The correct word for straw?!

Naturally I’ve been listening to the song Call on Me by the great ERIC PRYDZ for the past five hours.  I love that tune so much.  Just try to listen to that son without jumping up and down like a rabbit on the verge of a nuclear explosion!  I also love the films of Abel Ferrara and I wish to watch them all in a rich marathon while drinking several bottles of vodka!  I have not edited anything because I was too consumed with being worthless so read at your own peril.  
This new green tea I’m drinking is so fucking good I might have to rip my fucking face off!
Boy howdy, if I can return to discussion about suckling on the glass teat!?  Is that even in the proper form of a question?!  Damned if I know (Bruce said).  
I was Federico’s on 47th Street and I’d only had one beer, one glass of vodka on the rocks and I was halfway through an Ammareto sour that for the miserable life of me I could not figure out why I’d ordered.  Juliana was my waitress and as usual the only spark of life in the place and the only reason why I would ever bother to frequent such a reprehensible shithole as Federico’s with it’s rampant black flies, peeling paint and stench of the dumpsters that awaited out back.  Long ago I deduced that the kitchen workers had to leave the back doors open due to improper ventilation which caused smoke build up inside but this cavalier door policy was directly responsible for the aforementioned stench and insect problem.  A catch-22 in the classic sense then.  Or was it?  I often wondered if I knew how to properly use that term.  
No matter, I thought while loosening how sinfully ugly polyester tie and rubbing my fingers against the three days growth of beard on my face.  I would deal with all those inconveniences and many more if it meant I could longingly with pure lust in my heart at Juliana.  She came straight from the sun drenched heart of Mexico and her English was crass and broken up but somehow lovely at the same time, a rough poetry.  Truth be told I could barely understand her most of the time but she was always able to get the main points across with great aplomb.  
Oh now, do you see what happened?  I lost interest in my own tortured narrative.  Sex and all it’s brethren are so uninteresting.  I’m sorry, I’m very sorry, I’m the sorriest son of a bitch I know.  But a few glasses of vodka it all starts to feel the same.  But no, even through that I was able to notice the tiniest difference.  Oh, I am such a terrible person.  Be my god, we will be the physical manifestation of love this night.  God was not the right word though was it?  A bit too gender exclusive.  Or is it?  I have failed everything.  
I think what I really wanted to say was that the season premiere Lucha Underground was amazing, perfection television and this is coming from someone who does not particularly care for the television format.  It is the only wrestling show to have ever been nominated for an Emmy but I am the biggest hypocrite in the world for bringing that up when I always say that awards don’t mean a darn thing.  I’ll let you in on another juicy secret: I’m also an ugly, disgusting loser but don’t tell anyone.  But don’t let that deter you from Lucha Underground.  That season premiere was beautiful and – not to belabor the point that many have already made – more happened and progressed in that single hour than typically happens in a year of WWE.  I see this becoming one of my favorite shows of all time and it already provides much needed comfort in those moments where I am most cognizant of my innumerable failures.  
By the same token I must now take the time to extol the virtues of the most recent episode of The X-Files which air last night and which was titled “Mulder and Scully Meet the Were-Monster”.  As someone who has watched this series since its very inception and who has seen every episode hundreds of times  I can safely say that last night’s was one of the absolute very best and I feel so deeply grateful for this revival the series has been granted.  
Time passed and I became progressively more inebriated.  During those moments it was impossible not to reflect on the profound and innumerable failure of my worthless existence.
I saw those glassed tangled up in the hair.  This was the start of a deadly new obsession I knew.  Please don’t talk to me.  Why do people insist on talking to me?  
We’re all just toiling and piddling around and accomplishing nothing.  I need to employ many many more cut-ups and then maybe then this will all mean something.  But until that moment I am staring out into a dead space and what I see is quite terrifying.  Maybe a beautiful Mexican lady cop will tase me while insulting me and make me feel a whole lot better.  
Comes from France   That’s not even a complete sentence, is it?  
Tristan is that boy inside of me.  
My beautiful new muse came to me, her body was rain.  Her eyes were grey.
Of course, I think as my head goes light (sadly not for the last time), how utterly proper.  
I’m not sure if any of the preceding (or proceeding) makes any sense.  I might not have been in my right frame of mind when relating these tales.  Oh well, it doesn’t really matter too much anyway.  I suppose nothing really matters anymore.  Ho-hum.  Woe is me.  It’s all shit though, isn’t it?  It’s all turned to shit!  
I rented the American remake of Martyrs and though I have a deep love for the original and though it is one of my favorite horror movies of recent years (or perhaps because of this) I have stunningly low expectation for this remake.  I think I’ll watch it while eating a bowl of Cap N’ Crunch cereal with soy milk (cause cows are for calves).  
On the ‘Book Maria Celeste posted a photo of her “Look del dia” which had a close up for her feet in hosiery and black high heel shoes. Is she trying to kill me?!  

You know nothing is the same, not a motherfucking thing.  What a vile shithole this is.  

“I’m not sure I want to hear about that.”