Tuesday, August 30, 2005

8-29-05: i am a woman

Fuck-- today has been weird. I had a big important job interview at 8am, and i couldn't fully fall asleep all night. I just kept slipping in and out of these weird half-waking dreams, and then the last one was a nightmare where my mother died. It was horrible. Horrible horrible horrible. At the job interview it was going well, and the guy was asking me these cool stimulating questions, and then my sleep-deprived daze kicked in and I started getting all rambling and weird...

I hate my body. I hate how if I don't eat enough starch at night to basically gain back all the weight that I've lost I can't sleep. I hate how now that I've found out there's 100 calories in every shot it's like that island culture in the South Pacific who were peaceful and happy because they didn't understand that sex makes babies-- it's like what it must have felt like when the white people showed up and told them. I'll never enjoy a guilt-free drink again.

You know, it's ironic, too, because the week before I had really been enjoying drinking. Like before, when I had to come home at the end of the day wearing my suit and carrying my disgusting, sodden, mildewy gym clothes*-- the whole fucking elaborate process to deal with hanging the sweaty clothes out and taking off the suit and making sure the pants got hung up right and taking my shoes off first so as not to walk across the carpet.... and dealing with extracting the pants hanger-- because I have exactly the same amount of pants hangers as pants that require hanging-- getting that out of the bag from under my gym clothes without the disgusting sweat touching my suit, my tie... this whole fucking thing was such an ordeal that sometimes at the end of my 13 hour day I would just sit there in the car for a minute and despair-- as a verb, you know-- despair over how much bullshit I would have to go through before I could even sit down on the fucking couch. And then I discovered that if I popped into the kitchen and just pounded a double shot of bourbon before anything, if I just went straight over and pounded it, then that whole process was not only bearable but perhaps fun. And looking forward to this bourbon made me spring out the car and whistle up the steps every night.

That lasted for a week before I found out. And now every time I take a drink I think: this bourbon has almost as many calories as an entire pint of strawberries. As four small zucchini. As most of a packet of ramen noodles... as a small baked potato. This bourbon represents 6 minutes at a full sprint on the stairmaster, heaving and groaning while some part of R. Kelly's "Trapped in the Closet" plays in the gym for the 900th time. If I drink 5 drinks per night, which is about what I ended up doing, it eliminates half of my cardio workout. A fucking half hour of knee-shattering agony... if I drink 5 drinks a night over two nights it means I might as well have consumed an entire pint of Haagen-Dasz ice cream. And you know what? I'd rather fucking have that than the bourbon.

The problem is that my drinking coincided with a couple weeks where I'd decided fuck it, I'm done losing weight, I'm sick of being stressed about it and I'm just going to eat like a normal person. I'll keep exercising and that should balance it out. But the slight-- and I mean fucking slight mind you-- increase in food calories coupled with the booze-- and ***in spite of the fact that I was burning 6000 fucking calories per week,*** caused me to -- check this out-- GAIN SIX POUNDS IN TWO WEEKS. SIX FUCKING POUNDS!!!!!!

Holy Jesus assfucking Christ. I'm sick of it. Fucking sick of it.

* I work out in the morning, whereafter they are completely soaked, and then they sit in my car all day stewing.

the crustaceans (aka nuttier than squirrel shit)

I used to have this vision, this sensation, that there were these slimy black crustaceans, kind of like a crayfish, visible only to me. They lived underneath everything. And whenever I would touch a wall or a chair or something they would latch on to my hands and fingers with their knobby little black pincers, first a few and then more and more until there were thousands of them swarming up my arms fast as fuck and eating me. They had prickly little pincer-legs, glossy black eyes on twitchy little stalks, rows of serrated little mouth-feelers rippling up to a weird spiny-armored alien mandible-- and I would basically have to shake the shit out of my hands to get them off, so hard that my thumb would snap into my fingers and make a loud noise. That was the whole point: my mind wanted to make me do something loud so that other people would notice and I would be embarrassed. When I saw that other people could hear it and were looking the sensation would only get worse, more vivid. I could feel their sharp little serrated mouths chewing into my skin, and the urge to shake them off would just fucking multiply... amplify... and I would just be standing there like a dick, everybody looking at me, with my arms kind of hanging out by my sides like a crippled bird, shaking the shit out of my hands and snapping my fingers and thumbs together. This was from like 10 to 13.

Monday, August 15, 2005

diary 8-13-05: noises that irritated me

this goddamn fuckstick with his hammering, sawing-- power saw, his nail gun, starting at 8 in the fucking morning on a saturday in the garage right behind my house-- what the fuck is it with these people and their goddamn construction projects in the middle of hollywood, their weekend hobby bullshit-- it belongs in the fucking suburbs. you don't get this kind of shit in new york, i bet.

so what the fuck-- and who the fuck is thumping around next door to me-- was that on the roof? just as i was about to fall back asleep, this fucking thumping, and i remember i was saying the word "sandra."

ok , now the Bulgarians with their fucking juicer. i can't even begin to tell you how just, floridly and elaborately irritating this sound is, with its warbling variations in pitch, its ariatic flights and basso profundo animal growls... they roll in big shopping carts of bulk vegetables, not from the farmers market but from some secret wholesale food source designed for institutional buyers like nursing homes, big brown paper bags full of carrots and parsnips, and weird herbs, and the guy-- once i told him my knees hurt, and he told me the source was a fucking parasitic infection--

people who believe in homeopathic medicine are stupid. if you believe in homeopathic medicine, you are stupid. also-- people who believe in chinese medicine are stupid. next time you cut off your thumb go stick a fucking pin in yourself-- these are people who believe that the color of earth spread on your ancs--

jesus fucking christ that juicer!

--spread on your ancestor's grave dictates whether you will have a male child (so don't fuck up, or you'll have to throw another baby away)

holy fucking shit, it's like -- these are people -- whenever you see on National Geographic about how some majestic animal is disappearing off the face of the earth it's always because Chinese people are grinding it up for medicine. black rhino horn. seahorses. tiger penis. in fact, not only is it always Chinese people but it's always medicine for VD or impotence. and they think fucking a virgin girl will cure AIDS. these people are fucking retarded, OK?

all these herbs and shit...


not ripe, healthy looking vegetables like from the farmers market but big knobby, tumor-covered roots and shit, grim grey cancerous looking things that appeal to some deep Eastern European love of despair… eet is pehrasite... you take, you go, get herbs, you know, the doctors, they only tell you that which will make them the most money... you go, take the herbs, very cheap-- if herbs make you sick, if eet giff you headache-- then is working.. you know you heff pehrasite…

and now the fucking garbage truck…

Saturday, August 13, 2005

diary 8-12-05

Ok, all this gym shit is basically just polishing a turd, because I just don't naturally have a good body. I burn 6,000 goddamn calories a week on that stairmaster and my weight has been exactly the same for a month. And I still have fat on me. 6,000 fucking calories!!! I did coke again last week and dropped all this water weight, got all encouraged because I got down to 157. But now it's 161 again. There's no fucking point.

Plus-- no one's going to fucking see it anyway. I'll never be naked in front of a woman again. The reasons for this are because 1) I'm ugly, 2) my personality is basically repellent, and 3) I am not confident-- and can you blame me? Plus there's all sorts of little peripheral shit, like I have bad posture, etc. And I think my laugh must be annoying. And my facial expressions are stupid.

And either I'm really not as funny and clever as people used to tell me or else people just don't "get it," because the shit I'm putting out there just-- I just don't connect with people, ever... and fuck, whatever. Fuck these people. They're not worth connecting with.

For the amount that I work out I should look like a goddamn superman and be able to eat anything I want, but I look just OK and my meals are so sparse and deprived that I'm still woefully, painfully hungry after each one and right afterwards I'm already starting to think about the next time I get to eat, nine hours away... and it's fucking Friday night and I'm sitting here alone in my apartment trying to get up the nerve to go to the fucking 7-11 and get cream for my coffee, just to make the goddamn trip out of the house, and my interaction with the clerk might be the longest face-to-face conversation I have with another human being all weekend.

Friday, August 05, 2005


You don’t have to cook up a big “Menace II Society” sized batch, or whatever—you can make crack with just a few bumps worth of coke, and have it serve as a handy fallback when you’re running low after a coke binge. What you do is take a sheet of tinfoil and mold it into kind of a pan/spoon shape, with a rim around the bowl. Don’t use an actual spoon because the metal is too thick and in the time it takes to get hot the heat will travel down the handle and burn your fingers.

Take an equal amount of (or slightly more) baking soda to your coke and lightly mix the two dry ingredients in your foil. Then add just a few drops of water, just enough to barely cover the mix. Stir it into a paste, with a plastic pen cap or something.

Then just heat the mixture from below until the water boils off. Once the paste starts turning slightly yellow or golden-brown, you’ll start smelling that classic burning-plastic crack smell and you’re ready to go. It won’t be “rocked up” per se, but rather kind of flakey.

Take some more foil and form it around a pen into a straw. Heat the crack from below, right in your spoon and inhale through the straw from above. When you’re done, just throw everything out*—no telltale char-bottomed spoons floating around.

A technique I’ve seen work for slightly larger batches is a double-boiler method. This one dude would boil a little bit of water in the bottom of a wok and then cook up the paste (same proportions as above) in a thick, heavy shot glass set in the pan**. As it progressed he would take a knife and smear gobs of paste on the inside edge of the glass so it would dry faster. This method ensures you won’t “overcook” the crack but I have seen people fuck it up—the steam can make it slow to dry out and you end up with this kind of squidgy dough. You can still smoke it though.

To tell you the truth, I never got that into smoking crack. It always felt too much like huffing pledge or something—I would get so fucked up that I would start hallucinating stars and planets and tweety birds, and then when I crashed it felt like someone had hit me in the head with a shovel. The whole point of coke is to make you feel more lucid.

What I did enjoy, however, is telling people that I smoked crack. Or casually asking my dilettantish drug associates—college girls or whatever—“hey: anybody want to smoke some crack?”

I’m such a fucking poseur.

*Of course, god forbid I should follow my own advice—every time I did this I would wake up with like eight of these blackened little foil-wads clinging to my naked, sweaty body.

** He would do this in the middle of a party of straight-laced yuppie kids with total nonchalance, too— cook up right in the kitchen. That dude had class.