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Saturday, December 31, 2005
Clubtrash Letters 1. Blowjob in the bathroom! How dumb and young do you think I am, that I'd suck you off in a filthy stall, just because you poured me tasty drinks all night? It's a shame, really cuz I have such a thing for bartenders. And you're so fuzzy and charming. But in the bathroom? Blech. You insult me. 2. No, I don't want to get gangbanged by a metal band. I don't care if you have a show on Sunday the 14th. "Have you ever had a Canadian and a Puerto Rican.. at once?" No, and I don't want to join your North American sandwich. All flavors of man taste the same. Like scum and the argyle skin of shedding shakes, but not so dry. Like a dirty shoe filled with mayonnaise, with chlorine on the side. I would not like to try. I'm no groupie, especially for a band I met 5 minutes ago. 3. Long Island ice tea, somewhere-Asian accent, black mesh shirt. The only thing I could make out was, "I fall down, pick me up." Dude, you drank a lot. I don't know you, but I hope you're okay. 4. You are, sure thing my favorite dance partner. Ever. I was coming to like you a lot, the way you catch my rhythm and I catch yours and your scalp, so shiny shiny shiny! But then I learned your name. I learned you were my enemy, by proxy, by loyalties. Ohhh I knew I'd seen you before! I'd promised to kick your ass if I did again. And well tonight, I tried. But I'm no mistress. Heart of ink and honey. I don't whip.. 5. ..I smother. I hoped your rash would never heal. You float. You smell like a flower. Float away if you will. Yeah, it does hurt me still. 6. And you. I fear you've mistaken me for a damsel. We talked about this and will surely talk more. You were my net, tonight. Thank you. And perhaps I'll see you tomorrow. 7. Man/girl in the black dress. Classy and friendly. Using either bathroom. If I could be half the lady you are, I wouldn't be writing these letters right now.. | Wednesday, December 28, 2005
Anonymous Posting Meme Post anything that you want (in comments), and post it anonymously. Anything. A story, a secret, a confession, a fear, a love -- anything. Be sure to post anonymously and honestly. Post twice if you'd like. Then, put this in your blog or journal to see what your friends (and perhaps others who you don't even realize read your blog) have to say.Come on fuckers. Let me have it. =P | Tuesday, December 27, 2005 Posting Song Lyrics is sooo Livejournal But this song is so very pretty. If every angel's terrible Then why do you welcome them If every angel's terrible Then why do you welcome them If every angel's terrible Then why do you welcome them You provide the birdbath I provide the skin And bathing in the moonlight I'm to tremble like a kitten If blue eyed babes Raised as hitler's little brides and sons They got angelic tendencies Like some boys tend to act like queens Oh if every angel's terrible Then why do you watch her sleep You love to hear her sing And wear purple eyes like rings Well the flowers have no scent And the child's been miscarried Oh every angel's terrible Said freud and rilke all the same Rimbaud never paid them no mind But jimmi morrison had his elevators His elevators He had his elevator angels If every angel's terrible Why do you hide inside her Like a child in a skirt The supermarket's loud and bright And boy don't she feel warm tonight Boy don't she feel warm tonight Boy don't she feel warm tonight If every angel's terrible... -Terrible Angels, Cocorosie | Monday, December 26, 2005 Buttwipes for Christmas  This is what my Grandma got me for Christmas. Buttwipes. And no, she wasn't joking. She's just really old. When I ripped off the wrapping paper and saw the buttwipes, I grinned and pretended I liked them a lot. My uncle laughed and choked on a candy. "Thanks Grandma!" I said, "They're so.. useful." I'm terribly confused. Does Grandma think I'm dirty? | Friday, December 23, 2005 Not Bad Considering I worked full time, this semester. I got straight A's, except for a B in the race/class class. Foundations of Computer Applications: A Gender, Class and Race in United States History: B+ Fiction Writing: Advanced : A- Creative Non-Fiction : A Fiction Writers and Publishing: A | Thursday, December 22, 2005 Usually, I don't write shit like this. And no, I'm not really this angry. I don't follow the advice I've given below. It's just sarcasm from the shaky fingers of a girl who's been far too kind to the male species. That said, here's.. How To Keep a Man It's almost a law of nature. When you really like a man and treat him nothing but sweetly, he will undoubtedly take your existance for granted and eventually ditch you for some catty cunt who treats him like toilet paper. And meanwhile, the ones you can't stand will devotedly call you 18 times a day. I too have found myself prey to this painful paradox. Recently, I fell in love and proceeded to act like a doormat. Of course, I was stomped on. By a very shiny pair of platform boots. And it led me to remember this conversation I had with my grandpa before he died. My grandpa was an old-school Chicago Italian. He'd been married 3 times and knew a thing or two about relationships. Over a deep dish pizza, he gave me some good advice about men. "Allison," he said, "Always remember that you have power over men. Never let them forget who's in charge." I shrugged off the advice as 1950's drivel. Modern relationships are about equality, right? Fucking wrong! You don't have to get stomped on and ignored any longer. By analyzing what I and other girls have done to lose and keep men, I've compiled the following tips: DO pick stupid fights. Be finicky. Let the little things bug you, even if they don't. Pretend that you hate his shirt, tell him he kept you up all night with his snoring. Wait a few hours to call him back. When you go out together, act bored sometimes. Make him take you to 3 restaurants before you finally sit down to dinner. Men love a challenge, they love to feel useful. Make him win you. But when he's facing big problems, always be sweet and supportive. Be there for him when his dad gets cancer, when his dog runs away. Be an angel when it counts. DO withold sex. Every night in bed should be an auction, with him bidding for entrance to the golden gates that are your thighs. Even if you want it SO bad and your panties are oozing with cream, let him lay there with a boner, sometimes. If you fuck him every night, he'll expect it. He'll get bored if he doesn't have to work for it. (Men were made to work.) When it comes to oral and anal sex, use them as special treats to reward him when he does something especially sweet. Remember, nice girls hate to give head. DON'T LET HIM TALK ABOUT HIS EX!! If you're like me, you want to help those you love when they're hurting. But if you sit there like a fucking shrink or pet dog and listen to him pine for some long-lost bitch, you're propelling yourself down to friend zone. Or worse, you'll become the rebound slut. Even if you're not a jealous person, act jealous whenever he utters a female name. Even if she's a "friend". Even if they've been broken up for 5 years. Act like you can't fathom and won't tolerate the thought of him with another girl. Likewise, never mention your exes. This will lead him to believe that you can't fathom being with another man. DON'T sleep around. Concentrate on one man at a time. It's essential to be the blameless victim at break-up time. Sleeping around will give him a reason to dump you, then be glad that you're gone. Ideally, you should be the bitch he pines for while stomping all over some other sappy chick. DO be morally upstanding. You hate porn, strippers, prostitutes, girls with smutty myspace photos. Even if you don't, around him you should. Men may have plenty of fun with "that kind of girl", but they sure won't stay with her. (Believe me, I know.) DO have issues. Hate your dad, or something like that. Be emotionally broken, but not so far gone it's hopeless. Men love to fix things. DO/DON'T be a poser. Now, if you're into country music, don't scream along with his death metal songs. If you're a punk rocker, don't grow out your mohawk for some preppy pretty-boy. If you're Jewish, don't pretend to be a Satanist just to impress him. Relationships work best when you share similiar tastes and interests. But if there's a band he won't stop talking about, it's a good idea to download a few of their songs. If there's a book he quotes all the time, read it. Mirror his style. If he tends to wear a lot of blue, wear red. If he's a flashy charmer, tone yourself down. Don't steal his spotlight. If he's quiet and subdued, be a non-stop laugh. Be his spotlight. DO ingratiate yourself with his friends and family. Make them say you're, "such a sweet girl". He'll listen to them. But don't get too close. Don't worm your way into his social group. That will scare him off. DON'T let him break up with you first. If you feel like things are falling apart, get out. Be the dumper and keep your dignity. So rather than acting like a doormat, act like a Persian rug. Something delicate and lovely that deserves and demands special care. Something that can be treasured forever. Something he wouldn't dream of wiping his boots on. Even if it requires all these mind games. Even if you feel terribly fake and cruel. I wish there were some other way. But men find kindness contemptable. Honestly, if you can follow the DOs and DON'Ts I've listed above, if you can act that catty and cold toward someone you love, you're a detestable porcupine of a girl. But you'll probably keep your man. Addendum: It's a gross generalization to say these theories and techniques only work on men. Girls are attracted to selfish jerks, as well. | Monday, December 19, 2005 ONE MORE THING! And a good thing it is! x-mas evil, a Christmas themed horror zine, featuring fucked-up, gory, bazarre and fantastic stories by a twisted gaggle of hot HOT fiction writers, including Ms. Allison Quick can now be found at such fine-fucking bookstores as Kate the Great's, Quimbys and Chicago Comix. For those of you who don't read, buy the magazine anyway. There's a centerfold with a REAL LIVE PIN-UP GIRL! OoooH YEAHHHH! And if you're outside of Chicago, let me know and perhaps I can send you a copy. |
Eyeball Update! False alarm. No pink eye here. Yes my eye was pink, but it wasn't pink eye. Whatever germies were eating away at my eye have been sufficiently scared off by the vitamin C and tea tree. The rash on my neck is pretty much gone, too. AND.. I got a job. Already! My first week out of college. It's a really lame job. I'm working at an answering service. Mostly answering calls, but the good part is, I get to re-write their training/employee manuals. So at least I'm using my skills, in some way. Last Thursday at the bar, the journalist kissed me on the cheek and said, "Don't sell yourself out to a bad job." Don't worry, I won't. I'm still trying for an internship and will still publish stories and reviews. But I need $ right now. I got this letter from the school today saying I owe them $8,000-something dollars and they won't give me my degree until I pay them. =( This could take a while.. | Sunday, December 18, 2005 NO, NOT THE EYEBALL!! Conjunctivitis horror!  The Red Really Brings out the Green, Don'tcha think? So last night I had all these plans with a friend of mine. We were gonna get together with our writers group, then go see a play, but she never called me back. Which is really un-like her and made me incredibly sad. So I went to bed around midnight and slept for 12 hours straight. In my dream, I had an internship at K-Mart. They made me fold sweaters until my hands were red. But earlier in the dream, I was at school. Joe Meno came up to me, shook my hand and said, "Good luck, buddy," then gave me a box of ramen. They say there's only an 8% chance you can move up out of the social class you were born into. I woke up with pink eye, as you can see in the picture above. I think it spread to my eye from the rash on the back of my head, which has returned with a crusty vengance. Now, 21st century medicine, in all it's geno-nano-morphic glory, doesn't really apply to the poor and un-insured, like myself. At least not in the US. I can't call up a doctor and be like, "Hey, I've got pink eye", go in and get some antibiotics and be well in a couple of days. It would cost every penny that's in my checking account. I'd have to quit eating. I'm sure there's some kind of free clinic where I can sit in a room full of screaming children for 5 hours straight and eventually get some underpayed and disinterested nurse practitioner to write me a perscription. Do you know where said clinic is? If you do, please tell me. If not, I'll continue to try and heal myself with vitamin C pills that expired last August and a half-empty tube of tea tree oil gel. I put some tea tree oil gel in my eye and it's already less red than it was in the picture. Scientific studies have shown that tea tree oil made from Melaleuca alternifolia is a highly effective topical antibacterial.. | Saturday, December 17, 2005 This FUCKING SUCKS!! If you hate dolphins: die. RIGHT NOW! DIEEEEE! | Thursday, December 15, 2005 It took the best years of my life And made it so I couldn't decide Static as in prisons Static as in life They said they had their reasons But coming from above You got what their decisions inside your factory But one thing they can't teach you is how to feel free And stand up in the beautiful world We only respond.. Schools are prisons -Sex Pistols, "Schools are Prisons" So as of tomorrow at 6:20pm, I am finished with college for good. I'll have my almost useful but very fun fiction degree. Now, I've been in school since I was 3 years old. That's 19 years of having classes and teachers to structure my life, my time and my thoughts. I think the root of my recent freaking out about graduation is not over if I'll find a job (of course I will) or any kind of success, it's about all this time I'll have to fill. For once, I'll have to run my own life and well, that kind of scares me. But I'm sure I'll be fine. I'm looking forward to having more time to spend with friends, to work on non school related writing and also to explore some new/forgotten interests of mine, like playing the violin and performing poetry, staying up to watch the sunrise, taking little trips and in general, having more time for chaos, for fucking around, for relaxing. What scares me the most, though is losing contact with my school friends, after I'm gone. It'll be sad not see them every day. So if you're my school friend, please keep in touch. | Wednesday, December 14, 2005 Best Coffee Ever  | Sunday, December 11, 2005 One more reason tofu rocks.. It works as birth control | Saturday, December 10, 2005 Mmm .. E-puffany Me, I'm a rootless cosmopolitan. A hunter-gatherer, member of the paleolithic leisure class. Deep down I'm obsessed with beauty (in all it's hideous forms) and love (not I-own-you love). And I've been trying to stuff myself into a paradigm I don't really agree with. Find a career, marry, save money, these yuppie mantras have been eating away at my brain for the last year or so. We might now contemplate aesthetic actions which posses some sort of resonance of terrorism (or "cruelty" as Artaud put it) aimed at the destruction of abstractions rather than people, at liberation rather than power, pleasure rather than profit, joy rather than fear. "Poetic Terrorism." -Hakim Bey, Temporary Autonomous Zone The above summarizes my new goal for after college. To embrace and cultivate chaos and joy, to assault the unexpecting with happy and terrifying acts of art. That's very vague. What does it mean? What exactly will I do? Well, you'll see. The first one will happen soon. So don't play the blessed liberal middleclass martyr- accept the fact that you're a criminal and be prepared to act like one. See, the problem with art school is they help you hone your craft, sharpen your skill, but tell you there's nothing more you can do with it than work in advertising, or if you're lucky sell your "work" for profit. (Ohh I hate calling it work.) But me, I love what I do too much to turn it into a product. Like a bottle of Coke, a shoe, or a condom. Something to be used, then thrown away. I want what I do to echo in my audience's mind like a snowball. An idea that only gets thicker as it rolls around in their memory until it is too big not to express. I want to blur the line between artist and audience, turn the by-stander into a genius. Care to join me? Calling all merry pirates and evil mimes! | Friday, December 09, 2005 I am not the beloved. I never will be. I am something disorganized and malformed but still endearing. A children's drawing, armless figures with popsicle eyes. Thick scribbles in purple crayon. But not the beloved. Nothing to be revered and feared and dwelt upon. Childhood scribbles will not hang framed in gilt beside a portrait by [insert famous artist] . Those, the beloved, they're works of masterpiece with their unchewed fingernails, clean-planned lives and arctic underwear. Me? I take the scraps. The leftovers in your fridge and the blank spot in your bed. You can't own a masterpiece. And you don't want to own the scribble. But you can have the scribble, use it to wipe your sticky hands after wacking yourself to ball gag porn. Then toss it out the window without remorse because it will surely biodegrade. Because after all, you aren't the beloved either. | Thursday, December 08, 2005 Don't know why there's no sun up in the sky.. |
I was fucking dumb to treat kindness like a commodity, like something that could be traded. Like, "if I'm kind to you when you're sad, surely you'll do the same for me." Yeah, that's not the way it goes. I'm a pitiful sap. | Friday, December 02, 2005
 Last night. Porn shop. 4am. dis is the porn shop calling. yeah, yeah, we have your porn. we deliver. we just, we just gotta take the pictures first. uh dis is the porn shop. we have some porn for you, some porno. hello? So after weeks of my repeating the phrases above in a deep and lispy voice, we finally went there. To the porn shop, that is. At 4am, after bondage night, after watching long haired doms in latex whip and pour hot wax on sucker after skinny sucker.. When you walk in, the door makes a funny dinging sound. The selection is relatively vanilla. Young chicks, black chicks, asian chicks, gay, ass, feet. Nothing violent. No fisting or cages or ball gag porn. Well, maybe a little ball gag porn. There is a dildo as big as my leg. Lifelike, with veins and all. Christmas music plays over the speakers in the store and I fantasize about beating someone to death with the dildo as big as my leg. We pick out a 3 pack of fetish magazines and a movie called Chubby Young Chicks. Also, an electric egg vibrator thingy. It's shiny and silver. I love eggs so, so much (which you know if you saw the runny yolk streaks on the walls of my old apartment). In the check-out line, some guy in a fur coat is trying to convince the clerk to give him free lube. "C'mon, you can't hook a brother up with some lub-ri-cation!" while at the same time stuffing packets of sexual stimulant pills in his pocket. "That man was stealing stuff." "Those pills don't work anyhow." Vibrating egg in my panties as I drive, trying to, trying not to hit things. 60mph on Lake Shore Drive. If I could die on any road, that'd be it. With the vibrating egg in my panties. Thoughts of a JG Ballard book. "Have you read Crash? It's about these people who get in car crashes for erotic gratification." "Please don't. I'm not into that." We got home safe and you can't know the rest. | Thursday, December 01, 2005 If you were me, you'd be wearing the same shirt you wore yesterday. If you were me, you'd be picking cat hair from that shirt. If you were me, you'd be eating free food here at school. Artichoke lasagna. Mmm that's what the tuition goes for, darling. If you were me, you'd be fighting the urge of your hands, to scratch the back of your neck where the rash was, where the rash is coming back because you haven't been bathing and taking your antibiotics. If you were me you'd fucking hate showers. You'd fucking hate antibiotics. If you were me, you should be writing a paper on Cher for your racism class. If you were me, your school ID would be 59401. Your hair would look better when messy. If you were me, your nightmares would be getting kicked out of another home and finding a girl with the same tattoo as you. Bitch, you copied me! This is custom work here. If you were me, you'd wake up from the nightmares, smelling magic oil and wondering how long till he starts to cry? If you were me, you'd be out in the lovely snow before he does, taking wrong turns on the way to Lake Shore Drive. And if you were me you'd be asking yourself if this post is narcissistic but you'd decide no, no, I'm just trying to relate. |
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