From Da Newz A Da Streetz

This is me in about five years.

"Dance In Your Own Space!"

You can't be witty in da club. Sad, but true.

I was at a building party. Basically, try and put a whole bunch of people in a living room, and hold a party in it. Everything was cramped. It was a joke, but the alcohol was free.

They turn to I had just finished a rye and coke with friends I hated when I tried to hit on Incensar.

Three notes on that sentence:
The Rye and Coke was good.

My friends I hated were Adam, Miranda, and Josh, and Josh's Girlfriend. I hate Adam because he's basically all my high school friends, albeit nicer. You know, "Yeah! I'm so drunk that I'm gonna party." Miranda's all the high school girls I knew. "Whoo! I'm so drunk that I'm gonna party!" And she doesn't like Kanye West, who I like. Josh is all right, but he never responded to an e-mail.

Incensar was as close as I got to her name. She was friends of my hated friends. She seemed cute.

The music was too loud. We couldn't talk, hear each other.

Imagine the "Let's get retarded in here" song playing sonic boom levels. I tried to start with a basic starting question:
"What program are you taking?"
"What?"
"Nothing. I said something disparaging towards you."
"What?"
"Nothing. I said something disparaging towards myself."
"What?"
"Everything I say is a lie."
"What?"

By now, I was talking so loudly that I could swear that my voice was pushing her hair back, wind-tunnel style, so I left.

Then Josh said he'd be my wingman.

If he was a wingman, he'd be the one who abandon the mission to bomb a hospital for orphans.

I did not know this at the time. He seemed to talk to her. She seemed to listen. I was desparate. The situation was not improved by the fact that Josh, his girlfriend were making out. As were Adam and Miranda. They taunted me with their kisses.

I saw the glorious possibilities of drunkenly making out in a shitty club that lay ahead of me, although I had abandoned my drink.

Perhaps, some kind of sexual interaction could occur. This would be a monumentous occasion in my life.

I didn't think it was going to happen. She never tried to talk to me. Her body language was always turned against me. She never smiled.

But my hated friends, my penis, and perhaps the rye all said "Go for it!" All bad factors in decision-making. I had to get something.

So then I figured, wait a second! If this is like a crappy imitation of a club, what do people do in dance clubs?

So then I asked, "Do you want to dance?" Incensar said yes.

I wasn't quite sure how close to get. We awkwardly danced for five seconds. She turned away, then turned back.

"Dance in your own space!" I heard this.

That was harsher than harsh. Hell, I could take a "Fuck you!" At least that shows I'm eliciting a emotion. But no, Incensar was above emotion. This was business language. This was "Sorry, but we cannot take offers at this time" language.

And I said my goodbyes to my hated friends and slinked out.

Later on, as I was playing an online rpg, I heard knocking. It was Josh, his girlfriend, and Adam and Miranda, on their way to apartment, for the kind of orgies that I could only dream about.

I proceeded to eat cereal.

I Am A Failure

I have no journalistic tendencies.

Okay, as part of my online journalism course, we have to write down what we're doing right now - what magazines we're contributing to. I put nothing, because I'm doing nothing.

And then I see other people, trying to confirm my nothingness was not alone.

Which it wasn't. Because those fuckers actually do something with their writing.

So now I feel like a failure. Even though I don't really want to become a journalist. I'm just doing this to have a back-up. Make sure I have something to fall back on, in case it turns out I suck.

I basically want to win at things that I don't really want to do. Seriously. Even if it's a "See How Many Times You Can Stab Yourself Before Passing Out" contest, I'll beat them by a good 47. I don't chicken out. Even if it's a video game I've never played before, I have a broken controller, and I'm playing with masters, I'll yank my hair out and do my best to beat the shit out of them.

I'm competitive.

So I'm going to apply to a bunch of magazines.

Something I Stole About Stephen Harper

From Warren Ellis, a better writer than me.

"Doesn’t Stephen Harper look like the kind of actor a US or US-but-produced-in-Canada TV show uses as the bad guy when they can’t afford a British actor?

(Which, when David Warner is still working, is kind of unimaginable. But still.)

You know the kind of guy. Grey hair, so white you can practically see through his skin into his
circulatory system, with the kind of unblinking half-glower that lets you know that no matter what he’s talking about, he’s actually thinking about shoving pregnant lesbians tits-first into a woodchipper. He’s the white guy in the suit whose last job was sitting behind a big desk condemning Tia Carrere to death in an episode of RELIC HUNTER."

Boo Stephen Harper

We used to be liberal. Now, not so much.

Poo. Like Droopy says it.

No more gay marriage. Just conservative b.s.

Bah.

Oh, by the way, one of my roommates voted Green Party. She said she "didn't know much about politics." Coincidence?

What I Did Today

Watched Fantastic 4 movie, even though I knew it was going to be bad. It was.

Started to read the Bible, King James Version. Gonna skip all the Deutronomy and all that other boring begat stuff, because it's fucking boring.

The rest is homework.

Basically, I live in a housing co-op. I have 6 unitmates - we each have our own room, and no one speaks to each other. Within this unit, we have this girl Melanie who's taken it upon herself to actually make this place look presentable. "She is become death, destroyer of dirt" I muttered to myself.

She wants to put up posters in the main unit-room. I did. It was of Joydrop, a band from Toronto. The guy got it signed. He's a local scene idiot.

That was my one contribution. Now, she's got the table all flipped around, moving the furniture around. She cleans the place up, labels her food, Little Miss Organized. She's the girl who led a pep rally back in high school.

Bizarro-Bill Must Rise

Me am Bizarro-Bill.

Me have girlfriend, and regular passionate sex. Me am happy with her body - she intelligent, good-looking, rabble rousing. I got her by being brave and witty.

Me don't look at comic blogs all day.

Me write all the time, not just on stupid blog.

Me am loved and respected by all around me, except, who fear and hate me, because me am so powerful.

Me don't read IMDB trivia for movies all day.

Me don't read Mafia books all day in power-money fantasy. Me read Hegels and other philosophers, who me really find interesting. Me am not just saying that to myself so that I push myself to read it.

Me am witty, confident, and am envied by all around me.

Me must rise.

I Am A Night Owl

Check the update times on these blog. It's 2 a.m., 1 a.m., nearly every single time.

It's what I do before I go to bed, when I remember.

Whether it comes from working nights at Supastore, or the fact that I like to stay up late, or the fact that it continues when I get up late, or the fact that I can get to bed pretty late because I'm in college, I very rarely get up before 10 a.m.

This is probably why I have no life.

I wish I didn't have a purpose in life. Then I could just focus on making money.

But I think I do. I think it's writing. I think that's what God wants me to do.

Because everything else, my mind is filled with things. This, my mind is emptied. And I feel better afterwards.

Song of the day,
"The Peanut Vendor," by Perez Prado.

That peanut vendor sold me some bad peanuts. I now have cancer.
Esse vendedor de amendoim vendeu-me alguns amendoim maus. Eu agora tenho câncer.

My Desire For Sex Is My Downfall

Brad Pitt doesn't want sex.

But if he said he's turned on by women covering themselves in milk and speaking in Vietnamese, you'd better damn well invest in dairy and Vietnamese-to-English dictionaries.

I am not Brad Pitt.

Anyway, I'm desparate for pussy. Need it like water in the desert.

I know this because I mentioned necrophilia when I was chatting with this girl I like, which at the time seemed funny and non-sequitur, but now just seems sad and funny.

Basically, I talked about how necrophilia was incorporated into a WWE storyline. I'd been reading about it yesterday. Then I went on how you can't have sex with dead girls. Muscles or something.

I like her because she hates everything, speaks confidently and smartly, and smokes. I like women who smoke. I mean, they live longer than men, so this makes it about equal. She's pretty - not crazy beautiful, not thin much, but not fatty.

Like this girl Ashley who's right behind me. I checked - she has hairier arms than me.

Oh well, she has a boyfriend. She mentioned it earlier. Maybe a part of my subconsciousness clicked in to the "What the fuck" mode with that comment, and opened up the verboten jokes aspect. I've been lacking in the infatuation department for two years, and the mushy parts of my brain/my heart/my penis that lives for stimulation and being stimulated by vaginas.

Once again, necrophilia destroys a relationship.

Also, I'm examining my social interactions over the day, and I have this chronic habit of making self-depracating jokes even when they're not funny. If someone calls me handsome, I'm not handsome. If someone calls me funny, I'm not funny. If someone says I'm ugly, I silently look at the floor.

Which may lead to my penis being virginal. Perhaps.

I think my problem is that I need to date a chick I could conceivably break up with. Which means lowering my standards. But right now my brain is at that part now, but the mushy parts of my brain/my heart/my penis ain't going for any of that. They've got masturbation methadone to keep them going on that.

By the way, best headline of the day, from BBC: "Gay cowboy film scoops Globes." Hah.

Seriously, is there any form of masculinity that isn't formed in violence, money, or acquiring females? You know, the gangster masculinity, the rich guy masculinity, the smooth pimp/Make me money bitch masculinity? Whatever happened to the strong, silent type?

Meh.

Whores Buy Swedish Berries

I was getting milk at 12 a.m. when I saw her.

She may not have been what I thought she was. She may have been going to a fashion party, had a tacky sense of fashion, or some other excuse.

But I'm pretty sure she was a ho.

She had all the telltale signs of ho-dom. Permed hair, died blonde near the end. A pink furry style jacket. White gloves. Too-short jean mini-skirt. And lots of makeup.

Yeah, she was probably a ho.

And she was buying Swedish berries.