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.
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.
I’ve been drunk dialed, and I’ve been drunk texted, but this is the first time I’ve ever been drunk instagrammed.
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.
You just know at some point Sarah Palin’s husband has licked Chick-fil-A sauce out of her pussy.
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.
Somewhere in West Hollywood, a well paid make-up artist is adding an 8×10 glossy of this mugshot to her portfolio.