El Chupacabra exhibits a rare moment of gratitude
Hey guys,
Just wanted to inform you that yesterday was a record breaking day for hits on my blog. 64 unique views and many more reloads, not a lot I know, but the most to date. All done with out spending an hour hitting next blog/back to drive traffic to the site, and without the help of dumb ass Liblogs that keeps douche bags in business by dropping name of Leadership Candidates. (I had a lot of campaigns scratching their heads when their blog scans showed up and some dude was talking about how Michael Ignatieff can talk to zombies.)
Anyway the point is thanks. You held a stirring discussion and I just want you to know it’s not lost on me. I've had some of the most callous and cruel barbs thrown at me over this damn blog (I'm looking at you echo bay-fucker), so trust me I appreciate it when ppl come with nice contributions. I put a lot into this, usually when I’m really angry or happy (I guess in the future I’ll use the word manic) so I’m glad it spawned a discussion.
That’s all, I’m done. Back to fisting my own ass or whatever the hell it is I do when I'm not being a sentimental baby.
Well La Dee Da, Look at me
I caught a few minutes to myself today. Finished my essay with time to spare, thanks for the help guys.
So I guess this is what’s new with me. I've taken down all the mirrors in my house and I'm no longer looking at myself. I'm trying to focus on my mental perception of myself rather than my physical appearance (which isn't important anyways). This is my new exercise to put a higher premium on my own intellect than my seductive eyes and mischievous smile. I do however check myself out as I pass windows; I just got a new jacket and am a bit concerned with the particular cut of it. So I will objectify my coat but not my actual body.
I've also taken to walking around without my glasses. I like how it makes my eyes feel, at first at least, heavy, weary, thoughtful. Then the headaches set in. I'm never quite sure of the facial expressions people are making when talking to me and I have to rely more heavily on voice intonation, and body language. I feel more perceptive to a feeling rather than an image. I always feel like I’m in a new place, a strange and foreign situation. Plus now I squint more and perhaps I appear to be tougher than I am. Which I guess is good because I’m probably a target due to my pissy ass jacket and Hail Mary hairstyle that I did without a mirror.
Well just so long as this thing's loaded
Man I’m in a pissy mood. Like I just got boot fucked. I recall every single insult that I quietly ignored. I remember every single instance where I felt emasculated. It’s all flooding back, and it’s fresh in my mind.
Well guess what? I got “cute with out the e” stuck in my head and I’m ready to blow. Who’s gonna’ stop me when they come out of that breakdown and hit 160 BPM? And gang vocals- forget about it. I got my hands clenched at my side, my teeth clenched in my mouth. I get squinty when I’m mad, my chest gets splotchy (I don’t get it either). Watch for it.
I have this song floating in my head, punctuating every word and action. If an emotion isn’t contained in those 3:36 seconds then I don’t feel it. Let’s hope that I’m not talking to you during the climax. Let’s hope that you’re not in front of me durring “
and all of this was all your fault, and all of this….” Cuz ellipsis can be very open ended and there’s no telling what I’ll do.
“
This all was only wishful thinking” and I had a lot on my mind lately and you’d be surprised what I’ve already wished for!
Is Borat considered a scholarly reference, or is he sort of like Wikipedia?
So I’m supposed to write an essay for my history of the Middle East course. Here are my options.
-"Do Human and minority rights
really count in the Muslim world?"
-"How far is the fundamentalist Islam a threat to the West?"
Or my personal favorite,
-"Whose fault is it, Israel or Palestine?"
Fucked up grammar aside, have you ever seen bigger time bombs? I mean I’m almost positive they’re booby traps or something. Perhaps the words of Don Cherry would suffice “That’s like asking me what I want more; the Clap or Gonorrhea”
Thanks Don. No matter what I say my prof is gonna have a rape party in my ass.
Breathe Deep
I'm tired of this narrative that accompanies my life. Like my mind is trying to make every single second more romantic than it is. I'm pissed, simple as that. My Blackberry's busted and I'm disconnected from the world. I hate the cold rain that fills my shoes. I hate how my glasses sit crooked and irritate my nose. I'm ashamed that I find the company of prostitutes exhilarating. Standing at red lights I like it when they're there. They are beautiful in my neighborhood, but I can't talk to them. I've been conditioned; everything I can think of has taught me that they are bad. Yet as I admire their long legs wrapped in shiny pleather, and how their clothes cling to their delicious frame, I’m curious. I feel pity, I feel remorse. I want to ask them to walk with me and keep me company past the scary open spaces on the way home. But can't lift my head to meet there eyes.
Is it perhaps that I have more to be ashamed about than they do and I’m worried that they will judge me? I’ve never been good at accepting criticism.
I'm about an hour away from my first "date" with my ex since she returned home from Ottawa. I'm gonna tell her that I'm over her, gonna say that I've moved on. I'm going to tell her how I feel about her calling me when she's lonely in Ottawa but doesnt call me when she's in Toronto. I'm gonna tell her I'm not just a voice on the phone, not just a comforting word. I'm gonna muster every ounce of strength in my fucking body to try to prove to myself that this is in fact the case....
Sent via Blackberry Wireless Device
I feel brutal. So uninspired.
I walk around and take compliments, I feel joyful and artistic. I take short cuts and feel resourceful. A romantic swagger as I stroll through back alleys of my new neighborhood. My hands stuffed in my pockets, my head bobbing with my signature strut as I move from car port to privacy fence. I feel graceful as I traverse dark corners and interrupt swirling leaves. My eyes pass over graffiti and I’m in wonder or in love. I pass a church early Sunday morning and I hear 100 voices singing and it reminds me of my mother. I shuffle my feet and negotiate a network of street car tracks. I chew the beard beneath my bottom lip and look up through my eye lashes at my reflection in store fronts. I have a million ideas; I’m unaware of space or time. This could be anywhere, this could be history and my blurred vision could be from inadequate optometry, or this could be the future and abnormality could be the new standard. Maybe in the future this is how people look, slightly out of focus. I encounter people and don’t know if they’re my demons haunting me, or guardian angels granting me safe passage. If feel mysterious and suspicious, but can’t really judge someone when you’re not sure of what your doing yourself, so I continue on. I have blog posts amassing in my head to get me through til January, it makes me feel poetic, or pathetic, that this is now how I think. I’m due for something funny, or gripping and compassionate. I return home to sit in front of my computer and can’t find the words. I’d gladly give up speaking if it meant that I could just tell you about this morning.
60% of the time-it works everytime!
So my car got towed yesterday. It’s a major piss off. I was hoping it would be stolen so I could get the insurance money and live like a king. Some of the things on my to-do list after I was rich would be to get a second pair of jeans, and shoes, I have to skip class every time it rains because I have holes in the bottom.
So now I have to trek all the way out to Scarborough to get my stank ass car. It’s not even worth the $150 impound fee. It doesn’t have a radio; I have to think about stuff instead of listening to metal like I’d want to. Head banging becomes difficult when all you have is dumb ass thoughts instead of ripping’ guitar solos and a high hat with a supped up tempo. Often my window winder falls off, especially in high stress situations like McDonald’s drive thru, which makes my ordering of my junior chicken a real pain.
Anyways, as I mentioned a while ago, I hate public transit. I feel like I’m abusing the system by requesting my stop. Like it’s frivolous and self-centered, and people will get angry for my egoistic tug on the yellow cord. So I figure I’ll probably walk to Scarborough. So then I started thinking (no iPod either) since the world is round, any point at which your located puts you at the center or top of it, relatively speaking. So any direction you walk is technically downhill. So if that’s the case, why don’t people end up running everywhere? Maybe this will shave some time off trip. Or better yet I can just jump straight up and down and allow the earth to rotate beneath my feet. That way I don’t even have to move. Lets hope the earth is spinning in such a way that it brings Scarborough to me, cuz it would suck to take the long way around.
Don't Mind the Huggies
I couldn’t find anything on the internet about the play so I don’t know if I’m dumb or not yet. Also important to note is that since moving in I can’t find the mouse for this damn computer. I’m sort of sick of tabbing all the time to navigate websites. I’m also sick of eating spaghetti; I spent all yesterday making it, my whole day revolved around this stupid stuff. I got out of bed cuz I was hungry and went to the store cuz I had nothing to eat, I cleaned and unpacked the kitchen so I had a place to make it. It took the whole damn day. Now that’s what I eat for breakfast, lunch and dinner because I spent all my money buying the ingredients. Smooth move X-Lax.
So every now and then I’ll have a bit of an accident or do something really stupid. One time I was sleepwalking and I went into the kitchen of my parents’ house and started peeing in the closet. My brother and dad, who were in the next room, ran in and started yelling. Man my dad freaked, he was all like “What the fuck are you doing? You’re pissing in the closet?!” And I was all “I got my dick in my hand, quit buggin’ me” Man what a disaster…aaaah *tear*
Well in a similar vein, my roommate was staying at a friends’ house, and let me sleep in his bed because I hadn’t moved mine in yet. I don’t know why, but when I woke up and I was pissing all over myself….in his bed. I really can’t explain why, I wasn’t drunk or anything, I just kind of pissed myself. So I’m all freaking out cuz he’s gonna be mad and now I have nowhere to sleep. I don’t know, maybe I have a problem; I think it has to do with nerves or guilt or something. One time I was staying at my cousin’s house and got all stoned from the second hand weed her roommate was smoking. I went to bed on her couch and when I woke up there was piss everywhere. When I was in the shower her roommate came out and sat in it. I said it must have been the cat.
Self Administered I.Q. Test
Ok I am thankful that someone has come to my defense before an army of anon’s descended upon my blog to tease me, but none the less I conducted an exercise last night. After returning from an event with Toronto Mayor David Miller and his main challenger Jane Pitfield I decided to test this new theory. I picked up the play “Short Eyes” by Miguel Pinero and read the entire thing. I sat on my bed surrounded by unpacked boxes in my new apartment squinting in the poor light. Sure a play is probably easier to understand than an opera, and it was written in the 70’s, so the references were a bit more contemporary, but there were large portions written entirely in Spanish. So I had to recall what I had learned from an unwilling tutor and rely heavily on context. So here goes; here’s my summary and I will contrast it to either commentary that I will find online, or get my brother to do a similar review.
“Short Eyes” by Miguel Pinero is set in an American prison in the 1970’s. The characters are either black, Puerto Rican or white and they are extremely loyal to their race in the face of sex or violence, but spend most days interacting in and amongst each other. They live in a relatively quiet wing of the correctional institute but things get shaken up when Clark, a pedophile is introduced into their midst. A series of confessions, barters and violence then reveals the savagery of the environment. In a place where the only real ownership one has is over their soul, the inmates are forced to parcel off and barter pieces of it in order to survive. Suddenly the main characters Juan and Julio have to determine if retaining their humanity by protecting Clark from the threat of violence while sacrificing their own body is more important than self preservation at the expense of themselves emotionally and spiritually. When confronted by a vast network of different loyalties these two are forced to make a poisonous decision with no virtue available by any outcome. Short Eyes reveals the hopelessness of the struggle between self actualization and morality faced by America’s poor, and the effect that race and inequity plays in that.
Look it up, see for yourself and someone please provide a conclusion of their own to see if I’m an idiot or not.
SPoiler Alert: I'm Dumb as Shit!
On the train ride back from Montreal is where a lot of my blog posts are born. Usually they are spawned by recalling a conversation that I've had, but have tuned out of. During these times I'll imagine myself as a giant turtle or pirate or something, and as people speak to me I'll drift away to hide inside my shell or conquor the high seas. It's these sorts of thoughts that I expand upon on the train and end up publishing on the pages of ghosts & admissions. But this time the thoughts, and the trip, were different, these thoughts were calling into question my very intellect.
This weekend I saw "La Tratoria" an opera by Verdi. At least that's what I think it's called. I originally thought it was Romeo and Juliet and even asked my neighbour if that was Romeo on stage in one of the opening acts. I was surprised/embarrassed when I found out it wasn't even by Shakespeare (which made me feel ultra dumb cuz he does plays not operas. Doh!) So after the opera on the way to Pizzadelic I discussed the performance with my co-watcher, I was disappointed to learn that I didn't grasp a single iota of it. I gave up trying to decipher it pretty early on. Instead I spent the time reading the French sub titles trying to figure out the English rendering, then laughed at myself when I saw how off I was. But her insight and understanding was so thorough that I was actually ashamed. It went from a critical evaluation of the opera itself to a commentary about how this particular piece conforms to certain negative stereotypes within our culture at large. Needless to say I was a little disappointed with my grasp of the whole thing, as I hadn't picked up on any of these nuances
I told my Mother that I saw it, hoping that she'd think I was cultured or something (she used to be an opera singer herself). She went on to explain all the reasons she loved it, and once again I was astounded at how I didn't comprehend one bit of it. It was almost as if every sentence was independent of each other with nothing connecting or relating one from the next. So on this train ride home I pondered all this I started to fret that I may be dumber than I am aware of. I also thought about how I'm bad at picking up on sarcasm, and terrible at interpreting text messages and emails because subtly is lost on me. I was once told by a friend that small children and people suffering from down syndrome have similar problems-not a comforting thought. So now I'm wondering if I'm not really smart at all and if I've just been tricking people into thinking I am. I'm good at faking a lot of things (chiefly emotions) and now I'm concerned about my mental prowess. I'm sure a whole host of my anon commentors will agree with this and won't spare me one bit. But this whole incident has me feeling like a bit of a sham cuz I walk around like some sort of whiz kid saying stupid quotes like "difficult takes a day, impossible takes a week." This has got me down and no amount of "Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance" can help.
So now on top of trying to iron out my social life and spiritual integrity I'm wondering if my ego has tricked even myself into believing that I am smarter than I truly am. And as further proof of this whole argument, I didn't "get" Borat the movie. I needed someone else to tell me of it's elements of political satire, but she'd never know that cuz I faked a comprehension of that too!
It's gonna be a rough week...
