Went to Chipotle with Adriana. Discussed the various 30-something to 40-something white guys we are not sleeping with, but would potentially like to. I think the unifying qualities were being plain-looking and an ascending b-list comedian. Also coffins. Apparently they are expensive, and not usually black, like in The Addams Family. Maryland has some very specific death rituals, like digging graves in what is basically a cement well, so you can float
in your own liquefied remains so you don’t seep into the groundwater and become one with the earth the sewage system. Also Costco won’t mail us caskets. Nothing like a little mortality talk over a burrito in a Mexican-American casual dining establishment. We also lamented the fickle mistress that is internet fame. I think we decided the one determining factor was early adoption. If someone in PR would like to explain how teenage girls with standard definition Logitech web cams get YouTube famous from poorly executed makeup tutorials I would appreciate it. My sense has always been publicity/management people get involved earlier than it seems, but that still doesn’t explain how you pick one low-res fifteen year old over another.
We went to the pet store to look at the animals because there is nothing else to do that doesn’t involve eating or spending money, and I think the cat adoption woman hit on Adriana or Adriana’s cat? I’m not sure.
I watched UnHung Hero, which is a “documentary” about a guy with a small dick, while enjoying a cake pop that looked like a penis. That movie was awful, I refused to watch the last ten minutes and out of some sense it would give the filmmakers satisfaction to have one more viewer watch it in its entirety. It had the reality of an episode of Catfish. If the events weren’t staged, they managed to edit it in a way that dissolved all credibility. And I just want to say, any Vice reporter worth their salt would have mainlined that Malaysian jungle juice straight into their asshole. There’s a scene where the guy goes to Malaysia and is debating letting some rando inject him with a 2L Coke bottle of what looks like an Arnold Palmer but is apparently some sort of black market dick growth serum. All the Vice reporters would be breathing a sigh of relief, knowing this junkie penis witch doctor just wants to inject them with something in the hand but dude chickens out, which you know he is going to, because the entire film is 90 minutes of nothing. I seriously doubt this man’s dedication to attaining a giant hog. (In reality he learns dick size is really not important and what matters is our health and our relationships blah blah blah. You can tell he’s angling towards this conclusion from the very beginning of this supposed “journey” so the whole thing just feels like a waste of time.)
I will say this though, the one entertaining moment from the film came care of a Korean woman he talks to in a bar who gives a pep talk about love and re-assessing the importance he places on penis size then tells him she’s not interested in Koreans or Americans, only black guys.
I just realized immediately after I read a Vice article on a guy getting cocaine blown up his ass for science (journalism?) so I must have been real desperate for some literal action afterwards.
For all the old blog entries and school assignments I’ve read, and old pictures and art projects I’ve looked at, I cannot tell if it’s the things about you that change, or the things about you that don’t change that are more disturbing.
[sic] everything because there’s a few too many typos to change. Switched my cousins’ names.
Sunday, January 19, 2003, 6:11PM EST
im depressed. again. this summer thing is really really bothering me. i swear i cant take it. i loved the summer… after 7th grade was over. it was seriously the greatest time of my life. everything was fitting in to place. the 2 years since i moved here, i had struggled to fit in, and have friends. i had finally achieved that. i had gotten better grades than in 6th grade, i had found music, my calling. it was the time to lay back and watch everything fall into place. the music. the smells. the sounds. the sights. the tastes. the whole wonderful package that is summer. it wasnt just summer. it was paradise. a summer with a bow, and a cherry, and sprinkles on top. all of that shit that just makes everything a bit better. i guess i felt i could do anything. i wrote songs every day. sung songs. designed more sites than ever. now im fucked. 8th grade is hell. there is not one teacher i truly like. i have no freedom, the music just isnt working. the friend situation is worse than it had been in years, worse then it was before the i moved. and if life isnt bad enough, eveything reminds me of summer. im sitting here in the dark, alone listening to mix tapes i made over summer… defaults wasting my time… i hear it, and im sitting in my room, june or july maybe, its around 3 or 4. they’re playing the video on tv as im sitting on my comp chair. my bag that i got for my birthday is sitting on my bed, along with a bunch of francesca lia block books, and my walkman. and thats not imaginary. i swear that was a specific day. one that i wish i could relive over and over again. but i cant. its over. its gone forever. and i hate it. treble charger’s hundred million… the athem of summer. i remember i was so happy the first day i saw it. now it just brings more memories of summer… our lady peace’s somewhere out there. reminds me of wonderland, in the evening, chilling with cady and phoebe as they played it by wonder mountain at one of the game stand things. the calling’s wherever you will go… JESUS. im sick of this shit. i see things i made over the summer, summer clothes, i just want to cry. it cant be healthy. its just so depressing thinking that something you loved so much you will never see again.
Last night I had a dream that I was both in Paramore and opening for Paramore. As in Paramore and its entire repertoire existed twice in one universe. No one noticed.
If that’s not a telling commentary on the music industry, I don’t know what is.
John sent me this an hour ago. As I sift through listings on Work In Culture, edit my Monster.com profile to match my LinkedIn profile, find adds on Craiglist for semi-nude male gay nightclub bartenders (legitimately awesome sounding job opportunity but I’m neither gay nor male) and generally lament how the visa restrictions that prevented me from working in high school are now crippling my employment prospects (despite a pretty sweet GPA at a pretty sweet institution) I cannot tell you how much this wee little entrepreneur has brought hope to my wretched, dark, unemployed world. So thank you, good sir, for suggesting that maybe, maybe, all I have to do is construct a cardboard cut out of myself, throw down with some Dr. Seuss books and get all-guerilla on the city of Toronto’s ass to save myself from eating cat food in a Chinatown basement for the rest of my life.
Okay, wow. Its been a while. I can’t believe my last post was in February and about peanut butter. That’s an incredibly sad, yet fairly accurate metaphor for the last 3 (I was about to write 6, it feels that long) months of my life. If I wasn’t trying to read the entire Leviathan in one night, I was sifting through Scholars Portal (quite possibly the most useless resource of all time) for reception studies on British imperial epics (fun fact: they don’t exist) all while developing a $100 a week Rockstar habit (words of wisdom: Recovery is non-carbonated, so you can chug it faster than your standard energy drink, but Burner has 40g more caffeine per serving.) Three times in one week I went to sleep at 7AM and got up at 8. No wonder the only thing I could handle contemplating was the poor design of a Kraft jar.
I did, however, survive my third year at the University of Toronto, mostly (physically) unscathed (my jaw now locks up from never-before-experienced stress related teeth grinding, no big) and with pretty f-ing good grades.
When I was applying to universities, I polled everyone I knew (and many a stranger on the internet) on whether they liked the school they went to. I’ve thought a lot about how I’d answer this question if anyone ever asked me if I liked U of T (I can’t imagine why this would ever come up, but three years of liberal arts has somehow naturalized the act of answering questions nobody cares about.) I’ve come to the following conclusion:
Going to U of T is like dating a guy who tells you he loves you, then doesn’t call you for two months, then shows up with flowers and says “baby, I’m sorry.” Its a complete and utter mindfuck. When its great, its great. Courses are interesting, Profs are amazing and you don’t remember how Robarts only ever has one copy of a book 300 people need for an assignment. Then one day you wake up and realize 90% of the articles in the online database are linked to nothing, your TA can’t even make sense of the topics for your 12 page final essay and your library was intentionally built in the shape of a peacock, the great pretentious asshole of the animal kingdom and you can’t help but take this as a sign. Those are the days you wish Rockstar could eat through your internal organs, or that you had just gone to Ryerson.
I think you have to be a masochist to go here. At least for Arts & Sciences. I mean the University of Toronto name is not exactly going to carry my humanities degree a hell of a lot farther. The only logical explanation is some sense of sick pleasure. I’ve heard so many people say they wanted to “beat U of T.” Like all the suffering will be worth it once we graduate and we can say “fuck you, we won.” Or as my roommate described it “After I get my degree, I just want to take a big shit on Con Hall.”