Shit, I say to myself and I go to wipe it off...
It's not fucking ice cream. I have a fucking hole in my blue tights, and the damn white spot is my pale pasty-ass leg showing through the hole.
Prehensile people irritate me. Of course, when I say 'prehensile' I mean people who can use both hands at once to do entirely separate things.
I was thinking that I should write a book called How Katie Got Her Glam Back because I lost it for a while... I thought harder about it and realised that it was really simple, so perhaps I should submit it to a publisher as a children's book. That way it wouldn't have to be very long, and it could be chock-full of pictures.
Pretty much, it goes like this:
Do your bloody hair, kids. Put it up, make it big like Robert Smith or Fran Drescher. Pins everywhere, some bangs in your eyes (because according to Glam Master Sass, hair in your eyes is sexy, and foreheads are not).
Clean your sodding room and uncover a long lost black slip that used to make you look frumpy but now makes you look like a sassy and uncontrollable housewife. Do some house-cleaning in said slip and prove that you are a sassy and uncontrollable housewife.
Wear red lipstick. Make sure to use a shade that insinuates something about SEX. (Juicy, Ardent, Luscious, Saucy etc). If you can find a lipstick that uses all of those words in one really long title, then you are most definitely on the right track.
Listen to 'Unbelievable' by EMF on repeat.
Wear lots of dangly, gaudy jewelry with rhinestones. Silver only, no gold plz. Send lots of text messages to all of your friends talking about Nancy Sinatra. Procure a pet alligator.
My legs itch. That's right, the pale pasty ones. I read a poem the other night about how this girl wants to have sex with a guy, 'like perverted crows, doing the nasty'. I'm sorry, but that has got to be one of the funniest visuals ever to be placed in my over-imaginative head.
I just did this because I could.
Firstly, what sort of noises do you suppose BIRDS make when they are having sex? Secondly, what constitutes a 'perverted crow'? Are these a special breed that fly at the plunging necklines of supple bosomed women? Do they come to parties and tell sick jokes? I was so very amused. Honestly, I think because mostly it would be funny to hear what a crow would sound like if he was 'perverted' and 'doing the nasty'. I've seen ducks getting it in before... that was pretty funny. Up until the part where my 13-year-old male comrades started snickering Beavis and Butthead style and snapping pictures which, I imagine they jacked off to, later.
I think it is one of the more bizarre phenomena in the world that we can refer to people whom we've never met as 'friends' thanks (or maybe not so much?) to the wonders of internet technology. What does a button marked 'turbo' do on a keyboard, anyway?
I'm going to teach you the fairy tales when I was a child and again we can feel all the magic coming through the stories of old. The hand-clap games, and that old rhyme about the shiverees. Cool breeze, tight squeeze, now you have the shiverees. I'm going to sit in the darkness blinking so that you can tell something is there out of the corner of your eye, but will not glow again until you have looked away. The elusive mating dance that could reign if given half the chance. Let me be the elusive September firefly.
Let me call you at 4 am to tell you I am with the Berkeley Police Department and that you need to come to court for being too sexy. Yes, I actually did that, but I would like to do it to someone else now. I would like to be immaculate conception, unbreakable connection. I would like to be lonely here at night because on my own there is no fight. There's no dismissal or disagreement, no ruin and no vehemently spoken words fueled only by the ID which we are so able to hide in different circumstances. Here are the tears that no one wants: cried for the friends who will never know how amazing they are; cried for the stupidity you feel when you realise you are merely a 'friend' and not a fuck-- and because of this you will never be important enough; cried for whatever woes beguile one's own mind. The tears stop now-- they are pointless.
Priorities are such a joke-- there will always be that which one wants to do which is valued over that which one needs or should be made to do. I bought some nailpolish remover last week instead of sleeping. I should have stayed in bed. Speaking of which, I should do my nails.
A very dear friend of mine, with whom I bonded over a night of Disney-song-singing and tit-flashing recently was brave enough to let me see inside of her and gave me her password so that I could read her private entries. A lot of them were public at one point, but she decided were better left unseen at another. I love all of them and I love her for instilling this much trust in me. I feel even more, ever more, honoured, because she was right. I will not abuse it.
Your hands are really shaking something awful
As you light your 27th cigarette
How long have you been sitting in the darkness?
You know you're getting really hard to be with
You're crying every time you turn around
You wonder why you cannot pick your head up
Off the ground...
They look at you like they don't know your language
And you're living at the bottom of a well
You swallow all the awful bloody secrets
You can't tell
You know you ought to get yourself together
But you cannot bear to walk outside your door
No, you cannot bear to look into the mirror
And your hands are really shaking something awful
As your worries crawl around inside your clothes
How long will you be sitting in the darkness?
My crazy baby
Try to hold on tight
My crazy baby
Don't put out the light
It's all so delicately worded, like the cows delicately herded for the slaughter. Grass-happy fools, so blind to what's at the end of the line. Poetic and prophetic are the feeble attempts at what they like to call faith but is actually a reinforced sense of blind hope, as fragile as the toe on the stockings of the razor-nailed Shel Silverstein character that is haunting but wins the hearts of children.
Hell hath no fury like a woman's scorn, out of repetitive lies this desire for revenge is born. You loom as what you deny-- you are just like those who have come before you, girl, all lies. I cannot pretend that I have never done the same, but unlike you, I have accepted the blame and dealt with the shame. I apologised as tears ran from my eyes. Tears more genuine than you could ever be to me. We must, in this period, differentiate illusion and fantasy from fact while vainly trying to keep all things intact. The webs are tangled, the truth is mangled. Was there truth to begin, or merely a sugar-coated version sealed with a grin?
She sang of unimportance and I look down at your dirty face and I see she was right. My one dispute about being homeless: I wouldn't mind the cold nights and the pity and people ignoring me-- I would, however, mind the absence of music. Would I have to sing myself to sleep every night? They would never be able to take away the songs that touched my soul-- but where would the rest of it go? The recorded notes? The things that sell.
In the movie Poltergeist, the mother was warned to clear her mind because the entity had more than he needed to make her afraid (or something along those lines) and I constantly wonder that if I voice my fears if I am giving the cruel fates all they need to obliterate me and mine. Curiously chilling, if you ask me. Another reason or excuse for displacement, disbelief, loss of faith.
I regard 'the lord' as fate-- in doing so: fate moves in mysterious ways and I am willing to accept that because time and time again years-old misfortune has suddenly and eerily found its way to make sense to me, and has taught me lessons and been valuable in ways I could never have imagined.
I was the canvas and you painted me. Make me beautiful, darling.