two reasons to stay in halifax

(brought to you by the events of friday, july 28th, 2006)

1) (on my street) i saw a fellow riding a bicycle with another standing on a platform to the side. he was playing a cowbell.

2) there were fireworks on the commons at 2 a.m.

venus envy + wizard of oz= wizard of lesbians

reflections + metro transit= gay love

santa was the ass end of this parade

what's wrong with your fucking feet?

a couple of days ago on the waterfront, i happened upon two people using gas-powered scooters to travel across the boardwalk. neither of these folks had an inability to walk. they were standing straight up. in a world where obesity is a serious epidemic, there are wars over oil, and the last thing we need is another gas-powered vehicle to destroy our already skullfucked earth, why the serious christ would anyone want to ride a vehicle where they have to stand up, and get manage to get around slower than the average pedestrian whilst polluting the fucking earth? i don't throw around the term terribly often, but you people (and there were two of you, one working for the waterfront visitor information centre and another genius fellow) are fucking losers. especially the wvic (and by extension, nova scotia tourism), you fucking lose hard. you are thoughtless, moneygrubbing imps and i abhor you. you made taking a stroll on the waterfront during peak tourist season an even more vomit-provoking experience than i thought possible, and that is an "accomplishment" i didn't think possible.

come a little closer

a day where this seems appropriate. a day of thinking of actively doing and not just thinking of it, and by it, i must mean something. an important friend who constantly inspires the kind of self-questioning that allows me to wash my hair and get outta here each morning (or afternoon....), is leaving soon. i try to ignore it, but it's happening. everything about the situation makes me at the same time fearfully naseous and gleeful/hopeful. dry mouth. the inspired but the paralysed. the piece of me who has just listened to an hour of honest pleaing and venting. the piece of me that lies muffled under a pile of dirty black summer shirts. and the piece that actually wants change, but is drowning in its own blood. if glen allen anzalone was not glenn danzig, i ?wonder? what i'd be doing right now-- and always, when things are all afuck.

the sounds of children playing and sure, brutal death

one can gauge my mood by noticing how easily i tolerate the sounds of children playing.

on a great day, i marvel at the supreme specialness that children can exist at all and be able just to play, with all the g_dawful things happening in the world. pure innocence. bliss. i welcome and smile at it.

on a good day, i hardly notice, and my mood is unchanged-- if not slightly fortified by it as i pass.

on an off day, their terrible shrieks annoy me. i wonder how their shrill squawking, disgusting blubbering and fruitlesss hollering doesn't drive the playground supervisor to throttle them each with their own respective lunchpails.

when i'm feeling next to nowhere: melancholy, angry, nihilistic, i resent their existence. i question how their parents could've not strangled them with their own umbilical cords and stuffed them under the matresses they were conceived upon. i want to drown them in a mixture their mother's menstrual blood, the lifeblood of their ancestors' and my vomit, with a large concentration of spit and bile. their existence is the most revolting and excrutiating riddle. i'd rather not solve it, and end the crude nonsense forever. save the world from their mangy hands, mucousy noses and most of all their torturously diseased screeching... but then the assclown landlord next door deems necessary to use his whipper-snipper-- the second greatest aural monitor of my mood... when that piece of never-shoulda-been-invented tripe beast begins to "work" away, and the children are freaking out in disharmony, i am at a serious brink. i generally have to leave the house, blast norwegian black metal or go to sleep, with earplugs and a hot toddy. this ear-raping duo is the finish line of the race to end my tolerance.

this utter repulsiveness and complete frothing anger doesn't translate into the intense abhorrence of the precious mewing of tolerable, powdery smelling newborns or the brilliant, well-behaved run-off you sometimes see. just the ones that should rightfully drowned at birth, or rather their parents should have been. poor deadened souls. no hope.

anyway, today i am in a good mood with a 40% chance of greatness. this is how i noticed the usual disgustitude was less like torture and more like a robin's first song (ugh). i check my forehead, grab my metalstick-- just to be sure-- and head out, into a world that could turn it all around in 30 seconds.

ready to transport: one to the enterprise

only the crew of starship enterprise inspire me to have any faith whatsoever in humanity. if i had one wish right now, it would be to join them-- or at least watch season five all day, and not go to work, or have to speak to anyone i don't know.

whodunnit?

who built the pyramids?

sodomize his corpse!

on the edge of the commons. yes.

a speck of something

i just posted a draft from march.
today last year, i ate cereal with my brother.
today this year, the sky is pissing the ocean down, and i'm hungry for a rich treat that i won't taste.

76% metal!

I am 76% Metal Head.

I was born with the mark of the beast on my forehead and an axe in my arms. I am the god of all things metal! Now if only I could get my parents to give me back my car keys.....

Take the
Metal Head Test
@ FualiDotCom

a)

randomly happy days are much more difficult to write about-- especially when half asleep.

6.6.06. satan says: eat babies

two sexy glistening shirtless men with weapons

cake!

i like cake a lot. this weekend i got cake two days in a row, and it was fucking fabulous. this cake was the first one. i was at the polish fest dessert counter trying to decide which dessert looked like it would mix best with smirnoff and bowels when this jovial chap showed up suddenly with this pan of cake. he said he made it himself. he claimed it was the best one there. so with that kind of promotion, his was the cake i tried. and it was incredible. so i went back to tell him just how much i loved his cake. "i told you so," he said, knowingly. "and i would never lie to you." and i told him that i knew he wouldn't. i mean look at him: he's either truly not a liar, or too drunk to know he's lying. but it was fucking ridiculous cake. "what kind of cake is it? what's it called?" i asked him.
he shrugs, offering his answer,"cake!"

coming soon

...oh, fo' sho!

in the mouth of madness

you have to get yourself off before you walk to work even tho you're running late. you shake like a cardigan'd man in a hardwood apartment all afternoon. puke in your mouth all night. you know who you are when you get what you asked for and you're wrong. it's not as you like it. and you're better off without. paper lanterns have the potential to beat peaks of boredom. eat my wish. make my other one come true. surprise me and make me wrong. eat my fuck. die. put me under opposite house arrest. put my organs somewhere else.

when will i get my period?*

someday your vagina will drip blood. and you will be fertile. and have to plug your vag or put something under your fleshy rouge tap to catch the leak. you may be plagued with PMS, with stained panties, and your brother making fun of tampons. you won't be able to have sex without getting blood everywhere, yet you'll probably sharve for sex even more. you will feel dirty. sexy. mad. it will last for forty years or something. bleeding's end will be hell unless you eat soy. you will tell your mom you're going on the pill to control aunt flo. but really you're on the fuck. your mom will give you a pamphlet about your changing body. maybe she'll take you out for pizza for becoming a woman. or give you pearl earrings. or hug you. or hit you. or tell you stories about teen pregnancy that will scar you or inspire you or that you will turn into. whatever you do don't worry if it hasn't come yet. it will come to you in time. unexpected. at school while wearing white pants (after labour day! gasp!) at church. while you're touching yourself. in your sleep. you're not dying-- you're becoming a woman. in some countries you're sent away to a hut-- you: the unclean. enjoy the days of the clean vagina. of the fearless fuck. of the days of childhood dreams that you'll fuck away. you'll be 8. you'll be 18. you'll get it sometime. don't be hasty. get off the net and spemd the entire day reading anne of green gables under a shady tree and remember back on this day when the world asks too much of you.
*this question is probaby the single-most queried by (presumably) girls who end up here at my period. here's an answer for all the curious youngsters who'd rather ask the internet than their mothers, and whose teachers have not addressed it at school.
$$$ all this and i'm not even menstruating.

clean as a whistle

i'm officially void of all blood-borne and bodily fluids-borne STDs. i'm also not surprised, because i do it the safe way. but i am clean. and this is awesome. so go get tested.