Damnsle Inthis-Dress

poety, rants, and self-loathing self-acceptance...what could be more fun difficult annoying ridiculous outrageous?

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Location: NW OH

Je pense, donc je doute. Je suis. Je pense.

Saturday, January 28, 2006

Friends: A Mixed Blessing

Have you ever received those emails that ask you to answer a form letter full of questions about yourself that apparently is supposed to make you feel closer to the sender, because it shows how alike the two of you are despite all of your supperficial differences? Yeah, I fucking loathe 'em too. So here are my answers to the latest one. I figure, fuck 'em. If they don't already know the answers, why the hell should I try to reply truthfully to these questions?

1. What is your occupation? Ersatz Francophone Vintner.

2. What color are your underwear? Jif Creamy Peanut Butter.

3. What are you listening to right now? The voices in my head.

4. What was the last thing you ate? I don’t remember their names.

5. Do you wish on stars? Only if they wish back.

6. If you were a crayon, what color would you be? Shiraz.

7. How is the weather right now? Maria Garcia Yolanda Perez-Smith, but you can call me Bob.

8. Last person you spoke to on the phone? Died.

9. Do you like the person who sent this to you? Will I get money if I say yes?

10. How old are you today? Magic 8-ball says: Concentrate And Ask Again

11. Favorite drink? My own urine.

12. Favorite sport to watch? Coordinated Nancy Kerrigan Kneeing.

13. Did you ever dye your hair? I tattoo it instead.

14. Do you wear contacts or glasses? I was born without eyes, and thanks for bringing that up.

15. Any pets? I have a gimp.

16. Favorite month? Really, I have a gimp. Isn't that impressive enough for you?

17. Favorite food? Whatever my gimp buys on sale.

18. What was the last movie you watched? "Memoirs of a Gimp"

19. Favorite day of the year? Yoolulueoo day, during the secret month of Orrlgttio on the last day of Wjitskits when all the Talialitoo's eject their tails for the year and we collect the seeds upon which we vent any unused anger from the previous year by stuffing them up our noses, which initiates a fit of orgasm-like sneezes. I love that.

20. What do you do to vent anger? I snort ejected Talialitoo tail seeds.

21. Hugs or Kisses? I don't like pudding.

22. Cherry or Blueberry? Vodka.

23. Do you want your friends to e-mail you back? No, only my enemies. I have to keep my eye on you.

24. Who is most likely to respond? George W. Bush

25. Who do you live with? If by "Who" you mean "Do", and by "Do" you mean "you" and by "you live with" you mean "live alone", then the answer is 88, but only if you square the infinitive, otherwise it's an obsessive.

26. When was the last time you cried? When I found out I was born without eyes, and thanks for bringing that up.

27. What is on the floor of your closet? Carpet and a little bit of gravity.

28. What friend have you had the longest? Cecil-The-Eternal-Who-Knows-All (And Yet Still Smells Vaguely Of Old Spittle).

29. What did you do last night? Depends on what you mean by last night.

30. Favorite smells? Cecil.

31. Who/what inspires you? Inspiration, duh.

32. What are you afraid of? People who are chalky white and unattractive for no reason other than they think it's Goth and attractive in a goth/alternitive way, but it's really not.

33. Plain, cheese or spicy hamburger? Why yes. Yes, it is.

34. Favorite car? I keep my toenails pointy in case of emergency.

35. # of keys on my key ring? Might as well ask me how many O's on my O-ring, because I don't know what an O-ring is.

36. Favorite dog breed? O-rings.

37. How many years at current job? Spaghetti.

38. Favorite day of the week? Naked-Olive-Oil-Slip-N-Slide-Day.

39. How many cities/towns have you lived in/name them? Does answering a question with a question count as answering the question?

40 How many kids do you have and gender? Gimp.

Thursday, January 26, 2006


I want to flail my limbs
in graceful swoops.
I want to bend my back
with an ecstasy of movement.
I want my feet to forget the earth
and my hands to make love with the air;
I want to dance in love of my life again.

I want to remember my rhythm
I want to feel my history
I want to see my palms express my smiles.

I want to hear my thighs thrum
I want to taste my hair wave
I want to expand in my chest with the music I gulp.

The air is vibrant with the life I long for –
the music is sweet and the faces divine.
I want to become the instrument of your playing;
I want to become the instrument of my everything:
Je veux danser avec toi tantôt et toujours...
Et toujours.

People are Stupid, Which is One of the Many Reason Why I Don’t Like Them.

I went to see “Brokeback Mountain” last weekend, and of course, being the big fucking pussy girly-girl I am, I cried my fucking eyes out. It was such a touching, moving love story: all the passion and fear and lust and uncertainty and love and doubt and longing...*sigh*. The thing that pissed me off, though, is when I told the people I work with what I did over the weekend, and they looked at me blankly when I gave them the title of the movie. I finally had to say “You know, the gay cowboy movie.” And at that, everyone knew what I was fucking talking about. I wanted so badly to say “Yeah, I know. They were going to title it ‘Jake Gyllenhall Takes it Up the Ass from Heath Ledger’ but that was just too long a title.”

People are fucking stupid.

Oh, how busy we all are...

I just realized how few posts I've done in the past month. It makes me wonder: why do I like writing best when I'm drinking? Is it (excuse the hubris) Hemmingway-ish or is it just lush-y-ish? In any case, my not-been-writing has coincided with my not-been-drinking. I'll leave it up to you to decipher the meaning behind it. I'm like religion like that: Do me as you will.

Anyway, I also just noticed that it wasn't long after I posted my one and only book recommendation that said book was then discredited by The Smoking Gun, torn apart in the media, and made Oprah to look the right fool. I had no idea of the power I weld wield weiled had.

By the way, there's nothing better than a Funky Lama Tempranillo to brighten up an otherwise blah Thursday evening. Good enough to drink without needing to be drunk already, cheap enough to drink the entire bottle alone. Repeatedly. Only, you know, not the same bottle repeatedly. Multiple bottles.

As I was saying, James Frey got spanked by Oprah (thank god I never actually got around to buying the book - how foolish would I feel then), Oprah got spanked (privately, I presume, and in a respectful manner) by the press, and the publisher got spanked by all the media attention that is keeping the damn book on the bestseller lists. Moral: everyone must get spanked to keep the dough rollin' in. I am so now going to write my memoir about how I was in the live audience today and how it changed my life and how I now so totally respect the truth and all it means. Except for the part of where, well, everything – the whole damn memoir – happened, it will be completely true.

Ok, enough people have taken potshots at the guy, so now I feel that I must say that he did show balls in showing up to admit he lied. Of course, if I had a few million dollars worth of book contracts and advances already in the bank, I wouldn’t mind doing the extra Oprah (A.K.A. Most Powerful /Watched /Worshiped /Copied/ Respected /Envied /Shares-A-Birthday-With-My-Sister-So-She-Should-Be-My-Best-Friend) spot to do more subversive pushing of my book. Cuz no one really meant to make the book seem even more intriguing and readable, did they? Huh? Did they? What? WHAT DO YOU MEAN IT WAS ALL A MARKETING PLOY TO SELL MORE VOLUMES? I feel so used. I must now go take a scalding shower and eat a tube of toothpaste. I will speak more tomorrow if I can peel my face from my pillow after the dried tears have welded the two together during the night.

Well, you know, if I don't have anything better going on.

Saturday, January 21, 2006

Sing to me again...

"And a tall dark man sang to me in deep rich tones: Goodnight, goodnight sweet baby. The world has mourned for you. Then it sings goodnight, goodnight. Let the moonlight take the lid off your dreams..."

Thursday, January 19, 2006


And possibly forth, the magic 8 ball wasn't clear on that one.

I'm here again, sorry to be gone for so long, couldn't be avoided, you wouldn't believe the traffic. I'm beat -- going to bed. But just for the night this time...