Tear it up, fellas!
Tear it up, fellas!
Dear Fucking Asshole in London and Piece of Shit in Worcester, Massachusetts:
PLEASE STOP USING MY CREDIT CARD BECAUSE WHEN YOU SPEND MY MONEY I CAN’T SPEND MY MONEY.
ON LIKE FOOD AND BUS FARE AND RENT.
ALL THINGS I NEED.
I DOUBT THAT WHATEVER YOU PURCHASED AT THE BP SERVICE STATION TODAY FOR $200 WAS SOMETHING THAT YOU ABSOLUTELY NEEDED.
Because it’s earned its spot in this dance party.
Because it’s the best video in the entire universe. Duh, fucker.
Well, Steven made a list of the search terms people have used to find his blog, so I thought that was a good idea, and did what I do with other good ideas, I take them away from the people who had them. Then I go up to someone else outside of the situation and say “Look, look at this good idea that I had. I am so smart!” And they say “Yes, yes you are so smart!”
So here are the search terms that have brought lonely interweb travelers to my blog:
|cupcakes and heartbreak blog|
|hey buddy, my eyes are up here|
|white trash cupcakes|
|cupcake heart break|
|the kennedy cupcakes|
|wet and wildgrls|
|figure skating cunt|
|tony awards 2009 injury|
|conor kennedy muse|
|all types of cunt you could ever want to|
|i-d magazine cory kennedy|
|dildo bicycle race|
|hasselhoff light bulb jacket|
|four floors of whores|
|sweet little cunts|
|book club wordpress|
|cucumber rubber cunt|
|southern illinois cunt|
|myspace cupcake symbols and character|
|stuff it in my cunt|
|cupcake heartbreak blogspot|
|cristina ricci showing cunt|
|vacuum cups on tits and cunts|
|raggy mogow twitter|
|make my cunt take it|
|fire ice cussler|
|cupcake heartbreak blog|
|wet jogging shorts girl|
|“camille and wade. crystal”|
|camille wade the virgins|
|facebook piss on my cunt|
|hasselhoff dildo adventure|
There is definitely a lot of cuntage going on. Can we talk about this?
I suppose that’s what you get for cunting around on the Internet.
Tonight my task was to continue separating all of the duplicates of copies of short stories out of the files, marking any short stories that had doubles, putting originals back in the files, then re-filing (?!) all of the piles of duplicates, only not in a filing cabinet: in a fucking copy paper box, inside which I am expected to reorganize them alphabetically by author and label them with yellow Post-Its that stick up a little bit so you can see the author’s last name.
Is it just me, or does this seem like an enormous amount of pointless busy work?
My boss was nice enough to ask me, when she was contemplating aloud the benefits of a “new filing system,”
“What’s your archival training tell you to do?”
I hesitated to answer her question, because I knew she wasn’t going to like the answer. I said, finally, timidly, “Um, my archival training says to keep originals with their duplicates, and just organize them neatly…there’s no need to create a second filing system for the same items.”
Yeah, anyway. I spent the night separating duplicates from originals, filing, re-filing, stuffing things into a box so that the original files would “look better,” even though if you wanted anything from that box you’d have to go look for it in the filing cabinet, read on the Post-It affixed to the original copy that the duplicates were now located in the box, find the box wherever the hell out of her way she decides to stash it that week, flip through the Post-Its for the author you want, find the story, then put the box back. All so everything will “look better.”
You can imagine how I feel about that.
What don’t people understand about proper filing? It’s beautiful, when done correctly, and will make your life easier. I seem to only encounter people who want to dick their lives up with the help of a messy, disconnected filing cabinet.
I’m just a little bit embarrassed to realize that I forgot to take down all of the yellow rectangular Post-Its of ideas and blurbs and sentences and words from the back of my bedroom closet door, and from all over the mirror behind my bathroom door. It’s a little embarrassing to realize that every stranger who checked out my apartment in the last week got a good, long look at the weird shit my mind burps out, which I consider worth recording on a Post-It note and sticking in one of the two places where I collect those weird ideas and stunted thoughts.
I remember catching a glimpse of the ones in the bathroom and thinking, Oh, I have to take those down, it would be embarrassing if strangers read them. Well, I forgot to take those down. I can only imagine what the girl who used my bathroom was thinking while she sat there on my toilet, reading them while she peed, like I do every day. I guarantee that the two of us were not on the same page.
Well. The Strangers did not seem to agree with my decor, anyway. One guy looked at the framed print of Van Gogh’s self portrait over my couch and said, “Is that Mozart or something?”
I said, “Oh, it’s uh, Van Gogh.”
He said, “Cool…”
I said, “Yeahhh, I think he’s…kinda weird.”
He said, “Naw, you’re not weird.”
I said, “No, I said…uh…”
When you live alone you become snow-blind to your own madness.
A good thing about tonight was that I left late, and the building was mostly empty and quiet, and I got a chance to go dumpster diving on the docks. I opened the recycle bins (because that’s where all the clean trash is) and, eureka: some asshole must have been getting rid of his entire office, or maybe got fired, because an entire bin was full of newish paper goods. I got a desk calendar for 2009 (it’s not too late, pal) that was still shrink wrapped! I got a 75% full box of resumé paper! I got folios, hanging folders, tabs, and Post-Its, all still wrapped or only sticking half-way out of their packaging. But the best, best part was a desk-sized pad of graph paper.
That’s when I got nervous.
I love graph paper and think it’s the best thing in the entire world…so I don’t understand why anyone in their right mind would throw away a giant tearaway pad full of it. I figure someone probably died on or around these office supplies. And I can totally deal with that, all right?
So I dragged all my loot back through the deserted halls off the docks, and I passed the security camera, where I always do a little middle finger ninjutsu show, or exaggeratedly adjust my underwear, pretending to be oblivious to the camera, which I have been told is aimed at the dock door and is only checked if a crime is reported there.
I was told not to tell anyone that.
There was a minute today when I thought that all I had to do tomorrow was make some phone calls about apartments, wait for a package, and meet my new roomie for dinner tomorrow night. I breathed a sigh of relief that I didn’t have any plans that annoyed me. But then I remembered the Post-It on my table, where I have written exactly what the director wants (black and white photos of Chicago and New York highways circa 1970 and 1980 with gas station signs if possible). I have to go to the museum tomorrow and fight with the museum bitches to get them to help me find this shit.
Because when Herr Direktor says he wants it done, Frau Kuppcake does it.
I sometimes wonder what exactly it is that firemen and policemen do all day long. I’m happy we have them when they’re putting out fires and stopping crimes, but today marked the second day in less than a week when I have seen hordes of fire trucks and emergency vehicles and cop cars lined up and down both sides of busy streets downtown, lights flashing, traffic sitting, people boiling in the heat of the sun and the sizzle of their own frustration with the dead traffic. Today every one of them had their lights flashing full on, up and down two entire blocks of Michigan Avenue, which did nothing but whip the shopping tourists into an unholy frenzy. If there are flashing lights and emergency vehicles, of course, it can’t be anything but a terrorist attack. So they figured the best thing to do would be to crowd on the corners and stare, gape-mouthed, at the fire trucks stationed there. The vehicles did seem to be concentrated on one area, and walking by, I figured I would be re-routed to another side of the street. Oh, no, apparently the disaster that was huge enough to stop all downtown movement of non-service vehicles was not necessarily a threat to the sidewalks. The cops and firemen were, of course, standing around, sipping Starbucks frappuccinos, leaning against the doors of shops and chatting with each other.
The other day, I had to take a cab home to make it in time to show my apartment. The Red Line was entirely blocked off at Clark and Division, and three surrounding blocks were lined with emergency vehicles, sirens wailing, lights flashing, police line tied between them blocking off sidewalks, a giant fan attachment sucking black smoke out of the entrance to one of the tunnels. Still, cops stood around and shot the shit with surrounding crowds of crackheads and drug dealers, who seemed to say nothing but “shit, son,” and it seemed like this big futile emergency that everyone forgot to care about.
Both days, I went home and watched the news to see what the hell happened, and both days, the news (online and on the shitbox) said nothing. I thought maybe it was some kind of exercise.
Then maybe I thought the entire city was the cast of extras in this movie that was being filmed, and nobody had told me about it. Everybody was doing their best at acting hot and tired and pissed off and inconvenienced, and the fire trucks and cop cars were just spares, and everyone was in on it but me.
It was creepy.
I have seen this same teacher every week, on the same night, for the past three weeks. I have been forced to listen to her fake fucking high pitched voice boring through the walls each night, giving the EXACT SAME 3 hour long speech ABOUT HERSELF and HER NOVEL to four different groups of students there for four different classes. Somehow, she has managed to do without changing her material once to fit the subject matter.
Fuck her. Fuck her and her goddamn writing grants and her kid and her poet husband, both of whom she cannot stop talking about.
She is horrible. And she has a big, fat ass. And she hates me, I can tell, or is at least wary of me, because I do not talk much in her presence, and when I do, she shoots me down. Tonight, for instance, she was going on and on to her class about how she can’t wait for Lorrie Moore’s new book. So when I finished making copies of Lorrie Moore’s new story in The New Yorker, I handed them to her and said, “Everyone seems pretty excited about Lorrie Moore’s new story.”
What does this fucking cunt say?
“Wellllllll I guess it’s not actually a storyyy? It’s actually an excerpt of her new novel. Sooo.”
Honestly, people don’t know how lucky they are to still have their bitch tongues in their heads.
So I shutup. I’m not going to eat this bitch out. I looked back at my computer screen.
“But yes, I suppose it comes out in, ohhh, September?”
I looked up, smiled, and nodded. As in, That’s great. Go away.
But the second I looked back down at my screen, she fucking says “Do you know? Do you know when it comes out?”
That was a funny question coming from someone who I just overheard, moments before this conversation, when she didn’t know I was listening, telling her students the exact date when the book fucking comes out. And she wants to stand here and play this fucking game with me, dancing around in her superior writer panties, mashing her writing-grant cooch in my face.
So what do I do? Instead of just saying, No, I don’t know…I revert to the third grade tactic of completely bullshitting my way under her skin, and I say “Actually, I think it was delayed until November…Lorrie Moore is so weird!”
She turned on her heel and walked away quickly, threw over her shoulder something about how she never knows “what’s going on in publishing” because it distracts her from “this greater purpose of a body of work.”
Fucking….what? I hate her.
Ugh. I can’t imagine being one of those people who chomps at the bit for certain books to come out. Like Lorrie Moore is a goddamn prophet or something. At this point, I guess she could poop on a fifty cent notebook from Staples and call it her new novel.
Uh huh, uh huh.
I feel like the biggest asshole in the world, because every time he would go on and on about how much he loved Mary Gaitskill, and how she was the best writer everrrr, and how she “really captured the female voice,” and how she was “unafraid to write about the dark side of sex,” I would smile and be like, Yeah, uh huh.
I did that awful thing, AGAIN, that thing you do when you like a boy, so you try to ignore the fact that he’s kind of a dildo in a lot of ways. You suspend your disbelief. You try to appreciate, on some level, all the dildoey things he likes.
I cannot stand Mary Gaitskill.
She’s on the cover of Poets & Writers, staring blankly up and out. She’s an idiot. I’ve never read or seen anything about her wherein she did not mention her time spent as a prostitute, in the most nonchalant, dry way possible. That’s like walking around downtown without pants on and being like, “I don’t know what the big deal is.” That’s like the girl who sat on the picnic tables by the basketball courts at lunch in junior high, wiping her pink sunglasses on her shirt and saying loudly, “Yeah, I mean, I’ve given tons and tons of blowjobs for bags of Funyuns, so what?” pretending not to notice the crowd of pubescent boys gathering, digging in their pockets for a quarter.
I’m watching Diane Sawyer on “When Daddy Becomes a Mommy” and it’s a pretty horrible way to wake up in the morning. Or awesome. Depends on how you look at it, really, it does. I looked at it on mute and it was much better.
I had a job interview yesterday, for a job I really want. I feel like a douche now because I kept saying, “WOW, everyone is so nice! Everyone seems like they LIKE to be here! I can’t believe…” The lady who set up my interview, who would be my awesome boss, assured me that not every day was magical. But I couldn’t exactly describe for her how absolutely awful every single day of my working life is at my current job. I interviewed with seven different people over the course of 2 1/2 hours, and during that time I was asked no less than seven times to describe my current job. I expertly wove a tapestry of shimmery bullshit about how “ohh, you know, it’s retail, but I love the people I work with…” and “I just don’t like the whole selling aspect of it.”
I have another interview tomorrow morning. I swear that the sky opened and rained job interviews on me, just when I was starting to completely lose my grip on the reality of possibility, just when I was starting to think that I might be better off staying in bed every day.
If I don’t get one of these jobs, I’m staying in bed every day.
Can I just say how awesome and great Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince was? Yes, I CAN, because this is my blog and I do what I want.
It was soooo great. It was SO GREAT. And awesome. And I don’t want to hear any more mean-spirited criticism of the little cry session I had toward the end. And the very little bit of a cry session I had at the very beginning. Look, this is what happens, all right? I have a LOT OF FEELINGS.
For Harry Potter, that is.
It’s funny, I often daydream about the short list of people I’d like to stab in the throat, and the longer list of people I’d like to hit with blunt objects. However, show me any scene of Harry Potter, wherein Harry feels lonely and sad and like he can’t go on, and my little Gryffindor heart melts. And that’s what it did, and that’s what it will always do. So.
I showed my apartment all day on Saturday. It was quite an experience, I must say. The worst part was when this short, stocky dude with alopecia all but let himself in my front door, when I had been expecting a girl at that time, and started barking questions at me. The girl hung back in the hallway, didn’t even introduce herself. She was this timid chick with adult braces, still in her ill-fitting black work suit. They both had on Chase bank nametags, and she introduced the completely hairless little ogre in my face as “my boss.” Well, her boss proceeded to tear through my place, saying things like “Well, it is definitely cozy,” with an air of contempt, as if I’d lied to him personally about the square footage or something. He spat so many questions at me, I finally had to say, “Wait, hold on, hoooold on a minute.” I hate it when people ask you six questions in a row, or ask you any question and then continue to talk. It makes me want to ask, “Sorry, do I even need to be here right now?” Eventually, I got enough of Baldyballs’ superiority complex, his “we’re-probably-not-interested-so-get-nervous” act, and just said to the girl, “You know what, Vanessa? There are a lot of people interested in this apartment,” (as there was a girl actually sitting AT my KITCHEN TABLE filling out an application at that very moment) “and it doesn’t sound like the place for you.”
Vanessa responded by cheerily saying “Oh, well, I’ll email you if I’m interested!” But Baldyballs got the point and they left.
Ugh. Get the fuck out of my house.
What the fuck is with the guys who work at Chase banks? Is it like that at every bank? Holy God, I hate them all. They’re all such loud mouthed douchebags. WHY? Is it a prerequisite for getting that job? I mean, there’s obviously no education requirement. I bet they just put you in a room and see how loud you can talk and make sure you can write your name and then give you a polyester blend suit and a paycheck. Going to a Chase bank to get anything done is, for me, like being in a terrible Viagra Triangle bar, only it’s during the day, and all the lights are on, but somehow I feel even more like I should protect my ass and not bend over to pick anything up. Waiting in line, I get the unmistakable feeling that assholes are checking me out. It’s because THEY ARE! And they make no attempt to hide it! They storm around like they’re busy and powerful and the latest contestant on The Apprentice, followed by a trail of CVS NightStorm cologne, they actually stare at you like you’re some kind of merchandise. And they YELL at you. I can’t go into a Chase bank without getting screamed at by some spiky-haired jagoff “YOU BEING HELPED? ALL RIIIIIIIIIGHT!!! YOU SURE?? JUST HANGIN’ OUT, HUH? LEMME KNOW IF YOU NEED ANYTHING!!!” It’s that, or I submit myself to the mercy of the angry black women tellers. They flash their ridiculous nails at you and mutter everything while looking in any direction but in your eyes, and scream at you when you ask them to repeat themselves.
Conclusion: the bank involves a lot of yelling.
Anyway, there are two people currently fighting over my apartment. I assume that the girl who is on unemployment will not be the winner. And while it makes me sad to leave my cute little single bunny-hole, I can always comfort myself with thoughts of all of the life-sized things made of chocolate that I will soon buy with the money I’m saving.
IT WAS ME.
What am I before the eyes of others? A useless, an eccentric, a person disagreeable…Suppose that happens, I would then show through my work, inside the heart of this extravagance. May I not be nobody.
-Vincent Van Gogh