Dear diary, mood: Joaquin Phoenix

The last few days I’ve been irreconcilably depressed; under the weather and without shelter. I don’t know what’s got me down. Sitting here, just me and my mind, thinking about this Russian all girl Euro-pop group who exist despite having no sex appeal and who look strong contenders to win Eurovision. The largest land mass in the world can’t come up with something better than 8 geriatrics lipsinking to Aqua songs? It just proves that pop-music invariably needs a gimmick to hold the attention of consumers. I’m imagining their pyrotechnic live show right now as I sit watching the hair on my legs grow one eight of a millionth of a millimetre each minute: their oestrogen supplemented performance setting heads a—wagging; merkins thrown onstage in a pique of offhand interest and energy- the most movement their demographic has shown since the last time their catheter was changed. But I don’t know why I dwell on these lass’, set to Susan Boyle the world. I’m probably just jealous because I have neither an image nor a vagina and thus am unable to sing pop tunes and have people clap and throw their pity my way. As the girl from The Ring would say, oh well.

I’m hungover so I’ll spend the day recovering the only way I know how: going around to orphanages and psychologically traumatizing the curs, diffusing some of my pain on to them via unreasonable sadism. Commencement. My gilt words dancing an inimical Charleston through their malleable minds, sending furrows like horrid rabbit warrens into youthful foreheads. Seeing the tears run down their coal darkened faces just makes my heart leap, my feet kick, and the tide change in my belly. Alcohol always makes me violent.

But in reality, I’m going to sit around watching old episodes of Las Vegas from like 2005 and constantly wonder whether I’m hungry enough to stomach food or not. Last night was hectic and I’m feeling the results like an evangelist feeling the Lord’s presence. I saw Hallower and Good Will Hunting. Helped cheer Northlane to an encore. Got reprimanded because there’s “no kicks” allowed in the pit. Resisted a full-fledged Big Ed Deline moment when my friend was kicked out of the club unjustly. Came home and vomited a handful of times in the sink. Woke up in a pool of self-disgust.  ‘Twas a bitchin’ night. The spirit of the bloodthirsty North is stewarded in this fey Irish body, it appears. My liver got more action than Ryan Gosling’s dick and I do feel like bragging.

Anyway, Las Vegas is the perfect over-polished tonic my body needs at this point- the cleverly convoluted plot lines and interweaving character ark, Big Ed’s avuncular dominance, Danny and Nick’s showmanship and competitive machismo, the bewbs. Lots of bewbs. More DD’s than the dark cellar where Magic: the Gathering is played. I mean, the production flatly endorses voyeurism, with the initiation point for almost every story line either Big Ed’s surveillance room, or some cooze’s whimsy. All the tanned, lissom bodies that look like home, if home was a better place. I might not understand the inner workings of the nested or visiting Nevadan, but I do understand that sex=consumer attention/awkward moments of furtive parent/child eye-contact. And ‘Television’s hottest drama’ wears its denim, button-covered cameo jacket with pride: Buble, Baldwin, Paris Hilton, Snoop, Sly, John ‘I like to watch’ Lovitz. I feel like I’ve died and gone to slightly outdated pop-culture heaven. It really is a TV party tonight.

Anyways, my head has started to spin and I know of no remedy apart from a line of credit I can squander on aspirins and teeth whitening. See you poolside.


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