In Other News...

My dog just got really excited because she saw a woman with a similar body-type and manner of dress to my roommate walking toward the building. She got all doggie woo-wooed about it and ran to the door with her tail wagging, only to eventually lay down by the window and bask in her own profound embarassment.

It's okay, Stella: nobody expects you to have a fucking clue.

Remember the Fish at the End of Faith No More's "Epic" Video? Yeah, Like That.

As I sit here, I can feel my heart thudding and fluttering in my chest. I have some sort of diastolic murmur or something, which the doctor says, "Always, 100% of the time, means something bad." I've concocted a visual representation of my murmuring heart. When I picture it, I see a perch flip-flopping on the bottom of my father's aluminum boat--terrified, suffocating--when I was a kid in grade school.

That's my heart: fighting for life in a hostile environment while stupid white people grin and congratulate themselves for murdering it.

I hated fishing, by the way, just in case that wasn't clear.

Don't Be Angry Because You Didn't Think of It First

If I'm going to be dying, which is looking more and more like a reality I have to start getting confortable with (the scary thing is exactly how so fucking comfortable I am with it already), I guess it's about time that I got started on that one searing, heart-rending work of stupefying beauty that will seal my posthumous reputation as one of the most gifted writers of the 21st century.

With that in mind, I'll grant you a sneak peak in the form of a premise and a title.

It's about a former professional escort and her best friend, and they solve mysteries as newly-minted private detectives. They are also shemales.

The title: Dicks with Dicks.

This shit is gonna make me immortal.

Die or Get off the Pot

My phone isn't working right now, so a friend got the call from the clinic that there's something unusual in my blood test results.

Something.

They don't have the authority to tell her what it is, and I'm still not capable of calling them back, so it looks like I just have to sit around for a couple days wondering what the hell is wrong with me now.

I'd much rather deal with something sudden and catastrophic than this fucking dying-by-inches.

Well, Shit

I downloaded the new Dead Weather album today, and as I listened to it I wondered idly when the next White Stipes album might come out.

It looks like the answer is never. Less than an hour after listening to Jack White's new project, I read news of the band's official disbanding. The statement was released today.

I can't say that I'm surprised. The "band" felt really unfocused and disjointed on Icky Thump, and lately Jack's been doing everything in the world except working with Meg.

So, I sort of expected it, and I can accept it, but I don't have to like it.

Not one bit.

THE PRESTIGE

Prestige

It gets sort of forgotten by the wayside with all of these Dark Knights and Inceptions, but in my opinion The Prestige is Chris Nolan's real masterpiece. Then again, with its dueling magicians, Victorian-era fetishism, and Nikola Tesla balderdash, it's almost like it was designed from the ground up to be one of my favorite movies.

Watched it last night. Watching it again right now.

The Truth

I just took a bath. I took it with a sharp new razor blade resting on the side of the tub. As usual, I chickened out.

I woke up this morning barely able to move. My shitty, inefficient heart is trying to kill me again, for the third time in as many years. One of the joys of this heart condition is that I've gotten very familiar with what it feels like when my body is shutting down. I didn't go into work this morning, and my phone's out of minutes so I didn't even call in. Odds are that I will get fired, and I don't really know how I feel about that.

I'm tired. I don't want to do this any more. I need somebody to save me and take care of me. My last woman made it abundantly clear to me that my health problems were a major inconvenience to her and that she resented them. Well, it's no picnic for me either, sweetheart. She ran away to the other side of the country rather than deal with me any more.

I want to die. I can't find the strength to accomplish it. I think about it nearly every day, except on those good days that are getting rarer by the month.

I am broke. I am dying. I am lonely. I have to move in a month-and-a-half, if I even last that long at this rate.

Then what? Cobble a new existence together so that my body can just up and die again in a few months because I can't afford to keep myself alive?

I need help. I can't do this alone. More the the point, I don't want to.

Mesquite is for Whites

Bus

This is a mural ad I saw on the side of a bus this morning. It's for a resort and spa in the nearby town of Mesquite, Nevada, because SLCers need to go play somewhere, right?

There are some peculiar things about this ad, which I will now point out to you:

  • Everybody is white, first of all. Even though this town is lousy with Mexicans and Asians and Pacific Islanders, those ethnic groups can just go to hell as far as this bus is concerned.
  • Take a look at the two guys, one playing golf, one shooting skeet. They have their hands up to their visors so that they can see where their shots went without sunglare getting in the way even though they're already wearing caps with visors on them for exactly that purpose.
  • The lady playing tennis looks uncannily like Sarah Palin.
  • Next to the lady singing (is she singing karaoke, or is the other lady enjoying her professional performance?  Beats the hell out of me) another lady is serving some fine alcoholic beverages like Corona. Wow, seriously, Golf or Spa Getaway in Mesquite, Nevada? Corona? Damn...that's some exotic shit worth going out of state for.
  • The lady in the bikini drove her Delorean in from 1985 just to come to this awesome spa getaway.
  • Check out that lobster: exactly the sort of fine cuisine I expect when I travel to a resort in a landlocked state.
  • Finally, in the right-most window (my apologies for this terrible phone-pic), there's a silly old guy just hanging out being "funny". That's all. He has no activities, no food, no drinks, nothing. They should show him working a slot machine, since that's what old people do in Nevada, but instead he's just standing there with his arms flailing all about, everybody's wacky, and hated, uncle.

If you're a middle-aged white person, Mesquite's got the Golf or Spa Getaway you're been craving. Bonus: no coloreds!