August 2011
It’s like a false awakening. I come out of a dreamworld of nonsense, punishment and skyscrapers weaving into whispering concepts. I wake up to a wet-mouthed girl on top of me, grinding need against me. This can’t be real. She’s kissing my shoulders and neck and almost moaning.
That quiet, half-ready murmur pulled to the back of the throat, like a giant cat falling asleep.
...
This room is amazing.
I wake up on an L-shaped couch underneath my coat, bare-ass naked and hungover as the world that never was. Around me is a collection of records to make the angriest DJ week and rub himself breathlessly while stroking the crates. Eleven black crates full of classics, of old school jazz, of vinyl dreams not given to mix cds or everyone’s ipod. It’s an ecstasy of...
She makes weird popping, cracking noises in her sleep. Like she’s grinding her teeth and chewing gum at the same time. Like she’s chewing on something horrible she can’t digest. For a girl with such a nice smile, it’s kind of freaking me out, so I get out of her bed and go over to her desk. It’s got three things on it — a tablet, some pens, and a massive grid...
July 2011
The girl wakes me up, shaking my shoulder. It’s very dark, but there’s no drunken whirlwind in my head or angry circus of a hangover. Curious.
The power’s out, she tells me. Do you know anything about electrics? No, I say.
In the dark, we’re barely elaborate silhouettes. Outside a great white light is cut through closed shutter shades, barely casting minor shadows.
...
I’m somewhere in a big studio apartment and there are no clues. This could be my apartment, this could be any of my friends. Books, clothes, personal bullshit everywhere. So nondescript it’s kind of eerie.
Hi, the girl next to me says. I’m looking around for my pants and I look over my shoulder, and there is a girl wearing a t-shirt and nothing else. She has knockout legs and a...
Coming up out of a hangover and coming up out of a bender are two very different things. A hangover, you feel like you’re surviving some terrible event in your head. A bender, you feel like you’re crawling your way out of your own grave. Every shade of headache suffocates me while I roll over in bed, groaning.
It’s not agony, but agony has shook the hand of whatever this is.
...
Her attic apartment is cramped and slanted, and of course I bang my head on the ceiling. It wakes a voice up in my head that asks me what the fuck I think I’m doing, and like all crazy people, I actually argue with the voice. Eventually, my frustrated muttering to myself makes me go downstairs and see if there’s more beer.
I don’t even know who’s house this is.
I...
I crash through a wall of half-sleep and the girl is talking. Droning into her pillow. It’s the dead of night and outside is just a haze of streetlamps and maybe the occasional star lecherously winking from above. She turns her head and from behind a wall of piercings and immaculate olive skin comes the broken english of a foreign poet. Half of her words aren’t in English. I...
Did I fall asleep with my eyes open?
Did I piss myself?
Everything is wet and white. I sit up and I realize I’m on some sort of beach. I sit up further and realize I’m in some private, fake beach behind some sort of fancy, enormous house. After a second the smell hits me.
Oh fuck. I’m in Los Angeles.
I stand up, dripping, and walk towards the giant white building. A few...
A blearing, unlovely alarm clock shoves my brain into my body and I roll over and out of bed, taking blankets and a very confused puppy with me. The dog starts barking, a girl’s voice starts yelling, and I’m ready to run out of there half-naked and all. Clue one: small apartment with a huge bed. She used to have someplace nicer. Clue two: giant puppy of some awful mixed breed that...
It’s raining outside and that’s all I can tell. Everything is dark and my hangover is almost poetic. I wake up and realize I’m not even on a bed. I’m not even on a couch. Everything is lumpy but soft. Maybe I’ve fallen asleep on the back of a giant dog.
Beneath me is my coat. Beneath my coat is a medley of books. Spread all over the floor are books. Piled and shoved...
I want to be Umbreon again.
victorianette:
well, you know
I wake up and I feel like I’m drowning and then I realize there’s a dame on each side of me. Then I wonder why I felt like I’m drowning. Clue one: they’re both redheads, so…I was drunk. Clue two: this is my room, covered in beer bottles and a couple of bottles of whiskey. Clue three: none of my roommates have barged in.
There must’ve been a party.
I step...
It’s two days later than I think it is and I don’t recognize the view from the window. The girl is passed out naked on top of the sheets and has a tattoo from her shoulder all the way down her back. It curves around her ass in an oddly natural way and she snores when she sleeps. Her black hair is very, very long.
I’m naked too and I have six missed calls. It’s Tuesday....
I blink my night open to a green-eyed girl in a big hotel room. Clue one: she’s got a lot of money. It’s not the size of the hotel room so much as how much stuff is broken and she doesn’t seem to be worried. Clue two: she’s very zoned out and staring at a TV with a hairline fracture. She’s on something, some amazing drug, while staring at the break in the TV.
...
Mr. Door's private proper Doomsday
“Mr. Door, if you would.”
Mr. Door sighed, and wrapped his hand around the cold, filigreed knob. As the door opened, Door stood staring into it. The expanse within, white light washed into golden details, before fading into the war room.
No one noticed him — the generals spoke to each other in hushed tones. Men with one earpiece to a screen had their other ear to a phone,...
if you're havin' gpoy problems I feel bad for you...
it’s one of those days where the picture you take of yourself to communicate your nightmares instead makes you look like a gay porn star
admittedly I am pretty much always all ZZ Top in...
also may I say what a strange experience it is to have a terrifying, debilitating nightmare in which the remotest, most damaged parts of your psyche are scoured for your weaknesses…and then wake up with some serious morning wood.
oh, yay, the nightmares are back.
in memoriam one
I’ve woken up and it’s not my place because it’s way too bright. The sun is out, hating everything. I look around the walls and I see various picture projects and close-ups of legs with tattoos that look like malformed, melted animals. Fuck. I hope I’m not in the Mission. If I keep looking, will I see fuzzy, black and white pictures of friends in oversized shades with...
"Two words. Tucker Max."
ugh. you know, there is no one on this planet I like being compared to less. I mean, when people say Chuck Palanhiuk I’m all FUCK YOU CUNT I’M J.G. BALLARD ON ICE but the thing is…I only have the remotest, superficial things in common. everything TM did was covered in better ground by superior authors (Bukowski, Hemingway, trace it back to a caveman with fermented wheat painting...
working title: In Memoriam
so I was talking to my editor about selling “Spider Claus” and his reaction was “sure, maybe if it didn’t make half the staff cry and obsessively worry about bugs, you freak”, except less polite, and then for the thousandth time he lectured me on the concept of maybe writing something that could sell.
and I was like, what do you want me to do, write a book about all...
not too long ago, I used to see “that guy” a lot and think “what a fucking douchebag”.
this is California, so, you know, “that guy”. the guy with the oversized t-shirt who weighs as much as wet newspaper, has huge blue eyes and four ugly tattoos and lank hair, is about five-ten and carries around a guitar and a magazine all the time, and responds to life...
okay, so I am KIND OF a jackass sometimes.
dames
you know, I may love tits, and long dark hair, and glasses more than your average joe, but what really drives me up the damned wall is the line of a woman’s back. that curve rising below and above the small of the back — down the ass, up the spine. some women have one that looks like they’re art, a statue, a miracle of sculpting. other dames have one that just looks sensual. tall...
"Maybe you just need to, like, heal your aura,...
trying to re-align my chakra, eh?
#wink
a HELL of an agent
“I’m Satan and the Devil,” said the little girl, “and Old Scratch and I know what you want and I know what she wants and I know what everyone wants and I will give it to you you just have to say no to God you just have to turn your back you just have to shake my hand and agree and agree and what you want will be yours everything you ever wanted everything you will ever...
I feel like I have just maybe a few too many associates who want to be that “you’re a charming devil-may-care rogue Dan but you’re slipping and you need to find yourself” buddy but are actually really shitty at the necessary psychoanalysis/grasp of moods to keep up with that sort of thing.
In the dim, summer lightning strikes he sat on the end of my bed, all dark tailoring and long, wandering fingers.
“You know, pretty girls get all the good stories. It’s just the way it is. I mean, all women get stories, but pretty girls — no one gets the trouble, the crazy, the brilliant and the beautiful falling out of the sky like the pretty girls do,” his hands moving...
One cigarette left and it rolled off my desk.
I wake up every morning and it’s not like any other morning. Survival instinct and gut trauma in the end. You can puke every morning, but you don’t have to be sick. Anorexics and alcoholics have only awkwardness in common.
Some days you can’t be bothered to get up, but you do anyway. It’s not like lying in bed is gonna go...
hey, when’s the last time you made someone a mix tape?
diegoland asked: Don't drink and post, bad stuff happen, really bad stuff. I've seen it happen
I live with the vague suspicion that ten years from now when I talk about my time in San Francisco, I’m going to sum it up with “a lot of people had really stupid hair”.
celebrity crushes I don’t get;
Zooey Deschanel (whatever, you all love her, I get it, but I will never understand why)
Marion Cotillard (really, really, really god damn plain)
Kristen Schaal (maybe my friends are just weirdos)
Melanie Laurent (meh?)
list to be invariably update as my friends babble to me about women who are extremely boring or bitchy looking.
it's one of those days where I'm dead certain my...
I mean, except for those of you in “Mad Hot Bitchez”.
[I just tried to search for a good .gif of someone winking and by god it’s all ugly asian pop stars in gauche suits and blonde hair blinking awkwardly, what the fuck is wrong with people]
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Clause for the Next Claus
Little Timmy Saxophone lived with his parents in Catch Hell, Indiana. Smalltown American for an eight year old boy, and Little Timmy was a boy with ambition. Poppa Saxophone was a CEO with a big business smile and slick business hair. Momma Saxophone was all gingham and sandwiches and tucking Little Timmy in at night.
Catch Hell, despite a name, was a nice town, all friendly neighbors and kindly...
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