This morning I found one of my old diaries from about 4 years ago. Below are some of the entries/snippets. To counterbalance the anger/whininess, I have added images of cute animals snorgling. Enjoy!

1/23
I just had a really traumatic dental experience. I am starving, and she was supposed to be here to order food for me. Who has to walk around downtown after dental surgery anyway? Esp. when it involved a valium IV. I want to at least order a coffee, but my mouth doesn't move, and with all of the drool pouring out uncontrollably, no one has waited on me. I just tried to put on my lipstick, but it's all over my mouth/chin…I look like a retarded prostitute.
Zolar's Dream Interpretation book says of "mince pies" (who the hell dreams of mince pie?)…OK, I just asked a woman if she wanted my seat, as she had company and I am taking up an entire booth. I tried to talk to her normally, but could barely move my jaw. She walked away mumbling something about "that poor little girl". I am not talking anymore. Cigarettes for breakfast are much better with a coffee. "Mince pies" mean "GREAT JOY!". I just went to the bathroom, and nevermind, I look like a fox!



2/6
JESUS CHRIST I should write that smaller as eyes are wandering in this room jesus christ. This room is full of fashion students. I have to drop this class, too much estrogen and they are all wearing glasses. Wish that ***** were here…I guess I only want him here because ****** is away. They're all the same. No really, they are all the same. Even my family gets confused.



4/1
The source of sexuality is the need to SURVIVE! Women don't hunt, women use sex to entice men to hunt FOR them.

6/15
Can play banjo, singing saw, jawharp…various bands and performance projects. Cabaret, murder ballads….sea shanties, deathrock.



7/14
****** refuses to buy me coffee because it would spoil me. Doesn't buy me food for the same reason. I am hungry hungry hungry! I have $20 for the next two weeks. I have three jobs, and only one is legit. I can't depend on the others. That's for everything. I spent $12 of it buying him breakfast and a drink. I really don't like asking for money. $8 will go to: Cigarettes…and that's it. He says nothing good will come of my smoking. I say, "That's not true, DEATH will come of smoking!". I just need to remember to exhale in his face.

8/1
***** can command me anytime. My mom would be so pissed at what a bad feminist I have become. I want to get drunk and be taken advantage of. "You do not want to disappoint her as he temper is short and patience is not one of her virtues. With three years experience of exquisite pain and dominance, this genteel southern belle commands with an iron hand in a velvet glove."

8/23
******* tried to kill me last night. We were camping, and drinking around the fire when ***** pushed me down, straddled me, and held a knife to my throat. ***** kicked her off, and chased her and the knife into the woods. I brushed myself off and tried to catch my breath, when ***** came back and asked if I wanted to make out. I didn't, even though he saved my life. I slept next to **** instead, he's so much younger. Everything is OK today, but I don't know if I can be friends with **** when she is always trying to murder me.



ANYWAY, I was super, super bad last night. Somehow, the sun came up and I was all cozy in my own bed. I remember singing "Wind Beneath My Wings". Horrible.


Me, last night...

A friend got me a shirt that says "Irish Whiskey Makes Me Frisky"...certainly appropriate right now.

Maybe too frisky? Nah.

And the BEST video EVAH!:

This entry is dedicated to the best drug of all time....NYQUIL.



Yes, as I have had the past 3 days off, and it being cold as hell (not wanting to leave the house to go to bars, not wanting to get dressed, etc), I have been drinking NyQuil so that I can be comatose before 6am, which is my usual day off bedtime.
Last night, I had quite a large shot of "cherry" NyQuil and tried to play WoW. It was not a good thing, as I passed out in the middle of combat and died.


I'm not a redneck, and that is not my shotglass.

It's fairly foul tasting, but it doesn't matter much as you won't have to deal with the aftertaste for very long...you'll be out cold within 20 minutes.

If you don't want to drink it "neat", here are some cocktail ideas that I found online...

"Green Lizard"

Ingredients:
1 bottle NyQuil® cough syrup
16 oz Sprite® soda

Directions:
Add ice, shake well. The sniffling, sneezing, coughing, aching, stuffy-head, fever, so you can rest, cocktail. This drink is very popular on the north slope of Alaska, which is technically an alcohol-free area.

"Sweaty Italian"

A combination of ice cold vodka and cough syrup. Not the most subtle of tastes, but when poured together, they separate, giving the appearance of an Italian flag.

Ingredients:
1 bottle NyQuil® cough syrup
16 oz Sprite® soda
Directions:
Pour all ingredients together into a shot glass, and serve.

Another suggested recipe is this:

4 ounces Nyquil
two ounces peyote
some eyedrops
a dab of tequilla
ashes of a burnt Tito Puente album cover....



Then drink it down as fast as you can and then just as fast smoke three unfiltered Camel cigarettes simultaneously. Then watch:



.....and I all but guarantee you'll either go on a vision quest to another planet or on a three state killing spree.

Or, like me, you will lie in bed and figuratively shake your fist (too much effort to raise the fist) at God until you pass out.

My wedding (in pre-Katrina New Orleans), as told by my best friend...ahhh, fond memories.
Too bad I was too drunk to remember most of it. Glad that I found this journal entry of hers! Love her writing....
Enjoy.

as typed into LJ by the bff June 16, 2005....

"FRIDAY I was going through kind of emotional crap before leaving that afternoon. But, I swear, as soon as the plane started to take off, I felt sort of cleansed, and wiped free from all tension and worry. Such is the attitude so cultivated by life in New Orleans. I arrived with no trouble, and B picked me up and took me back to the Glimmer Inn, where I would be staying the next 2 nights, and also where the wedding would be held. I dropped my shit off at the quaint B&B owned by an older lesbian couple, and met some of B's other friends and family, including a strange raver-y guy named Nick, who had shoved so many drugs into his face, he spoke like a little sqeaking doll. Well, I don't know if that's the reason, but it's my theory. We hung around on the porch, smoking and drinking Abita. It felt so good to be back in the land of green and trees and gardens, and WARMTH and no horns honking etc. etc...words can't express how much I felt like I would explode from happiness at just standing on that fucking porch with these people and drinking ice cold microbews...

We soon all piled into cars and headed to Nirvana, the Indian restaurant Uptown where the wedding dinner was being held. They had an upstairs set up for all of us, and lots of good food, buffet-style. At this time I met B's biological father for the first time. That was interesting, I found out, at last, where B gets her inclination toward random bouts of projectile vomiting, so the "mingling" before dinner consisted of more Abita and telling B-puking stories.


...where my brilliant speech was given, making both my mom and dad (divorced for 25 yrs) very uncomfortable...

There was a microphone, so B's and Dylan's moms thanked everyone at the dinner, and blah blah stuff, before handing them the microphones. Neither were very fond of such public speaking, so B made the corniest announcement in wedding dinner history: "I just want to thank my mom and dad for making me possible!" and quickly turned off the microphone. The whole thing was kinda weird, a lot of ex-spouse and step-parent stuff. Dylan's mom verrry recently left her husband of 30 years for another woman. It was all quite scandalous.

After walking into a swarm of flying cockroaches, I accompanied B's childhood friend Kat and and some other people to the Quarter, acting as navigator. We met up with B&D at XIII. And wouldn't you know it. Damn small town. We filed in, and who should be sitting at the bar but the Little Maggot himself, also known as Burn Victim of Yore (I will add that my bff had thrown scalding water on this guy b/c he had tossed cigarette butts at her. I believe that he was briefly hospitalized as the burns were quite severe.). His head snapped in my direction as I walked behind him, and I could see, ouf of my periphery, that he watched me continue to walk. Poor thing looked terrified. We weren't there too long, but long enough to get some fucking Tater Tots, yeah! $1.50!!! Them sure ain't New York prices!

Eventually, the party disbanded, and I went back to my cozy room. I say cozy in the homey sense, the room was like twice the size of my entire apartment. They had a bathroom with a luxurious claw-foot bathtub, and all these fancy bubble baths, so I lay there and soaked and stared at the tall ceilings, with no noise to interrupt my calm, save for the lazy whirr of the cieling fan, and some crickets outside.

SATURDAY Day o the wedding! Got dressed in my fancy 1930s peach silk slip I cut off to be longer in the back, and about knee length in the front, to show off my huge buckly boots (note: no one in B's/Dylan's families gave me weird looks...after all, they've lived with B and Dylan this long). I even put on a modicum of make-up Shutup!Shutup! I found out I was being summoned to the Bride's bungalow. She was still walking around in a bra and slip when I got there, but seemed in no rush to get dressed, as that only required the donning of a $12 eBay dress. Abut half an hour before the wedding, Loyola guitar professor J came to serenade the wedding party. There was some confusion as to where the minister was, but he showed right before 11 a.m., photographer in tow. They took a few minutes getting light readings and shit, and trying to find good places for us to stand that wouldn't be in direct sunlight (this being a fairly gothy wedding, there was some pale skin to take into account).



Finally, all was ready, and I swear, the ceremony was over in like 4 minutes. Basically there were no actual vows, just asking the bride and groom do they take each other etc., to which Dylan responded "Absolutely!" and B "Sure! Why not?" They then proceeded with some sort of French wine ritual, involving one of them to pour red wine, the other white, into one container, then pour from that into a glass, and both drink from it. I have to admit, standing there, next to my best friend of almost 8 years, it was hard to fight back tears Shutup!Shutup! what with the sun in my eyes, and trying not to laugh. But I overcame. And at the end, the photographer tried to get the happy couple to step down and take their little processional walk. B ignored her and encouraged the guests to start drinking. They all laughed, threw Mardi Gras beads, and took her advice.


...looking to the bff for support...


Finally, a chance to drink!


That was blood, not wine, btw.

Mucho champagne was drunk. The license was signed by the minister, the bride and groom, the best man and myself. I started getting tipsy and made my way over to J and started talking about random shit that turned into how bad NOLA public schools are. He's a weird guy, with a weird facial tic. All the while pictures were being taken, and I became B's bouquet-carrying bitch, but I didn't mind. At one point the photographer came up to me and asked if the wedding was Wiccan. I said, "I think B used to be. They're just crazy now." She laughed nervously and moved on. I guess we all did look a bit strange, what with B's long red glued-in hair, Dylan's bondage suit and dress shirt, me, Dylan's sister in belly-danceing attire with her piratey husband, the squeaky guy with his goggles, etc. Ah, it was quite a nice experience all in all.
It was like 95 degrees, I felt like I was melting, the David Bowie-lookalike minister had sweat running down his temples, and yours truly started to rethink her previous stance on marriage Shutup!Shutup!


I have to SIGN something? I dunno.....

The reception was held at Muriel's, on Jackson Square. We all took some crazy shuttle, the old granparents, estranged ex-spouses, grade school/high/ school/college friends, siblings, people from Portland, OR to NYC (moi), all points in-between, and also Scotland. Drinks were imbibed in this lush bordello-inspired room, then we all wento into a bigger hall and started the long, awesome dinner. J was still playing, and then some little kid, I think one of the kids Dylan taugh at University School of Nashville, got up and started singing with him, standards, Beatles, etc. This kid was like 8 but man he had lungs, quite the little entertainer. I fucking hate children, and don't wanna see any popping out my hooha anytime soon, but gawddamn, if this little sprog had somehow turned up at my doorstep, I would not have turned him away Shutup!Shutup!

Many toasts were given, including a great one by B's drunken grandmother, who advised B to let her husband be the boss, seconds after admonishing B's ancient grandfather for daring to try to take some photos. The best man delivered a drunken speech, as is the tradition, B's dad, etc. etc. It came time when B looked at me expectantly, but I just couldn't. I was getting fairly inebriated, and just KNEW any speech I tried to give, in all manner of good intentions, would come out as, "Well, I'm glad these two are so happy. Maybe one day I'll have what they have, but probably not. I'll never be loved, and this'll probably be the closest I get to the altar. But Salut just the same, you bunch of fucking happy-mongers," snot and tears mixing with make-up and running down my face, till someone, probably the bride, pulls me down by my arm. I saved thhose lines for the card I gave B&D, so I left it at that.





After Muriel's we went back to the inn and napped for a couple of hours, sleeping off the booze. At 7 a limo picked us up and 10 of us got a nice drive around the city. The best man presented his wedding gift (a purple crucifix dildo) and being all nerdy artists/professors/musician/academians we would occasionally roll down a window and ask another motorist for Grey Poupon. We drank more champagne, and made a few more choice remarks at the people on the street. We got dropped at XIII, where I bought a round of drinks and shots for all of us, like 10 or 12 people, about $50. Not bad.

The limo picked us up soon afterwards, and dropped us off at the B&B. We got in cars and drove to Cooter Brown's at the Riverbend. Before going inside, we discovered, and this is fucked up, B's old car Yes, it was sitting at the RR tracks, taped up, but obviously still driveable. If there were any doubts as to whether it was actually her car, they were dismissed when, upon opening the unlocked door, Dylan found an old flight ticket stub with his name on it. That's New Orleans for you.


400 different beers, and cheap fried shit! Hooray!

Pretty shady when you remember that the auto place told them, a year ago, that the car was unsalvageable, and had a severely-cracked frame. ("B's car was totally fucked around late June. She got off work and went to her car which was parked on Elysian around 6:30 a.m., to find it had been hit from behind and pushed something like 3 car lengths into a car in front of it. The back end was barely hanging on, and the hood was fucked. Then apparently, someone later on decided to break into the car by breaking a back window, and drain the gas tank. The car was totaled, as the frame was bent in 3 places. She couldn't even donate it, VOA wouldn't even take it. It sucked, cause she had only been in New Orleans a little while, and I somehow knew she wouldn't want to stay too much longer after that happened.Ah well, what can you do.") B devided to take the gas cap back with her as a souvenir. Some pool was played, then back to the inn for my last night there. I wished I'd brought my vibrator, but I didn't know before I got into town that I'd have a single room..."

I wish that I could afford to be down there for Mardi Gras this year. Haven't been since my wedding. I ache for it, though! Really fucking miss it.

I don't think I am going to live for much longer, despite the fact that I have not been sick (not even a sniffle) in five years (when I almost died from pnuemonia). My lungs crackle and hiss when I breathe. I projectile vomit for no reason. I gain and lose weight without changing my eating habits (sometimes I am emaciated, sometimes nothing fits, at times as much as 10lbs in a week lost or gained). I am constantly marked with unexplained bruises and scratches. My body is either icy cold so that I have to wear multiple layers and stand on the heating vent, or burning so hotly that my husband has to sleep on top of the blankets with nothing on and a fan blowing on him. I live off of whiskey, cigarettes, black coffee, and cheese. It has been this way for many years (although I have been trying to get into salads, and will occasionally drink a gallon of green tea).

So, just in case the inevitable happens soon, here is how I would like my funeral to go down...

First of all, this song should be playing, preferably my best friend will play it.


There will be no talking. No crying (unless silently weeping). Just sit there. It will be very dark, no windows in the parlour. It will be held late at night, at a place that looks like this:



There will be creaky doors, cats squealing, and lots of old people in costume that none of my friends know. These aforementioned older people will just glare at my friends and make them uncomfortable. No speeches. No flowers.

Everyone should look like this, creepy children are a plus. Long haired, beautiful men...plus plus plus! But no matter, as I will be dead and unable to gawk at them.


We will go to the graveyard in this hearse:


The horses will, at some point, freak out on their long ride to the gravesite and rear up, perhaps knocking the back door open and the coffin will slide out. Everyone will gasp, and lightning will strike a nearby tree. Bats will fly from the tree. Gasp!

The grave yard should look like this:


If the funeral occurs when there is no snow on the ground, a snow machine should be brought in. If there isn't a creepy old abbey, I will leave it to my friends to find a suitable cathedral and burn it down so that it looks like this.

As my coffin is lowered in silence, there will be a scratching from within...and I will pop out like this! MWAHHHH!

Everyone will have a good laugh at that!

Hooray!

In NYC all day yesterday, job interviews, blah blah blah. One place was DIRECTLY across the street from the Empire State Building. It made me all teary eyed to look up at it as I was reminded of this movie...

I wanted to go up to the top, but I'm really frightened by elevators. Is there a bar up there? That would motivate me...
I was hired for that job across the steet, but I need two jobs to live there at least to afford the rent in the area where I want to live.

The other job that wanted to interview me pays so low that it's insulting. I will call them back if I get really desperate.

Saw my best friend last night while I was there, she gave me a bunch of old clothes, including her velvet jacket sewn up with dental floss from so much wear. She had it with her in New Orleans years ago, and I don't think it has ever been washed. I kind of like it's muskiness...

This is video of the Metro-North train that I take into NYC. This is the view going from Harlem (125th St. platform) through the Bronx.


...and the song I listened to on repeat on the train that made me feel like a weepy maniac....

Velvet Underground- Heroin

Watch the train video and listen to the song and feel my EMO-ness!

I'm not depressed at all, but this random joyful weeping is irritating me. Something good is going to happen, but I don't know what it is yet...

I can't stop watching this video...this is what is going on inside my head most of the time...



Now you know. That is all.

I don't have anything that I want to say on here right now, so you can enjoy these pics of the old family homestead! This is where the Irish side of my family settled down South.

Me feeding "Annie" the calf so she can grow up big and fat and be slaughtered!


Your days are numbered, kids!


The house...


Old car in a field...


Creepy high heel next to the car....


Future husbands.... all of this can be yours! It looks romantic, no?








All of my Nashville girls...all with the same disarming Southern-charm smile....but we are full of anger.

The SCUM Manifesto by Valerie Solanas, has always been a favorite read for me...

Valerie Jean Solanas (April 9, 1936 - April 26, 1988) was an American radical feminist writer who struggled to be recognized for her writing but became famous for having shot the artist Andy Warhol in 1968. She wrote the SCUM Manifesto, a misandrous attack on patriarchal culture.

Solanas wrote and self-published the work for which she is best known _ a call for destruction of men and men-loving women, as well as the liberation of women, called the SCUM Manifesto. SCUM is generally held to be an acronym of "Society for Cutting Up Men," although this acronym does not appear in the manifesto itself, and some believe that Solanas's "S.C.U.M." had no other meaning than the word scum. SCUM gained Solanas a following among some feminists, who regard her provocative text as a wake-up call and a source of reflection.
(from wikipedia)



Here are a few excerpts...

Although completely physical, the male is unfit even for stud service. Even assuming mechanical proficiency, which few men have, he is, first of all, incapable of zestfully, lustfully, tearing off a piece, but instead is eaten up with guilt, shame, fear and insecurity, feelings rooted in male nature, which the most enlightened training can only minimize; second, the physical feeling he attains is next to nothing; and third, he is not empathizing with his partner, but is obsessed with how he's doing, turning in an A performance, doing a good plumbing job. To call a man an animal is to flatter him; he's a machine, a walking dildo. It's often said that men use women. Use them for what? Surely not pleasure.

Eaten up with guilt, shame, fears and insecurities and obtaining, if he's lucky, a barely perceptible physical feeling, the male is, nonetheless, obsessed with screwing; he'll swim through a river of snot, wade nostril-deep through a mile of vomit, if he thinks there'll be a friendly pussy awaiting him. He'll screw a woman he despises, any snaggle-toothed hag, and furthermore, pay for the opportunity. Why? Relieving physical tension isn't the answer, as masturbation suffices for that. It's not ego satisfaction; that doesn't explain screwing corpses and babies.



The sick, irrational men, those who attempt to defend themselves against their disgustingness, when they see SCUM barrelling down on them, will cling in terror to Big Mama with her Big Bouncy Boobies, but Boobies won't protect them against SCUM; Big Mama will be clinging to Big Daddy, who will be in the corner shitting in his forceful, dynamic pants. Men who are rational, however, won't kick or struggle or raise a distressing fuss, but will just sit back, relax, enjoy the show and ride the waves to their demise.

Just a little cheery Sunday afternoon reading! It has been collecting dust too long...
The book itself was a gift from my soon-to-be ex- husband. He thought that I would appeciate Valerie's views.

You can read the rest here
...ruminate on that, and get back to me.

Oops.....scratch everything that I just wrote, I will write a real entry later.