1,017

Where is my soft machine, I screamed out from my position of ultimate non power!  And now there is a truck pulling up.  There were frightening noises coming from beneath the floor last night.  I downed another shot or two of whiskey and/or vodka in order to calm my jangled.  I watched 3 James Bond movies over the weekend.  The one I liked the most was Octopussy and I reckon that is a great and zany adventure film.  It really worked for me!  It really fired on all cylinders!  I was drinking a jar of pasta sauce last night. 

On the verge of tears for most of the morning and something like a tension headache keeps building.  I have failed.  At what, he asks.  I have failed at everything.  I have failed at life.  I’m a loser, an utter failure.  No one else to blame but myself and there is some odd comfort in that.  I began writing a letter to someone I never see anymore and will likely never see again.  Touch of therapy, eh. 

So much banality.  I’m tempted to throw up in my hands and then drink it.  All my fault.  All this banality comes from me.  Forced to talk to people again.  Just listen to these instructions, all so fucking meaningless.  Oh how we desperately to the little pieces of nothing we carve out. 

You are going to be so sorry one day for the way you treated us.  You don’t got nothing to say that I wanna hear.  Just shut up!  I hope your fucking happy for this fucking mood you put me in.  why are you so stupid?  Goddamnit!  I can talk to you however the hell I want.  Sit down and take it.  You wouldn’t have made it.  Sneeze.  Don’t be rude!  You will be out of my life forever.  All he wants is someone to cook and clean up after him.  All you want is someone to take you places and buy you things.  With that attitude.  You can all just go to hell.  GODDAMNIT!!!  I will blame you for the rest of your life.  14! 14! Grow up, they’re not your family.  (wanted to show him the diary pages).  You can go live with her whenever you want. Slap.  Slap.  Slap.  Rude.  Inconsiderate.  Ungrateful.  “I’m sorry.”  Lately you’ve bene saying a lot of things you should be sorry for.  You will be out of my life forever.  Silence now, silence, silence, silence (though happiness around others).  Other kids would die to have this.  You don’t got nothing to say that I want to hear.  Silence for many days.  GODDAMNIT!!!  Don’t be surprised if one of these days I just leave.  Go tell him what happened with the phone conversation. Are you going to deny God? 

It occurred to me then that I need to invest in my own Word Hoard.  This is the key to everything.  I keep a copy of The Soft Machine with me wherever I go.  Back in my high school I used to throw pants-shitting parties!  They were all the rage.  We’d all gather around, swap stories and just literally shit our pants.  I need to bring these parties back, reunite the old gang.  My copy of the soft machine has a pink cover.  I would love to spend hundreds of dollars and obtain a first edition copy. Then one day when I turn into a vampire I’ll find a pretty freshly turned vampire and offer to lend her my copy.  My favorite pens are the Pilot Precise V7 RT.  I order them by the baker’s dozen, always in rich blue.  Speaking of blue, I need to buy a copy of Perfect Blue.  I’ve been watching Ju-On Origins on Netflix recently.  That is, when I’m not crying, bitching, pissing and moaning about how worthless I am (but there’s an extra layer of comedy there because I really am all those things).  

I’m excited that Kylie Minogue is set to release a new DISCO themed album in November and look forward to hearing the new single this coming Friday! 

The greatest thing, the ultimate goal, would be able to write something as pure as Detonate by Charli XCX and/or as lovely as Ce N’est Pas Un Reve by Francoise Hardy.  I can live inside those songs and temporarily not want to die.  Something like Bowie’s Outside album.  Pieces of my worthless soul and disgusting heart hide in there and for blissful moments receive solace. 

I’ve begun writing letters to someone with whom I’ll likely never speak with again.  It’s comforting in the short term.  “I love working with you.”  Are there any dreams left?  Words are leaving me behind in this worthless place I have created.  Fear I may have no more viable constructs left.  

Something I’ve mentioned in all of this crap reminds me of the lovely Scott 3.  Of this, I need more of.  It was the 19^th anniversary of JP3 the other day.  I remember the first time I ever saw it. Kinda harkens back to something written earlier.  And the first few Amaral records.  I’m reminded of those by Francoise.  As I approach this loveliness, I feel ever more terrible.  I realize that booze helps stave off these terrible feelings.  I continue to take some measure of comfort in that I only have myself to blame. Sion Sono is also inspiring.  Ugly things feel very true.  I miss you.  I realize now the hypocrisy present in those blocks of time. Yet so much comes down to money.  I miss talking.  But there was so much that was illusory, correct?  I imagined most of it.  And it still came true anyway, haha.  Maybe this agent can help me for awhile in those blissful moments when I am about to fall asleep and in those caustic, awful moments when I first wake up and realize I am still me. 

She was singing to me in my dreams the other night. 

I need to read the book Rebecca.  I am woefully not well read. 

The Spy Who Loved Me is such a lovely film.