My teeth feel weird.

An aspiring poet drowned today after jumping into the Hudson River to save a bag of his writing.

Anyway it is almost time for a long rainy weekend. Haha. Awesome. Tomorrow we will receive queer as folk and return of the dead or night of the returning living dead or whatever. I’ve had too many sangrias.

And next Friday night me and treason and friends from work are going to Blood Manner. I get so turned on when shit scares me, and I’m sure I’ll be drunk, so I’ll be superhorny. And some zombie wannabe will chase me down a dark hallway with a chainsaw and I’ll fall like a bimbo because I’m sure I’ll be in stilettos and he’ll eat some of me and drag me to an old van with tinted windows and covered with graffiti and finish me off, it will be sooooooooooo hot. Its weird though because I picture a bunch of trees and grass and the dark stiffness of The South but this will be in Manhattan and that’s weird but cool……..

I like the strokes’ juicebox and I like how that sounds perverted. “Pinned” is coming along fine, my new book, and I keep changing the title, but I love the style of writing this book carries and btw Dennis Cooper is FREAKY. I like.

Here’s more Demonic.

DEVON

It was just as I’d expected. Betsy received crude judgmental stares as soon as we entered Wrought. She didn’t know how to dress. I had figured it out from the beginning. Dress to please any and every occasion. Dress to fit into any scene. People thought it was impossible, but it wasn’t. Right now I looked like I could go for a golf club over my shoulder, a hooker by my side, and a bottle of 1787 Chateau Lafite in front of my face. The hostess lingered by the bar in worry because she was so put off by Egg Girl.
“The owner will be right with you.” The owner. Betsy looked skank enough to have the owner brought in. How wonderful teriffy tiffy. He came towards us in a zippy fashion. He seemed queer to me at that point, but he wasn’t. I’d seen him grab waitress ass on several occasions. I think maybe he did too much coke.
“What seems to be the problem?” he asked. He rested one arm on the bar. I looked over his shoulder at the soft twinkling light of the intimate dining room.
“Hi, sir, a few weeks ago my girlfriend’s house burned down. She lost all of her nice dresses.” That was my best excuse.
“Oh,” his face lit up with too much reaction. He was definitely strung out on something. I leaned into him and whispered.
“My father is Chris Pierce, you know, the golf champion, every once in a while we like to do something kind for the less fortunate, I know she looks like scarecrows ass but I’d really appreciate it if you could overlook it.” While I said this, I fingered my platinum visa card in my coat pocket. He saw it and his face completely relaxed.
“Heather,” he called the hostess over. She hopped like a bunny to his command.
“Yes sir?”
“Please seat these folks in the main dining area. There was absolutely no need for this holdup.” He started to walk away then he turned around at the last minute.
“I am a big Pierce fan by the way. You should bring your father here some time.” I just nodded and smiled kindly.
I wasn’t sure what Becky was thinking at this point. We were seated next to a huge painting of a street musician in New Orleans. He was so sad it looked like his face was melting. He was bending over on the street, making a sad face. His clothes looked like paper bags. The city stretched out behind him like spilled lifesavers candy. We were both given a wine list and an appetizer menu. The appetizer menu was encased in a small black leather front and back cover. Its choices spelled out in old Gothic font. I looked up at Betsy. She didn’t seem to know what to do with herself. The wine list was attached to the appetizer’s menu, laminated with a neat red ribbon frame. They could have done a better job with it, I thought. Last time I was here, the wine list was simply a piece of resume paper already laid out on the tables. That was better; sometimes not trying so hard was better. I watched Becky’s eyes. She looked like she was trying to read something in another language.
“I’ll let you pick out the wine,” I said. “When the waitress comes over, you can order it.” She nodded and quickly looked back over the wine list the way a student would the last few seconds of an SAT. The waitress came over with a ready smile. She wore black, but it was a better more sophisticated black than what Betsy was wearing. The waitress was perfectly put together. One had to be to work at Wrought Cafe. Nothing here was out of order. Perfection ran from every corner and bled into an immaculate completion in the center, making everyone here feel like a king. The waitress’s name was Sarah. She had golden blonde hair that was pinned on the sides; it neatly curled back in waves to frame her perfect little round face. I wanted to tear her apart. I wanted to make that cute little face burst wide open in screams of red, hot pain. I wanted her little bobby pins to go flying and her tits to bounce so hard she would think they’d rot from too much shake and drop off. Mom said that when I was a little boy I liked to shake Nicole’s dolls until their heads popped off. Sometimes I’d switch stuff around and put Ken’s head on Barbie’s body. That gave me an idea. But that amazing thought was interrupted by the urgency to order some wine. I couldn’t look away from the waitress now. She was a lot hotter than Becky. This was bad. I had started to develop a taste for mediocre trash and it was bad. Clyde would have to snap me out of this shit.
“Betsy, why don’t you order the wine, hon?” I must have gotten her name wrong because she looked up at me like I just said, “Betsy, you look like a rotten ham.” Had she had enough of me? I hadn’t gotten any of her. Maybe I needed to cool it. Cheap apple pie can make you cum as long as its warm, Clyde had told me once, so you might as well fuck it.
“Actually,” I stopped her before she could mispronounce anything. Besides, I’m sure her taste in wine was foul. She had said before she listened to whatever was on the radio. You just can’t trust someone who says that as having any taste at all. “We’ll try the Chateau d’Y quem.” Sarah was very impressed with my pronunciation of the wine. I knew she would be. I was going to order the 1775 Sherry, but how would that impress her? Besides the Chateaus was a bit more pricy.
“Are you having any fun at all?” I decided to ask Betsy. “This is one of the most respected restaurants in the world. It was even mentioned in World Press as one of the fifty best and you’re sitting there like you didn’t get your toy in your happy meal.” She dropped her velvet folded silverware pack she’d been fidgeting with. Her face bunched up and she tried to hide the fact that she was about to cry with her hand.