Fuck Sleep

It’s five in the morning. Still dark outside, and I’ve given up on the possibility of going back to sleep. Three hours is enough, right? Right. At least I can read a few emails in the relative silence of the dawn.

One of my internet friends who calls me her Tyler Durden wrote to tell me that she spilled half a bag of blow into the bottom of her vintage bag. It was, as she puts it, a big white mess. (I’m assuming she’s talking about the bag.) I like getting her emails. They are comforting. She doesn’t ask questions so much as she updates me on her life, which is mostly fabulous and occasionally a trainwreck. Good times.

Someone else just wrote in with the following line: “your so annoying you only write back to the shit that you know you will sounds the most intelligent answering.” Well, duh. I’m glad there’s some random fuckface out there in the world annoyed with my intelligence at this ungodly hour. That gives me the warm and fuzzies.

I think I’ll go start my day now. The sun is starting to come up, and I have a doctor’s appointment in a few hours. Should be fun.

It’s good to type this shit out.

I’m hurting pretty badly right now. I’ve been dealing with the 10th anniversary of a traumatic event, one that fucked me up and dramatically altered the course of my life.

Ten years. The anniversary snuck up on me. I didn’t see it coming until it was too late, and it fucking clobbered me. I spent the weekend partying with old friends, trying to annihilate myself, knowing full well none of it would make me feel any better or any less.

The party’s over now, and I’m alone in my room watching Nurse Jackie re-runs and crying my eyes out. I guess I’m writing this down just to prove to myself that I know what’s going on in my head, that I have a name for it, that I know empirically all the causes and reasons.

Not that it matters. A rational explanation for all this pain won’t help make it go away. I just have to feel this shit and move on.

It’s hard, though. The worst part is that I feel ashamed to be hurting like this. It’s not the better part of my nature, but I’m angry at myself. This is weakness, and I’m supposed to be stronger than this. I’m supposed to be over this already.

Ugh. I hate feeling broken.

Coke Talk of the Day

I’m sick and tired of all the speculation about what Kim and Kanye might name their baby. If those two media whores were honest about their process, they would just up and sell the naming rights to the highest bidder.

The end result wouldn’t be any worse than the stupid shit they’d come up with, and quite frankly, I think “MasterCard presents Starbucks Kardashian-West” has a nice ring to it.

Spring Breakers is a mythical allegory with a raging case of neon herpes.

Early on, I said the movie was going to be an epic poem, an Odyssey of American trash culture. I was damn close.

Structurally, it bears a striking resemblance to Dante’s Inferno. Each of the nine circles of hell are represented in almost perfect descending order — limbo, lust, gluttony, greed, anger, heresy, violence, fraud, and finally treachery.

I have more to say about the film and its layers, but I don’t want to spoil anything before the wide release.

Coke Talk of the Day

In the spirit of Harmony Korine’s “Spring Breakers” and Sophia Coppola’s “The Bling Ring,” I’d like to make a pseudo-intellectual exploitation film about American trash culture.

It would be loosely based on the sick fuck life of Hunter Moore, and it would star Corey Feldman in his comeback role as a repulsive anti-hero for a whole new generation.

I’d get some sick bastard like David Cronenberg or Jonas Akerlund to direct, and I’d just let everyone go nuts. If we did it right, we’d be lucky to even get an NC-17 rating.

Coke Talk of the Day

Occupy Wall Street was a fucking mouse fart compared to the damage our generation could do to the system if every last one of us suddenly decided to stop making payments on our student loans.

I doubt it would take all that many conscientious defaulters to reach a tipping point — maybe a few hundred thousand — and the student debt bubble would burst. Credit scores would be meaningless. Ivory towers would crumble. The entire fucking economy would implode.

I dunno, it might be worth doing.

Coke Talk Of The Day



Someone wrote in asking how things were going in my life. They noticed I hadn’t posted any fresh shenanigans, and that these days I seemed like more of an icon than a person.

Icon. That made me laugh. Honestly, the world has been beating the shit out of me lately. I haven’t been posting about my personal life because I’d rather not bitch and moan on the internet.

On the bright side, Americans are stockpiling Twinkies while Israel gears up for another fucking holy war. Good times.

I just want to curl up in bed until 2013.


Random Thought of the Day

What would happen if I hired every advertising agency in the world to simultaneously create an advertising campaign that advertises advertising?

I wonder if that’s all it would take to turn the entire industry into a magnificent feedback loop of narcissism and squandered artistic potential that would amplify upon itself until the soul of every last creative director was crushed under the weight of his own self-serious bullshit.

Hmm. It would be a worthwhile experiment.

Obama Dream



I had a dream last night that I was smoking a joint with President Obama. He had a red bicycle, a beach cruiser that you rent for the day on the Venice Boardwalk, and he was young, just like those pictures of him in college with the straw hat and the cool attitude.

We sat together in the grass by the bicycle, and we each took a long drag, and I asked him, “Seriously, dude. Why the fuck don’t you make this shit legal?”

He put a finger to his lips as if to say, “Shhh.” Then he grinned like the Cheshire Cat, and I suddenly realized that he was telepathically communicating with me. Without moving his lips, I heard him speak two simple words: second term.

Second term, indeed.


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