私のヘッドの中に何があるか。

Yesterday I went to a shitty mexican restaurant with Heather and her coworkers. Guess who else was there...
MIKE'S KID (who I shall from hereon out call footsie)
Basically the night turned out how i expected. Footsie didn't use his ability to caress ankles with pinky toe no god forbid. But he followed me into the bathroom. Where then this statement left my acid spewing tongue.
"This half-assed seduction your trying to pull of HAS to stop. I have NO interest in you WHATSOEVER. WHATSOEVER do you hear me, goddammit. Maybe you do maybe you don't but this whole let's piss off daddy bullshit was old from day 1. You are not doing yourself a favor by being some useless closet case. Just because I said I was bisexual does NOT MEAN I go after every guy I see. Frankly, I despise you for thinking such a thing."
Then I left. We didn't speak, meanwhile footsie's father was talking about how all 15 year old are horny. He kept prodding footsie about all the "hot girls" at his school. I think he knows about footsie's double life so whatever....
I could have said I'm 30 days away from being 17. And not once have I been obsessed with sex. It doesn't concern me. It does not rule my life. It's at the bottom of my list. I have too many things on my mind. When I write that last word of that last chapter, that will feel better than any orgasm. BAR NONE. And I 'm just counting down the days. December 22. And I'll be on that plane. December 22. And all will be right again. My desire for debauchery is getting stronger. I want to travel the world, then destroy it. Heather says I'm gonna look back and remember these years as the best of my life. I told her very firmly, NO. I will not. I'm working the devil out of me so that I will enjoy the shit out of me future. She just laughs and said I remind her of her bother. FUCK HER. Not everyone had a wonderful childhood and adolescence. Some of us are bruised from past traumas. Some of us where sexually abused by sons of out father's whores. Some of us have been to hell and back. so FUCK YOU.
I'm sick of tyler and heather always fighting. I'm sick of heather and I always fighting. This is not a good environment for me. I'm very lucky to have a good relationship with my own mother. I feel strong, the then a victim. I can take on the world, then can't face it. These constant ups and downs are fucking giving me whiplash. But fuck it, I can handle it. I can handle anything.

I'm still writing Audrey Hepburn Complex. I'm still in love with it.

FUCK YOU AP LIT.

LEAH - I'm almost done with your critique. c:

SUKI- Hi.

BRENDAN -wtf do you have a livejournal?

ME- Chill the fuck out and write.

see ya!

 after looking over all of my lj posts....

"OH JESUS DILLON, STOP WHINING."

verbatim.  

I actually like this song. I don't know if it's because of the melody or because the lyrics are all about the death of romance. I'm so obsessed with that idea. Just because it's so frighteningly real.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=A6MEyNT2fuw

anywho...


 I had the best day ever. Seriously. 

I'm loving French more and more by the  minute, and AP psyche is to DIE FOR.
The writing club is pretty exceptional as well. I am a fan of three writers, let me tell you about some of their stories.

Fashion whore told a tale of excellent proportions. It was basically a stepford wives/ desperate housewives crosover dipped in a batch of American psycho. (Fashion whore's outfit was a tweed jacket, yellow pants, magenta heels, and a Louis Vitton logo chain she made. Awesome.) In the story, the main character is this cute little number that just is just sick of her suburban life, she's sinking in the pool of mini vans and private schools. While she's taking out the trash one evening, some annoying neighbor comes over to her and just chats her ass off. Then the housewife just SNAPS, and kills her right there in the street with the lid of the garbage can. The main character's (her name is susan, so I'll just say that) husband is hell bent on having the perfect housewife. So he is constantly criticizing her, so while he's at work she just spends the day shopping for the perfect evening dress, cleaning the house, and cooking dinner. So when the husband comes home that evening she greets him in a seethrough night-lace thingy. They have kinky sex. Then she presents him this feast, and he's all like what's for dinner? She then lifts the cover of a silver platter to reveal the chatty woman's head. The husband then becomes motionless (  he can still speak and is very aware), because susan laced his martini with some kind of poison. She the flips his ass on the dinner table and fucks him with a greased rolling pin then beats him to death with it.

I need...to fall in love with this girl. I mean SHIT.

Another favorite story of mine was about a Lesbian doctor who gets involved in crack. Her lover leaves her and she's left with nothing. Then one night she beats a salvation army santa to a pulp and prays to God.
"Dear God...stay out of my way..."
And then she becomes a prostitute and gets an abortion on christmas. I swear it was the funniest thing I've heard in a long time.

Also, I read a bit of Audrey Hepburn Complex. It was VERY well received. :D

And when I revealed my back story about DSA, everyone is like DUDE THAT EXPLAINS EVERYTHING, YOU SCREAM ART SCHOOL.

After writing club I had a chat with the most pleasant goth girl in the history of forever named Katie, she's very interesting and BELONGS in Denver. We were sitting there chatting for three hours straight. And I told her ALL about Ethics of Retards. She demands she hear DYLON'S solo album.

Just....fucking...

:DDDDDDDDDDDDDDD

I have found my place in Niceviile. 

As humans we are horribly susceptible to niches. And as a creature of habit I spend much of my time in the library drooling over cumming's prose, and enjoying anna karenina in the absolute quiet. during lunch I crawl into the corner (the upside to going to a school near water?), feed the seagulls, and will throughly enjoy it when they attack those dumbass freshmen that throw rocks at them. I've started going to the school's writing club. It's all full of FANTASY WRITERS (ugh) and emo kids, but at least you can read anything uncensored as with dubrava, well maybe not, becuase one girl read a 10 page sex scene.

now let me tell you about that...

this girl (who i will refer to as fashionwhore, is what suki describe as my "soulmate", and dammit i think she's right. This girl was dressed in a t-shirt that said "L.A.!", wore SPARKLY PINK JELLY PLATFORM HEELS, a vintage tweed chanel skirt, and huge sunglasses. Fashionwhore's entire story was about a woman who was dicing a guys throat as they were humping. BRAVO. 

So I'm starting another novel. And I want to write love letters to it. I apocalypse/romance/road novel about a orphaned socialite/pro hedonist with a split personality and her james dean wannabe boyfriend go around the new new york (the deserts of arizona, new mexico, nevada, etc.) with a cassie-esque broad. It's basically plotless, the chapters are various vignettes of their  endless debauchery as dooms day draws near, then happens. i could say more, but i need to actually write this awesome shit. i'm craving more AP psyche, that class is serious ace. life's good right now, let's hope it stays that way for a while.

P.S. the novel is called The Audrey Hepburn Complex   

 I need to have faith in myself. I need to believe that I can make beautiful art. 

 The mechanics: Some years ago, a writer on these very virtual pages said of hickeys:

Such a marker, such a brand, more symbolic and defiant even than a tattoo: a hickey says, I’ve been messing around and I’m not afraid to show it, not to mention that I’m also rather crass and probably in deep economic hardship and I’m not afraid to show that either. I remember in high school proud Camaro-drivers in the locker room describing to us, their captive audience of weenies, the necklaces of hickeys they had left on their loved ones the night before in the church parking lot. I remember seeing enormous, purplebrownorangecrimson splotches like phantasmagoric blood-sucking sea flowers grafted onto the necks of my P.E. mates. I heard tales of initials being spelled on asses, of hearts crudely sketched, of yellow and brick-colored roads leading from clavicle to cunny, left by the champing lips of rear-seat Romeos. And I thought, “This is romance.”

 I'm in a better mood. I'll  will begin writing again tomorrow, maybe tonight. I am going to focus on some nonfiction writing a bit. Give Dubrava what she's looking for. I'm thinking I might actually enjoy it. 

On a random note....


Pizzicato Five = My Kaizers. Although common now, Kaizers is Kaizers.

P5+ April March. Dude, soundtrack to my life.

I have a BADASS idea for a dress. Well it's more like a tea dress length version of a French aristocrat gown, and im gonna make that shit WIDE (the dress bottom obviously xD). So I need to know how to A. design shit that's "aristocraty" and B. need to know where i can get dress wire. Hmmm, my own project runway challenge! (kill me)

To answer your question Suki, i don't watch project runway because I don't want to be influenced by other designs. I need everything I create to be 500% original. 

 college is freaking me out. i don't know how im going to pay for this

 i hate my writing. my designs are shit. I want to burn everything i have ever created, the sky is grey. i can't deal right now.  

 I'm feeling so bittersweet right now, and it's exceedingly unsettling. 

Today the sun played a HUGE part in my mood. The air smelled of incense and the writer's block is gone. I'm puking creativity. I am too homesick for words, I'm sick of whining, therefore it has become abundantly clear as to why I feel this way. Those I know will soon be drifting into parts unknown. And I'll be in that amazing city, alone. I will be alone. I have given up on the novel, started a new one, things change, people go, you stand still but have to keep moving if you don't want to sink. I've had a lack of self-belief for some time. I have hope that the future is something of a reward. I don't think I can live with being stable, I just want to be...happy. Too many things (for once again, lack of a better word) are tidal. 

I want too many things, just another aspect of wanabe manic depressive. I want to do nothing but make art at the moment. Just lock me in a room and leave me there. 

 MAY NOT BE ABLE TO WRITE ANYTHING DECENT BUT DAMMIT IM SEWING AGAIN.

IM GONNA SPRAYPAINT  WARHOL'S MUG ON DIS BITCH

p.s (frayed on purpose)

 

THE KIDS STARTED A FUCKING FIRE. 

80% OF THE CLOTHES I MADE ARE FUCKING RUINED

THIS IS THE FIRST TIME I FELT LIKE BREAKING TO TEARS IN YEARS
GODAMMIT


JUST......

 this is the best convo over e-mail ive had with my mother, ever. 

Dillon: i mailed your package last friday, heather said she put some candy bars in there and im thinking, um , candy bars will keep you from getting blown apart by martyrs? lol  

mom: I can use them to bribe the little children of Baghdad... oh course if you give candy to the little kids the big ones beat them up and take it,  so essentially I'm just giving the little kids a ass kicking in a wrapper

WHATS GOING ON IN MY LIFE

 I haven't had a cigarette in three months.

Basically that means I've quit smoking, I'm gonna stick with it. This winter I'm getting my nose repierced and I WIIL convince my mother to let me get a tattoo. but can you even get one with parental consent in CO? hmm, i'm to lazy too look it up right now. All the homework is finished. I think I will finish Gatsby  for class then move on to Leo Tolstoy and good ol' BEE for my pleasure. Heather won't let me burn candles in my room. THE FUCK. anyway, I kinda...had a dream about the future. It was basically kind of like a fantasy dream, well really, it was just fantasy. Seriously, would I even dream this? I must be desperate to get back to Denver. But back to the dreammm....so in the future (we still look the same but somehow we are older (wat) so I guess that means we are ageless) and i have lime green hair and making clothes for suki, she's a world famous haute coutre photographer (go figure) with a penthouse in New York, a villa  in Italy, and a small home in Norway but it looks GORGEOUS. Leah is a model who lives with suki and basically I/Suki/Leah are all together writing this HUGE semi biographical/ satire fiction (once again go figure)  our lives. So we are all traveling the world together. Somehow Brendan is on the plane talking about magazine covers (was he in the fashion industry? who knows) but still i guess Suki got a gig at Vogue Italia or something cuz we are flying back to italy and while in the villa we are drinking coffee and suddenly ish (i don't even know her, what the fuck) comes in through the window randomly and she actually has a backpack full of puppies. she's telling suki how she saved them and some people were   just going to skin them for coats or something. Leah is dating some model named Klaus who is flamming gay but apparently she "likes the way his dick smells like cotton candy." That was ver batum. xD Brendan them comes knocking at the door demanding where these puppies are. Ish is like LIUGSRLUWGIQUBGLUREBI I GOTTA HIDE and she runs into the bedroom and locks the door. We don't know what to do then Leah says, "I'll call Klaus and and tell him about the situation. But we seriously need to STOP with playing all this faggy trance music. The jet should be here in an hour, Brenan will be cool by then. " Then I woke up. Seriously, that's the most interesting dream i've had in a long time.  


THE REST OF THE POSTCARD WRITING

Suede heels click against neon reflecting pavement still slick from the early evening rain. She returns from a garden party held on the outskirts of the city, itself still vice friendly and wild without her. She heads towards various sexy and stylish dives. The 80s scene still alive and well, Mod clubs in skyscrapers which mind you, actually break apart clouds as they drift past windows, drunk models try to throw themselves out of them slurring, “Oh, I’m just not pretty enough at the moment, hire her. She’ll do fine, Woops. Lost a shoe.” She covers herself, head to toe, in violet. Surprising enough she is free of vanity, lovely souls walk across streets, some fall into manholes that only lead to other clubs. She runs from police, ducking through blind spots in galleries, drifting though back alleys, thinking this place is a giant pop culture reference with which she thoroughly enjoys. The contents of her purse contain violet pills, matte lipstick, sugar-free gum, chapstick, mascara, a MAB PA-15 semi automatic pistol, dried daffodils, a half empty bottle of Chanel No.5, a sewing kit, and a French phrasebook. She uses a payphone to call her lover. He calls his lover, says he will be busy for the evening. She calls her lover, and says her schedule is now suddenly wide open. He calls his lover, he is busy meeting She who has now left the payphone who shall visit him quickly after she is done curing out a homeless man she already gave spare change to three months ago. She passes by a woman in white, she empties her tote into the gutter, out spills an entire pharmacy, medicine in every shade like a rainbow plunging into the clubs previously mentioned. Pouring like on rain downward towards the adulterers, the pill poppers, the foul mouthed, and the fabulous. House music plays in the background. Who says we can’t have it all?    


and

I hate the idea of a summer romance.

 

I hate that we have a taste for it. An insatiable craving for love (in lack of a better word) in the months the heat burns those sunflowers he presents you down towards the deepest pit hell. No matter how cynical, people develop an obsession racking in a constant hit list of hook ups and sweet nothings, and in the end everything sickeningly always coming back to love. And let be known that as of now I hate the word, seeing that has a lack of definition. Senseless provocateurs obtain such an idea that sex and love are the same, but different. Fire a gun and you ring in the greatest of all joys. The sounds rings through every pair of ears, letting them now the annual period has begun once again, the death of romance is back is with a raging hard-on. 

 

 

 

 Those of you who know me are aware of several tidbits of information.

My favourite author is Bret Easton Ellis and would run over my grandmother to have a conversation with him.
My favourite album is London Calling
I am an Anglophile (i like england, not the KKK)
My favourite phrase (so far) is "mind you"

just because i do not share this right off the bat does not mean i am antisocial.

the fact that i shut the door every time you come home DOES mean i am antisocial. TO YOU (EH HEM) MIND YOU. So to answer your question yes, I do strive to be alone and YES i do enjoy creating an artificial night for myself. It makes this period go a lot faster you throbbing shaft of limp dick (contradiction anyone?). I do enjoy wearing sunglasses indoors  and drinking fine coffee, so excuse me when I ask you if you want  what I just brewed five minutes ago rather than you throw a fresh pot of coffee to make your shitty freeze dried maxwell house bullshit.  

IT'S MY PREROGATIVE


 DEAL WITH IT. 

 people suck.

i have finally decided to give up faith in mankind completely. you should NEVER show even an ounce of vulnerability towards another human being. it all just shit. i am done.  

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rACjTt4Th4c

WATCH IT

 in time... xD

I have felt the complete and utter shame of being American countless times, however this feeling was usually experienced anonymously. When traveling other countries, even in English speaking countries, you find that even the utmost polite American while be spat on by an Englishman. I don’t think I experienced culture shock, at least I don’t hope I did. While I may be guilty of absorbing the local culture to the fullest I’d like to think that I can switch ways of life on a whim when necessary. This is not the case you see, I put on my good American act, occasionally slipping back and forth accents depending on my mood. I wouldn’t have so much anxiety if there weren’t a load of screamers next to me. I clench my jaw, put a palm to my face, maybe even wear a pair of sunglasses and try to ever so causally snake into the background. However God wants to be amused on this particular day. The American I live with in the Anglo capital of the world insists he shout my name to the havens. Because apparently screaming makes me listen more. Don’ get me wrong…there is absolutely nothing wrong with being American. There is just a fine line between pride for your country, and boasting so much you create established a good amount xenophobia. I’m not ashamed to say I felt a little comfortable as soon as I stepped on American soil, after all its home. And that was just it. Three steps into the airport and I’m two inches from a Starbucks. A jumbo-tron screen projecting Nancy Grace’s judgmental eyes that burned right through my soul. It’s not perfect. God help us if it was. It’s just us. 

need to stop slacking and send in all i wrote already. but since im here...

my favourite postcard writing...

Letters arrive at the gates of a mansion surrounded by cherry blossoms. Black branches extended to the edging windows owned by aristocrats and socialites just as old. Inside said home of these bright young things a September issue of vogue topped with Gucci sunglasses neighbors two small bags of heroin belonging to Thomas Cholmandely. Thomas was found guilty of manslaughter in May, an important month for affluent social beings hailing from every corner in London. This evening which Thomas ironically spends behind bars was supposed to be spent doing activities of an obviously hedonistic nature. Thomas’ affair started without him. Inside his blood soaked walls are several leftover (and not mailed) invitations that invited the lucky to an evening of cocktails on the terrace. Those who drank their clear liquor held a contest that went from a glass of vodka on the rocks to last man standing. Thomas is ravenous but he was supposed to have a gut full of gin soaked olives. He sleeps alone as opposed to next to that blond model from Oslo (she’s blond, was it Paris?). Regardless, she floated though several hallways. Drifting in an out of rooms occupied or at one point had been. Carrying a number to her chest that of an unclear cup size and I’m guessing with her heart. Unlike, who was it? I can’t remember. Thomas is dissatisfied and simply sighs. The only excuse his friends can mane for him…

 

“We are what we are.”