Sunday, August 08, 2004
You could float an ark in my lungs.
The fluids vaulting from my nose and mouth aside, today has been a today of pleasant surprises. The most recent surprise is that I've found the motivation and time to write another disptach, even if it is relatively low in content. Truly, I am God's gift to the internet and to...you?
Which reminds me: if you read this site, particularly if you read this site regularly, I'd love to hear from you. I'm always looking for feedback and suggestions and admonitions. And, as I've already got bronchitis, it should be clear that I'm not doing this for my health. Email me at jsgx@optonline.net. All letters, provided they're neither licentious nor psychotic, will receive a response. Come to think of it, licentious letters might receive a response, depending on my mood. But there you have it—I didn't make it to Provincetown this weekend.
More to come. Kisses, my bitches.
Which reminds me: if you read this site, particularly if you read this site regularly, I'd love to hear from you. I'm always looking for feedback and suggestions and admonitions. And, as I've already got bronchitis, it should be clear that I'm not doing this for my health. Email me at jsgx@optonline.net. All letters, provided they're neither licentious nor psychotic, will receive a response. Come to think of it, licentious letters might receive a response, depending on my mood. But there you have it—I didn't make it to Provincetown this weekend.
More to come. Kisses, my bitches.
Saturday, August 07, 2004
I can't think of a title. Fuck off, you fucking cocksuckers.
Just as I eat twice a day, take Effexor twice a day, smoke at least 12 times a day and wash my hands at least 13 times a day, I seem to update this site once a month. Each dispatch begins with an apology for, or callous and hypomanic defense of, my infrequent posting. I don't know. I just thought I'd bring it up.
It's 10am, Saturday. I'm supposed to be hungover in Provincetown, picking hairs out of my teeth. But no—I'm in my parents' Connecticut house (zing!) with bronchitis, spitting something awful and flipping channels. Perhaps you've heard it before, but there's nothing sadder than a randy gay smoker with bronchitis watching Leslie Nielsen's Mr Magoo. Oh, and did I mention that I'm updating my blog and wearing my mother's terrycloth bathrobe?
Move over, Phaedre.
I am the Saddest Sister alive.
As ineffably hideous as Mr Magoo is, it has revitalized me somewhat--which is to say, it's sharpened my arrogance and my inverted schadenfreude, letting me enjoy the knowledge that inferior people enjoy a movie I find so rankling. Right now, Leslie Nielsen is, well, sandpapering a chicken. I don't know how else to describe it. The temptation, of course, is to compare Mr Magoo to Leslie Nielsen sandpapering my 'chicken.' But it's not a terribly tempting temptation, mostly because it negates my earlier (and paradoxical) claim of ineffable hideousness.
One channel up is Pleasantville. Perhaps the best 'awful' movie to come out in the last five years, with a premise so dull that the movie can only get more interesting. And so it does.
Pleasant(ville) or not, I am convinced that the moguls of Hollywood think I'm retarded. I'm not sure if they're wrong, as I just sat through 50 minutes of sandpapering.
I'm not sure what else to write. I'm in good mood these days, though I'm unemployed and living at home. I'm lonely. If we used to talk regularly and we don't anymore, call me. I miss you.
Time to cough. And smoke. And wash my hands.
It's 10am, Saturday. I'm supposed to be hungover in Provincetown, picking hairs out of my teeth. But no—I'm in my parents' Connecticut house (zing!) with bronchitis, spitting something awful and flipping channels. Perhaps you've heard it before, but there's nothing sadder than a randy gay smoker with bronchitis watching Leslie Nielsen's Mr Magoo. Oh, and did I mention that I'm updating my blog and wearing my mother's terrycloth bathrobe?
Move over, Phaedre.
I am the Saddest Sister alive.
As ineffably hideous as Mr Magoo is, it has revitalized me somewhat--which is to say, it's sharpened my arrogance and my inverted schadenfreude, letting me enjoy the knowledge that inferior people enjoy a movie I find so rankling. Right now, Leslie Nielsen is, well, sandpapering a chicken. I don't know how else to describe it. The temptation, of course, is to compare Mr Magoo to Leslie Nielsen sandpapering my 'chicken.' But it's not a terribly tempting temptation, mostly because it negates my earlier (and paradoxical) claim of ineffable hideousness.
One channel up is Pleasantville. Perhaps the best 'awful' movie to come out in the last five years, with a premise so dull that the movie can only get more interesting. And so it does.
Pleasant(ville) or not, I am convinced that the moguls of Hollywood think I'm retarded. I'm not sure if they're wrong, as I just sat through 50 minutes of sandpapering.
I'm not sure what else to write. I'm in good mood these days, though I'm unemployed and living at home. I'm lonely. If we used to talk regularly and we don't anymore, call me. I miss you.
Time to cough. And smoke. And wash my hands.
