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Job. Car. Life

Nov. 16th, 2008 | 09:37 pm

I have a car. And a job. And a life. I suppose that's enough.

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Not too shabby

Jul. 27th, 2008 | 11:10 am

It's Sunday and I am making money donating my body to medical research for a week.

I have my headphones on with Pandora spinning out some music I've never heard before in my life. Surprisingly it's good.

In three weeks I will go to my hometown and face down my own past. Either I will remain steely-eyed or I will lose my shit, but I will have done what I needed to do. There are many elements I am frighted of. Many people and places and mostly my own embarrassment. This is all almost ten years in the past and it seems a waste to lend any mental energy waxing anxious over history. Ten years history.

I feel as though I still have something to prove. I still see myself as that same greasy-haired darting-eyed paranoid and frighted simian. Leaving Texas in a shitty van with wild and silly ambition.

I can't be that same creature.

I suppose I am a mixture of the new and the old. An evolution. I am Neanderthal Laurie! Or maybe I have risen up and entered the bronze age of my short and silly life!

Whatever. I am in good spirits.I have good friends and a good mate and I am neither greasy nor wild nor paranoid.

I just want a cigarette.

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May. 11th, 2008 | 12:03 pm


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Dumb machines

Feb. 28th, 2008 | 09:00 pm

I used to get urinary tract infections as a kid
I'd squat over a toilet, letting go of hot poison piss and
stopping every couple of seconds to recuperate

I got these infections cause I didn't know how
to wipe my own ass and vagina properly. Nobody taught
me to wash. Nobody taught me to care.

I was scared every time the urge came to take a leak
usually in the middle of the night
and I'd hold it until my bladder felt heavy and my stomach tumbled

Later in years I told my grandma about these bladder infections
She looked at me with pity and horror
I wanted to tell her it was the most normal thing in the world.

These poisons.

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(no subject)

Dec. 21st, 2007 | 09:58 am
mood: indifferentindifferent

I've always wanted to be an old man. Brittle, bored, and too old to smile just for social grace.
I don't like most old women, though. They get sucked into social graciousness because death is hanging around too closely and they think they can score more points with god.
But old men know. They know the countdown. It's not worth spit shining someone else's shoes when you gotta spend time figuring out how to cheat death. Or at least working out  how to approach that scene without shitting your pants and looking like just another sad old dying creature.
I'm a sexist. I know.
Most folks I know love women because they're kind and caring and sweet and they make soup with you're sick and they wanna chat and bitch and gossip. I love this also.
But women have a hard time facing up to the reality of themselves and the rest.
Men may be slaves to their biology (sex, war, food) but women are slaves to their denial. Their sensitive denial.
Listen: Men already know their own silly sad stories...but do the women?
The Goddess? The mother? The maiden? All silly sad stories. All trying to prove somehow that we of the weaker sex are not equal but somehow superior and that haughty Goddess induced philosophy turns my regard into distaste and I find all of humanity in the same rough spot and with the same delusion of worth beyond their capabilities.

How about we drop the gods and the goddesses and power animals and totems?
How about we take all the responsibility and blame and failures and victories upon ourselves for once .

There are no Gods. There are no Goddesses.
But there are volatile complex meaty entities that rip the heart out of me and slide their fingers into my head and manipulate my capillaries and veins and  into something some would call holy and that is enough.

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Jul. 23rd, 2007 | 03:45 pm
mood: coldcold

I am a liar. Was a liar.
It never happened. I was angry and humiliated that my advances were shunned and ignored. I was upset that events and choices were not made for my behalf. So I wanted to leave. You didn't. So I lied. Anything to get you to take me home.

I used you. I manipulated you and used the heaviest ammunition available. And once the lie started I had to use all my acting skills to keep it alive.

I was filthy then.

Certain events created me a loathsome creature. Correction. I created myself into a loathsome creature because of certain events. I gave up caring for those who cared for me, and they became objects for my ends. And I stopped at almost nothing to create a reality that others would fall into. For my own ends.

Other lies?: My dad is alive and in prison right now.
                      Nobody beat me and took your money and drugs.

I took a schizo-junkie and made him my whipping boy for my bitterness.
I made my friends exert useless empathy and concern.
I blackmailed my grandmother for her slights.

I am sorry. I am sorry. I am sorry.

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Ten Things I Hate This Week......

May. 23rd, 2007 | 11:39 am
mood: awakeawake

1. People in wheelchairs. These shits are always ramming through the crowds at the bus station in a panic that they might not be let on first. HEY! CRIPPLED ASSHOLE! You will ALWAYS have a seat on the bus, whether or not you are first or last. If you board last, the person sitting on the seat you need HAS to move for you. So instead of plowing through a crowd that has been waiting 15 min. in the cold and rain to board, why don't you chill the fuck out and stop being such a whiny needy paraplegic and WAIT. Assholes.

2. Cum in my hair. Contrary to the popular belief made famous by "There's Something About Mary" cum does not make good hair gel. After a night of slurping and sliding, I hate waking up to hair that has dried to a cardboard-like consistency and smells like ass. One time I went into a rite-aid to fill up my debit card and while I was waiting I started to twirl my hair around and my fingers sank into cummy nastiness...in my fucking hair...Ron saw me and laughed his ass off......asshole.

3.  Speaking of that asshole..."NO". That's my answer to your manipulation to get me to go somewhere I don't want to. Maybe I was drunk when I said yes....but I mean "NO" So fuck you...asshole.

4. My nasal infection. Nuff' said.

5. The fact that I have to wait two weeks until the new "Hell's Kitchen" airs. There's something about Chef Ramsey's hostile nature that get me all wet....I imagine him pounding me from behind, holding my head into a pillow and screaming at me with a british accent while spanking my ass with a frying pan.....MMmmmmm.

6. Waiting for my roommate to vacate so I can watch porn in my living room again. Nuff' said again.

7. Children. Screaming whiny parasites. Dumb and malicious. They should be banned from the bus and made to jog alongside it while it carries the adults comfortably where they need to go.

8. My overlapping belly. When the top of your thighs are being touched by the bottom your belly....there's a problem. And the problem is grazing like a stoned cow who never got enough to eat as a calf. Dammit, I ate hummus this week....doesn't that count for something? Well, no it doesn't.....I may half to call Jenny Craig for this mission or Susan Powders (is that her name? Remember that bitch from the 90's?)

9. Ass piss.............sloppy ass piss......

10. My last entry honors none other than my fat, bull-headed, incompetent, loony and lying boss. His name is Casey. You can find him
    Casey believes in aliens, David Icke, the 2012 mayan prophacy, that he is a prophet, 2000 years old and that he will lead an army in the coming apocalyspe that will destroy 90 percent of the populace because "they" are evil and him and his merry band of fucktards are not. Moron.
    In addition to this inane b.s. Casey also believes that he saw his ex-wife morph into a hybrid lizard and he prophesises about who will be his new wife(why he hadn't had a vision about his first wife being a hybrid alien in the first place is beyond me).
    Casey always calls me into his office to introduce me to his soon-to-be new wife. That he met online. And that he's already prophesed about. And strangly, it's always someone who's a knockout......so let me set this straight Casey. Fat, lying lumps of lard with no personality and no intellegence do NOT hook up with girls who look like they make $500 a blowjob....and yes those girls who look like they're interested in you are escorts trying to lure you in. Moron.
    So maybe you are sitting at your computer, smoking a bowl and wondering "Why all the vitrol, baby? Those are his belief systems and we should all respect other people belief system.....man"
    And my reply is: A) I don't have to respect anyones beliefs systems, paticularly if they're stupid. Like genital mutilation, bride burning and honor killings. It's about being able to back up your belief system with some sort of (drumroll please....) PROOF! and FACT!. And if your belief system can't or doesn't have any of these vital things....then you're an idiot or a hippy. And either way, you suck.  Then there's B) Casey fucked me at work...oops maybe I should reword that. There was no flesh on flesh contact at work....I'd have to rent a crane to lift up his fat belly just to get at the limp boiled asparagus he calls his dick. No, my own boss lied to his boss and my new boss AND all my coworkers about some medical equipment coming in and threw me to the lions even though, IT WAS HIS FAULT. Dickface.
    So yep, this is my vengance. Casey, I always thougt you were a moron. And everyday that gets proven over and over.
    Unfortunatly, I will probably lose some friends over this, because of his ties to other people I have ties with . I'm sorry M. I love you,  I know he's your bro. But he's had it coming for a long time. And he's a moron.

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Glory to the highest! OR Timing is Everything

Feb. 23rd, 2007 | 09:30 pm
location: Cuntly Manor
mood: Cuntly
music: The coochies

It's that time of year again, or that time of  the month, or time to just give it all up for a spot on the coast where I can lie and bloat and burn and seagulls can crap on my decaying body.....I hope. I don't think it's very attractive to rot there in front of everybody.
(Elaborate, flamboyant, excessive?) No
(Drunk?) Oh yes, dears. Oh yes.
My existence is not yielding the bounty I crave. Instead of beauty I get fat. Instead of grace I get flustered. Instead of creative I get cuntly. Very Very cuntly.
By the way I like that word, much more that I like bitch. Bitch has lost it's power and potency. It used to mean delicious malicious Pussy Power. Now it's thrown around as a sisterly greeting. Which is fine.....but it's not the same word. But CUNT. That's mean..or supposed to be mean. I figure if you call me cunt, you at least respect me. Only a brazen cunt would have the courage to piss on other people's belief systems.
Only a cunt will challenge.

It's that time again.
I get neurotic over my past, present and future and seek out those responsible.
Well, maybe no ones responsible.

But I'm torn. Between the comfort of cuntliness and the reality of my situation. My reality being:  What?
That I fail to access that which is most important to me: Creative Perspective
That I indulge in what harms me most: Triviality and Impotency
That I let my obsessive compulsive phobia dictate an aversion to what I crave most: Freedom, motherfuckers, freedom.

What the fuck am I talking about?
Who knows?
Dis is fucked up baby all fucked up.

I figure...I've done my part, right?
I cleaned up. I stopped stealing, lying, fucking up and fucking over.
And I've been waiting. For years, I've been waiting.
Waiting for what?
For overtime at work? For Netflix? For getting drunk and sad and stupid?
I might be sane now, but sanity offers no comfort except to others surrounding the (prior) affected.
In my sanity, I've found everything real to be so much more dull and rote and frighting in it's sanitary condition.
In my "right mind", I've found a choking death.

PLEASE god PLEASE. Let me be a cunt instead of a corpse.

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Goddam, Miss Molly Ivins is dead.

Feb. 1st, 2007 | 03:21 pm
mood: sadsad

Here's to the straight shooter, a steely eyed bitch in boots who never slung shit that didn't need to be slung.
Here's to a  cheeky broad who never let her legs tremble or her beer tip over.
Here's to another lost champion.
Goddamn, Miss Ivins is dead.
I bet that bitch and Twain are kicking back and chucking insults at each other at the pearly gates and wishin God had installed a wet bar.
I bet she wished she could have dragged that big eared, small brained commander in chief along with her to spare the rest of us.
Goddamn. This weekend is Miss Ivin's weekend. I intend to celebrate and mourn this lady with reverence. Only the best beer for you, Ladyloo.
Love, Laurie

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Should I frame the bill?

Jan. 21st, 2007 | 12:57 pm
location: Seedy Motel
mood: accomplishedaccomplished
music: Diana Ross

Turned my first trick last night.
How do you get semen stains out of wool???
By the way, getting so drunk that it takes 47 minutes to come is UNACCEPTABLE. You are gaming the system, Mr. John or Doe or whatever the fuck, and $15 dollars pays for 20 minutes MAX.
Next time I'm setting the timer and if you have to go home with balls the size of satellites, well then, tough shit.
Time is money, and you are wasting MY time with your Thunderbird, Coors, and cocaine fueled grunts and insistence that I squeal  out "Jackhammer, break it down!" and "Bingo, We have a WINNER!" every 10 minutes.
Someone told me you can treat a yeast infection with orange juice warmed in the microwave. Is this true? It itches down there
This is just the beginning.
Soon I'll have enough saved up to open that bait shop(no jokes, please).
Then I'll never have to insert my pinkie into anyone's ass EVER AGAIN.
It'll be me and the bait, kicking back in independent income bliss.
Crap, someone's paging me. I hope it's the guy in the suit. He shaves his balls. And washes them too before he comes over.
I hope he doesn't notice the discharge.

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