion about personal freedoms, self restraint, etcetc. For another day, sober.