Jan 03, 2005
Tuesday morning. I wake up covered in runes of protection and abstract line drawings of Sherlock Holmes and a cow that turns into an androgynously beautiful Japanese boy.
Did I have a good night?
Still not sure. My room smells like dog and stale cigarette smoke and I have a vague memory of letting the huge dog inside to sleep on my bed � not only verboten but a really bad plan when he�s moulting all over the place and weighs about the same amount as a comedy webmaster. ZING!
I suspect that I have smoked the emergency cigarette. I usually have one on hand for the occasional bipolar emergency. That�s what it�s for. It�s not for smoking in the middle of the night because I�m just this side of drunk enough to co-ordinate the lighter and not set fire to the floating clumps of dog hair that were probably sailing around the room.
This sucks. Now my family probably think I�m some kind of tobacco fiend, sneaking out into the hot tub (read: rusty iron barrel without a bottom) at all hours, relying on chewing tobaccy at all other times to satisfy my insane lust for sweet Lady Nictotine. Chaw, motherfuckers.
So far so suck. And I�ve barely opened my eyes yet.
Flash forward to Wednesday morning: or Wednesday dinner time, which is when I got up and am now writing this. I just had the most awesome dream about a huge haunted house, and the incestuous adventures of Jack and Meg White. Actually that part wasn�t awesome, but you knew damn well I meant the house, so shut the fuck up. Anyway. Wednesday waking-time is suspiciously similar to Tuesday�s, only without the lingering cloud of spilt wine, smoke, and dog hair that attended my last wakefulness festival. But I�m still sitting in front of the computer drinking as much water and orange juice as I can and eating two-minute noodles, the worst food substance known to man. Not hungover this time, just really damn lazy.
Back to Tuesday morning. I can hear my parents laughing as they discuss the cryptic notes I apparently left for them all over the kitchen the other night. I feel dehydrated as hell, so venture out into the big bad world for water or water substitute. I feel absurdly pleased that I managed to get my clothes off before I fell asleep last night. Hell yeah, nefarious zippers and buttons, I got your number. I think I mght have had to wrestle my own brassiere, but this might just as well have been a symbolic post-feminist dream so I let it go.
Somehow the water plumps out the shrivelled cells of my powerful brain, and I remember why I�m hungover. I�m back from the South Island! Hell fucking shit yeah, etc. So happy was I to be home that I went straight from the airport to Leigh�s place, and apparently had a pretty great time just sitting around watching videos, drinking, and using my tattoo liner pen. It�s basically an eyeliner thing, only it�s designed to wash off. Thus, tattoo liner.
That whole day I don�t throw up. I drink a lot of water and feel tired and pissed off as hell, but I give the usual bed-ridden hangover hell a miss. I credit my runes, product of a miss-spent youth and my Vikings paper. Uruz for strength! Nauthiz for protection! Another Uruz � oh no, that�s Sherlock Holmes� hat. I draw a pretty awesome abstract Sherlock Holmes when I�m drunk.
You know what would be cool? A new Sherlock Holmes series. But get this � Matt Damon plays everyone. The real Matt Damon, not the one from Team America � but whenever dialogue is called for, all he can say is MATT DAMON.
Matt Damon (as Dr. Watson): (rustles newspaper foolishly) MATT DAMON!
Matt Damon (as Sherlock Holmes): (laughs in an urbane manner, cocking his morning bed-hat as a saucy angle) MATT DAMON!
Matt Damon (as Watson): (kicks a Negro while receiving boot-shine and servile fellatio, with a side order of sass) MATT DAMON!
Matt Damon (as Holmes): (puts on a condescending manner, smokes opium and puts women in their place) MATT DAMON!
Matt Damon (as Mrs. Hudson): (enters room with servant frippery) MATT DAMON!
(Holmes and Watson share a good laugh. Watson drinks his tea. Holmes puffs on his meerschaum pipe and winks at the screen.)
Would that rock the casbah or what? I�m thinking of calling in a few favours from some major television networks, so don�t copy my ideas you stupid kids. This shit is copyright ME.
So. I know that wasn�t even remotely funny, but I still feel like crap, so lay off goddamn you. I knew I was supposed to be going to see the Motorcycle Diaries with Leigh and Harriet that night, but I just couldn�t bring myself to do it. I was in a particularly shitty mood. So I thought to myself, I thought Self, I thought, you know what would rule? Watching Westley the farm boy saw off his own foot. So I went to Saw.
The only problem was I went two hours early, so when Leigh called my house, my dad told her I�d call her back. He thought I was coming home, which I wasn�t, because I had Blood Canticle (Leigh�s copy, no less) in my bag and I was good to stay in town. Yes � I was that girl, going to see a horror movie by herself with only an Anne Rice novel for company.
Fuck the China Inn Downtown, by the way � usually the fish there is really good, but the other night it was seriously horrible. Like some kind of hideous in-bred mutant fish with two spines.
I got a really good seat, by virtue of being really fucking early and of being all by my onesies. All the guys going to the spooky film with their girlfriends were giving me weird looks, as if to say � if you�re not here to propagate the species, does that mean you�re here for the film? The FILM?? Are you trying to suggest that you have a man�s brain?
But the theatre filled up, as theatres do, and the most repellent older gentleman out on a spooky film date with his dead wife sat beside me. Fucker huffed and puffed like a woman in labour. I rearranged my seating position in a pretty obvious manner to get as far away from him as possible without actually giving up my seat. Grandpa Asthma and his lady wife started to eat their icecreams and popcorn, so I get the sound of huffing, puffing, and leisurely mastication pouring into my left shell-like. It wasn�t chewing, oh noes; it was hideous enough to be accurately described as masticating.
As we approach the end of this update, you may well be wondering: where exactly was I going with this? Haha. Nowhere. Like the Ring virus, I am compelled to spread the misery and boredom that was Tuesday.
Chaw, motherfuckers.