As a delicate persian feline licks up the last of the crumbs off the plate, I will pretend to be happy about it. The masses and I went to Scary Ball tonight. It was a rocking good time, though I was initially afrighted by the stupid discovery that it was intended to be more of a "sit down" venue. Of course, this never prevents people from doing stupid things anyways, like dancing on stage or in front of it, and suffice to say, much dancing and emphatically alternative head-nodding was had by all. Three Little Cupcakes, No Arms, Whitey Houston, Twin Fang and Champion Alberta, to name a few, played that night. And they were awesome. All of them were good, though Champion didn't put on as good a show as usual. It is just me or is that lead singer getting more of an attitude that I don't like as time progresses? He was sort of a snot head tonight, indulging in first, robot abuse, and then just dwelling on his monitor and tiny adjustments constantly. I've always concieved him as a whiny bitch, but regardless, they still put on a decent show. I wish they would have played when I was in a better mood though. My good spirits sort of dissipated after Whitey Houston, though I ran into Naders on stage, which was nice. Also, can we say Halloween burlesque? That was awesome. I don't think I would possess the cohones to go on stage and shake my thang with nipple caps and scanty panties, but these girls sure did. For some reason, my first contrivances of burlesque were not images of such scantily clad women, and I later realized I'd been thinking of can-can girls who leave considerably more to the imagination.

It was at this show that I had a few realizations. One- it doesn't matter how hip or alternative you pretend to be, you're still a total asshole/ignorant biatch when you're drunk, stompin' all over me and other such assholery behavior.

Two- letting go sucks, but when it hits you like a train blazing it's horn and headlight at 90 mph, you just have to take it and move on for good. When your knees go weak at the sight of impending mechanical collision, you'll fall, but you will pick yourself up and be composed, because really, you're an idiot, even when no one is watching.

Three- being a good friend is hard work. Something is up with Mr. Smith, though I can't put my finger on it, and also, something is up with the Belly too, but I think that has to do with time and lack of communication- which is admittedly hard to get around, but I have to start trying harder, because I do love the kid.

Four- just because it's an artistic film, doesn't mean you're going to get it.

Five- Robots do embarrassing and destructive things when they're drunk, but still deserve our empathy nonetheless, even if you are friends with the keyboardist who had his set dumped all over the stage and drenched with robot fuel.

Six- everyone else is always out to laugh at your misfortune.

Seven- Lesbians with green hair write amazing poetry- like stake-me-in-the-heart-with-your-fucking-bloody-words amazing. She read this poem about growing up gay, and while I can't necessarily ever say what the hell I would or wouldn't do, it really struck me. It was so accurate my skin prickled.

Eight- Be happy for him, because he deserves it.

Nine- have I mentioned that alternative people are asses when they're drunk? They become raving balls of stupidity with eighties heels on, and make you feel like you'd be doing them a service if you were to say, throw acid in their faces, to bring them back to the reality that they are all just muffled gong instruments useful for only one thing. Hitting gongs in the gong show don la vie.

Ten- I miss Mr. Pink.

Eleven- everyone now has a significant other to cosy the night away with, and I have lying next to me a flickering hologram of memory alone. Whinge whinge whinge.

Eleven- Raw Umber is an excellent person. I admire him because he doesn't fill the air with unnecessary words, and yet, you can always tell where you stand with him. Standing next to him silently listening to music is finding an unexpected and enjoyful comraderie. You can tell what he thinks by looking at his face. He doesn't have to stumble over repetitive adjectives, and can see through you to the point when you end up doing so- absolutely clear vision probing the murky bullshit.

Twelve- I want to write poetry about everything, but I sometimes fear I don't have the words, and fear that maybe I am trying to fit a triangle peg into a circular hole when I attempt it.


After the show I booked it, and walked down to Telus plaza to get a cab. Just my luck that I needed a cab on the night where everyone else in the whole city needed one. In trying to phone a cab, I dialed the wrong number three times in a row, rousing some poor woman who obviously gets it a lot. She repeated the cab number each time, and I still fucked it up, despite the fact that I'd downed copious amounts of coffee only for the night. The last time, she knew it was me again, and hung up, no doubt cursing drunkards to no end. Fridays and Saturdays must be very hard on her sleep, as I doubt I'm the only one that makes this mistake. Had I not gotten a hold of Westjet, I would not have gotten home for a LONG time, which makes me feel awful for reasons I won't elaborate on. I'm a stupid girl, but also decidedly blessed to have friends that are so wonderful to me. Five dollars later.

In other news, Fenton lent me Nunt the other day, and it was truly a savoury read. I didn't want it to end. I hate as well as love how he always knows what kind of literature I'll enjoy. I have never read poetry like that before. It is inequatable to anything else I've ever read in that sense, and disturbingly so. But deliciously disturbing, like seeking pleasure out of making religious people uncomfortable, or talking about your period in front of men to see them squirm, going on and on about the bleeding, the flow, and how much you fucking hate tampons. Cotton wads of four centimeter death by TSS nearing you after every bloody ovum is gone, scrubbing your vaginal walls dry like sandpaper on plaster, scraping, gouging and peeling off layers of you in fetid bloody clumps that you worry about if they are bigger than the half moon on your thumbnail. Disgusting, for the possibility presented each month of bringing new life into a godforsaken fucking awful world. Soylent for which though? Bleeding, or procreating in a time like this?

Fie ! I must away to my lonely bed and closet.


  ¶ 2:01 AM