Validate me!


just another faggot slutty, but well read



Tuesday, April 27, 2004 :::
 
Honey, it's not that you can't touch it, I just need to buy some coasters.

Luvs yuz, kid!



::: at 10:32 AM



Monday, April 26, 2004 :::
 
Personally, I think that my version of PR beats the mother-fucking-shit out of all the others. Par example:


Given Toronto's incestuous art scene, you pretty much can't hang around any loft without running into the same 10 pedantic fucks you hung around with last week at Rhythm Box, give or take a few Wiccan French teachers (yikes!) and guys the host met in the dark room at The Eagle (not my part this time, sorry). You also can't help but get cornered by the rum-breathed gallery owner whose been chasing your ass for the past 6 months, someone you've actually hid under tables to avoid. Let's face it, 2,500 square feet may be fucking huge, but open concept living doesn't offer much in the way of hiding spaces, and you can only lock yourself in the bathroom for so long before you have replenish your booze stock. There's also an added bonus of total lack of sleep and the wholesale holocaust of your grey-matter that you've been carrying out over the past two days. The total of which leaves you with lit cigarette, some mal-formed sentences, and a dinner roll as a line of defense. You could just leave, but there a few people there that you actually want to talk to, and thanks to the fact that you haven't eaten in two days you're too weak to resist the wafs of home-cooked chaana and rice coming from the kitchen. So essentially you have one last recourse - drinking your ass off.

Now you're plastered, your defenses lowered, and after glancing at your empty cigarrette pack you foolishly saunter over into the crowd in search of relief.

Smooth one dipshit.

Yup, you better beleive that peice of shit is going to latch on quicker than crabs, and for next 2 hours, you're going to be wishing you had the latter. There's some excrutiating blubbering over his latest show "there's...like...some ummmm narrative", and you start thinking that the your best bet is to simply launch yourself out of the window. Oh yeah, you're out of drugs. Also keep in mind that over the past 2 hours you've ingested #??? beer something you hope to god was just bad vodka. You've got nothing left but the windowsill to prop yourself with, and next thing you know the entire place is empty, save for the hosts, you, and fuckface. You make you last ditch attempt and phone your friend that you saw slyly slip out, and you beg with all your worth to please, please wait downstairs and wisk me off to salvation, just as soon as you figure out which door to use, and how to fit your left arm into your jacket without falling over. You bolt out the door, jacket half on, cocktail in hand, almost sobbing through the corridors, till you bust out the from door into the waiting cab. Unfortunately, so does fuckface. No sooner do you mumble "thank god" to your friend, fuckface burts through the door and barks directions to his home, promptly followed by jamming his tongue down your throat. The cab zooms off and you begin you suddenly feel like a mink in PETA add, and as he philosophically yammers on about "the subconcious connection" and "exchange of ideas" that he wants to take place you quite simply stop breathing.

Now as the cab pulls up to his house, you feel his hand reach up the back of your shirt and start pulling you out of the cab. You suddenly gasp, and after observing that your friend in the cab is infact laughing at you rather than offering support, you hit what could safely be described as the "breaking point". You turn towards your assailant and with one good shove, launch him head first into the curb. After slamming the door shut, you shriek for the cabby to move it, and you burst off into the night, leaving fuckface still on the curb, with a good mouthfull of dirt.

By the time you reach home, said "friend" has at least a few good-sized bruises, and Mr. Cabby is losing his voice from screaming for you to stop or he'll call the police. You throw the contents of your wallet at him and begin the arduous task of actually getting into your apartment. But now you're safe, your assailant far away, and hopefully nursing some horrible wound.

Unfortunately, the wound didn't appear to hinder his speach, or his ability to dial a phone, or write an email, and by the next morning you have a rather alarming number emails in your inbox begging for clarification on the matter.

I don't think I'm going to be on the mailing list for his gallery anytime soon.

Just a thought.





::: at 5:02 PM






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slutty, but well read



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