Eyeballs, do your dirty work!

Dear Diary,

Why do I feel as if my eyeballs will liquify with hatred today? Why can't I feel pretty again?

SO anyway I get home and get my relax on, ie post-practice with El Radio Fantastique and hund out a bit with Ellie while reading a bit of the League of Extraordinary Gentlemen at the Downtown store, to have my neighbor inform me that David (see previous entries) my Landlady's unsightly son/the building manager has gone into my apartment without my permission while I was out. Fan-fucking-tastic! This makes 3 times! hurray for homocidal wrath!

Gawd bless Wes in his good neighbordom, may many lessons be learned from his prompt and curteous behavior. If there is one thing that I will miss about that house it will be Wes' intense psycho-analytic New England Continental philosopher vibe.

Concerning my Landlady and her son, may their souls fry in the blazing fires of hell, like oozing pustules and eggyolks and carpenter ants crawling in eye sockets etc. Here are things passed through my mind, possible scenarios relating to the contents of my apartment and perusal thereof.

1. the sniffing of personal articles.
2. inspection of personal paperwork.
3. general non-specific nosiness.
4. inspection of dirty things, ie garbage, fridge, hairball collection, ash tray, soiled under-linens (see #1).
5. photographic documentation of apartment and contents.
6. Touching of personal objects (see also nos. 1 & 4)
7. Reading of top secret diaries.
8. Molesting my cache/money boodle.
9. Exportation of sundry personal articles.

On a happier note, I am going to live on Magazine St. Mr. Edwards of Edwards Shoe Repair is gonna be my new landlord! I'm going to drop off the deposit today. Haha! Now to move out as quickly and descretely as possible. And pee everywhere.

On that note I propose a poll, shall I persue legal action against the Insidious New Orleans Property holders. In the spirit of those so-called "reality" televised serials, which I am informed have captured the popular imagination as of late, please vote yes or no, where upon I will act upon the decision voiced most angrily by rule of mob.

a perfect accident involving a tree, fig, and physician

Have you heard the one about the boy, the frog and the whorehouse?

I am terribly tired. I had a dream two nights ago. In the dream I smacked Mr. Papercuts across the face during an argument.

[It was one of those incredibly vivid dreams, no doubt influenced by the libido-killing, stress-reducing supplements I've been injesting on a fairly regular basis. I'm not sure what I'm going to do when I run out. That tiny bottle cost me $13 and I drank it up like a sailor in port at a rum pub. ]

So in the dream a bunch of other less striking stuff transpired. Stanley was there. His aquarium was full of tiny shrimp and very small fish. I take that as a sort of esp telepathic communique that he is happy with his clean cage and likes the idea of moving out. I like that Stanley, for those who have not had the pleasure, my pet newt of several years, has started appearing in my dreams. Maybe he's my spirit animal.

As a result of the actions in my dream, I realized that I should spill my guts to him, that the frustration and anxiety of whatever the whatever we were engaging in had begun to trespass into my dreamscape and that frankly I should sack up and tell him that I was fond of him. Fond meaning, to clarify the subtle nuances of the English for those in the audience, like like. As in:

Do you like me?
No, I mean like like me.

Do you like me? Check one.
() Yes. ()Yes.

So it was embarrassing and I am finally a gross chicken. Maybe now I can get it over with. Boys are smelly and gross and entirely composed of excess hair, farts and other noisome smells, and jarring angles that are unpleasant to the eye. Anyway, I don't need anyone around to impede my independence, though it would be nice to have the occassional person around to keep the the bed warm and drink tea with. You know, someone to make you breakfast in the morning, or to make breakfast for.



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Gaaaawdd, how uttering abysmal and pathetic.



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Maybe after I finish my nawfle. Or at least after I revise my poems and give them to oblivian. That's the ticket. It sounds so ambitious. I'm not trying to shovel meaning into my yawning vaccuum of a soul.

I went to an Eastern European party and Angel and Pandora's. I wish that it hadn't been a school night. I'm still feeling a little sleep dep. I would have liked to have drank a bit more. I could do that tonight, alone, muh hwa hwa.

Central City

the to-do list

sub 1. find a new abode, hopefully a second floor large-ish single in a dilapidated apartment in Central City. Mmm...

1. Carefully place objects in boxes.
2. Remove boxes to new abode.

I finished reading The Photographer's Sweetheart this morning.

When will I ever complete my nawfle? I am the worst Angela ever. Even worse than the one from that Tony Danza show. Why do I suck?