On Thoughtless Cunts

If you are amongst the people who, while in the audience of a live music event, insist on holding up your camera phone to record extended amounts of video, please know that you are horrible.

It’s true. You’re all a bunch of thoughtless cunts incapable of living in the present moment, spoiling the view for the fans behind you with giant glowing rectangles of narcissism.

Speaking on behalf of everyone else at the show, I fucking hate you. Really. You’re awful, and I hope that all of your mobile devices short circuit in the front pockets of those skinny jeans and melt into your hairy genitalia.

Still, as much as I hate you, you are officially no longer the worst people in the room. No, that title belongs to a new breed of gum-smacking, teenage centers-of-the-universe who, instead of holding up their camera phones to record extended portions of the live show, are now holding up their camera phones to record THEMSELVES as audience members watching extended portions of the live show.

My jaw still hits the floor every time I see it. Honestly, that level of complete and total self-absorption is something I wouldn’t have even thought was possible a few years ago. It boggles the fucking mind.

Why He Sucks



If your BFF is going through a rough break-up with a guy you always thought was a douchebag, ask her to therapeutically type out a list of all the reasons why he sucks. The results will be awesome.


A note on LA politics.

For those of you who give a shit, Los Angeles just elected a new mayor.

The tiny fraction of Angelinos who bothered to show up to the polls yesterday got to choose between Eric Garcetti and Wendy Greuel, two bureaucratically entrenched mid-level municipal politicians, both of whom were competent, but neither of whom were particularly galvanizing. The best thing you could say about either of them is that they weren’t Antonio Villaraigosa.

Garcetti won. I knew he would. I knew it all along for one simple reason. His last name sounds mayoral, and Wendy’s last name does not.

I’m totally serious about this. If Wendy’s last name had been Garcetti, and Eric’s last name had been Greuel, the results of the LA mayoral election would have gone the other way.

If you don’t believe me, ask our departing mayor why he changed his name from “Tony Villar” to “Antonio Villaraigosa” before getting into local politics. That’s the kind of stupid shit that makes a difference in Los Angeles.

No one else will say it, but the brutal truth is that Wendy was fucked from day one because she has a shitty sounding last name. Mayor Greuel just doesn’t have a ring to it, and Mayor Garcetti sounds slick.

That’s really all that matters in this town.


Dirty Girls


Dirty Girls (via ned)

Wow. What a perfect little time capsule. I forgot what it was like to be a 13 year old before the internet really existed, when the closest thing to having a tumblr was making VHS camcorder videos and copy machine zines.


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.

There’s a midnight moment before the Xanax kicks in at the end of every weekend where I get the irresponsible urge to throw on some shoes and go for a night drive with the music thumping and all the windows down so I can smell the sounds off the street and taste the buzzing off the billboards and let the physical connection I still have with this ridiculous fucking city clear my head for the coming week.

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.

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