Teenage Dream by Katy Perry. Jesus Christ. It's gorgeous.
Heart's a Mess by Gotye. It's six minutes long but not long enough.
Laura by me. There are many things I like about it but it's not good enough to share. I'd try to fix it but I'd wind up destroying it. You can only hear your own song so many times before you lose perspective entirely and it becomes impossible to tell good from bad.
When You Sleep by My Bloody Valentine. I used to think this was great. Now I find the lack of bass disconcerting.
Mama by Genesis. Phil Collins has the best voice ever. That's not hyperbole. As far as I know, there's not a better singer. His screams at the end of this... I can't explain. They're unreal. They cut through my defenses like nothing else.
The album Songs from a Room by Leonard Cohen. Every track is disquieting. It sounds like unhappiness feels.
Creep by Radiohead. I would be so pissed if I wrote a mediocre song that became a hit. I think Radiohead are still trying to escape the shadow of this.
I'm Only Sleeping by The Beatles. I only now realized how amazing this is. John Lennon's sped up voice is deliriously beautiful.
The album Tomboy by Panda Bear. Unbearable. A true endurance test.
Faggots by me. This is my new favorite song of mine. I don't know if anyone else will get it but I think it's perfect.
Abacab by Genesis. Badass. Love the residual prog.
Blame Game by Kanye West. Kanye is the only person who could improve upon an Aphex Twin song.
Dark Fantasy by Kanye West. It's tragic that some people don't like Kanye. If they could only know the pleasure they deny themselves...
Monster by Kanye West. The lyrics are so true. Kanye IS a monster.
In the Air Tonight by Phil Collins. I must have heard this song fifty times but when the drums kick in it still makes me euphoric.
Paranoid Android by Radiohead. I know I drank too much coffee because I find the end of this to be slow and lethargic sounding.
The National Anthem by Radiohead. Reminds me of Tindersticks.
Tuesday, 27 September 2011
27/09/11
It is better to be a smoker and a have a short life than to be a non-smoker and have a long life. At my worst I still have the next cigarette to look forward to.
Sometimes I get so bored that I smoke so much that I don't even want to inhale anymore.
Sometimes I get so bored that I smoke so much that I don't even want to inhale anymore.
26/09/11
I did counseling for a couple of months a couple of months ago. My guy was called Greg or Geoff or something. He was gross looking. It was offputting. He had a weird wiry body, long greasy hair and a goatee. I hated the goatee. I like men to be clean shaven, to have stubble or to have a full beard. I think everything else is for the gays. I felt bad for him.
I got talking to him. Turned out I liked him. Not aesthetically. As a person. He was cool. He talked about his experiences with anxiety/depression in a very self-aware way, like David Foster Wallace. Like (and this is a crude approximation), "I realize that my experiences with anxiety and depression were very different from what you're going through now but I'm going to tell you how I dealt with issues because I think that it might be in some way helpful for you." It was the self-awareness and clarification that appealed to me. Unlike everyone else in the world, he didn't think he was a Superman. He didn't think he knew all the answers. He was very aware of what he wanted to say, why he wanted to and how to say it in a way that would cut through my defense mechanisms and strike at my core.
I've had many mentally ill people tell me that "snap out of it" was the worst advice they had ever been given. "I would if I could," they say. Greg/Geoff never said that exactly, but it was his attitude. The subtext of almost everything he said was, "It is incredibly boring to hear you talk about how much it sucks to be you. You could be awesome but first you have to quit hating yourself, get a job and get a life. The best thing for you and everyone else is for you to snap out of it."
It kind of worked. When my dad tells me to snap out of it, it's counterproductive. I hate him and I therefore find myself doing the opposite of what he wants from me to piss him off. I liked Greg/Geoff so I wanted him to like me and I knew that he wouldn't like me unless I was making progress, so I began to fix myself and my life.
He took sick leave. They switched me to a lady. Kylie. I was feeling very expansive in our first session. I was buzzed on coffee and sleep deprivation. I said I was feeling amazing. I told her that I'd realized that self-hatred was counterintuitive. I told her I was ready to figure out life. She riffed on it. She told me, "yeah, it is ridiculous." She told me about her frustration with her clients. She talked at me with the sort of humorless humor that unfunny people think is humor. She did this and all of a sudden I felt like shit. Here's what happened. I didn't like her, so I became the opposite of what she wanted from me because I knew it would make her feel shitty. I'm very reactive in this way. I stopped showing up.
I got talking to him. Turned out I liked him. Not aesthetically. As a person. He was cool. He talked about his experiences with anxiety/depression in a very self-aware way, like David Foster Wallace. Like (and this is a crude approximation), "I realize that my experiences with anxiety and depression were very different from what you're going through now but I'm going to tell you how I dealt with issues because I think that it might be in some way helpful for you." It was the self-awareness and clarification that appealed to me. Unlike everyone else in the world, he didn't think he was a Superman. He didn't think he knew all the answers. He was very aware of what he wanted to say, why he wanted to and how to say it in a way that would cut through my defense mechanisms and strike at my core.
I've had many mentally ill people tell me that "snap out of it" was the worst advice they had ever been given. "I would if I could," they say. Greg/Geoff never said that exactly, but it was his attitude. The subtext of almost everything he said was, "It is incredibly boring to hear you talk about how much it sucks to be you. You could be awesome but first you have to quit hating yourself, get a job and get a life. The best thing for you and everyone else is for you to snap out of it."
It kind of worked. When my dad tells me to snap out of it, it's counterproductive. I hate him and I therefore find myself doing the opposite of what he wants from me to piss him off. I liked Greg/Geoff so I wanted him to like me and I knew that he wouldn't like me unless I was making progress, so I began to fix myself and my life.
He took sick leave. They switched me to a lady. Kylie. I was feeling very expansive in our first session. I was buzzed on coffee and sleep deprivation. I said I was feeling amazing. I told her that I'd realized that self-hatred was counterintuitive. I told her I was ready to figure out life. She riffed on it. She told me, "yeah, it is ridiculous." She told me about her frustration with her clients. She talked at me with the sort of humorless humor that unfunny people think is humor. She did this and all of a sudden I felt like shit. Here's what happened. I didn't like her, so I became the opposite of what she wanted from me because I knew it would make her feel shitty. I'm very reactive in this way. I stopped showing up.
25/09/11 - PART TWO
Speed was the best drug I ever did. Let me tell you about the time I did it.
It had been a typically exhausting day at work. I felt horrible, like I wanted to die. I'd often feel like this. At maybe 9 pm, out the front of my house, my dealer showed up. He gave me my half a gram. It looked like nothing but it was actually a lot, it turned out, because it was base, which is almost pure. He advised me to buy gum and asked if I had an iPod. I told him I had an mp3 player but not an iPod. I kind of missed the point in retrospect. I never bought gum.
I went back inside and took the tiniest lick of it. I felt no discernible effect. I had planned on sleeping so I decided not to try having more. I smoked the weed and watched The Nines on TV. I was so high that everything looked like neon.
I turned off the TV and went to my bedroom around two am. I couldn't sleep, but didn't mind. I put music on and listened to it for hours. The sun rose. I had work. I took another lick of speed. A big one. This one I felt. It was like everything went from a shitty worn-out video tape to crystal clear DVD. I put on Feeding the Birds and Hoping for Something in Return by Something for Kate, which is not a danceable song at all, and jumped up and down to it like I was on ecstasy.
At work the "buzz" wore off but I realized that I was thinking like a true genius. I was very focused and I was thinking about everything very intensely in a wonderful whirlwind while working very hard. I wasn't talking to anyone but in my head I was Superman. A girl asked me if I was feeling bad. Feeling bad? I figured the intensity of my thoughts were manifesting themselves externally as sadness. For reasons I can't remember, I said I was feeling sad. She asked if I wanted to talk about it after work and I said no because she was kind of gross and pimply and also I would have had to wait a couple of hours for her to finish because I finished earlier than her, but in retrospect I should have waited it out and fucked her anyway.
Work ended. I went home. I took another lick. I was feeling very buzzed from the sleep deprivation now and all the speed was accumulating in my system and all of my thoughts were grandiose and complex and detailed yet manageable.
I became in the mood for creativity. I took out my notebook and started to write. Scenes unfolded. There was no incendiary idea. I just wanted to write - so I did. It was like I'd turned on the idea tap on and all the ideas just came flowing out - clean, pure, perfect. The story I was writing, I discovered, was about a crystal meth addict - her thoughts, her shitty job, her pill popping boyfriend and her addiction. I stopped intermittently for water and coffee and maybe ice cream but for about eighteen hours it was almost all I did. I felt weird when it was done. I wanted to keep going, I had the energy, but the story had reached its natural conclusion and it would have been counterintuitive to continue.
This was the inception of my current writing method. I found my voice as a writer by reverse engineering the techniques I summoned then.
I took another lick of speed and saw part of one of the Pirates of the Caribbean movies on TV. I was unbearable.
I put music on. Up on the Ladder by Radiohead caught my attention. I picked up my guitar and figured out the riff. I transcribed the lyrics, then I figured out how to sing it. I didn't know how to sing. I had done a few songs with a vocal, Too Late for instance, but it was all smothered in reverb and delay because it would have been unlistenable otherwise. All it took to figure out how to sing was I recorded myself singing then I listened back to it then I recorded myself singing then I listened back to it over and over for about twelve hours. By the end of it I'd taught myself how to sing.
My memory is nearly empty beyond this. I remember working another shift and being very tired even though prior I eaten all the speed I had left, the biggest lick yet. But that's all. There's nothing else. There's only the vaguest idea there of what happened. The sleep deprivation, I suppose, got the better of me in the end.
It had been a typically exhausting day at work. I felt horrible, like I wanted to die. I'd often feel like this. At maybe 9 pm, out the front of my house, my dealer showed up. He gave me my half a gram. It looked like nothing but it was actually a lot, it turned out, because it was base, which is almost pure. He advised me to buy gum and asked if I had an iPod. I told him I had an mp3 player but not an iPod. I kind of missed the point in retrospect. I never bought gum.
I went back inside and took the tiniest lick of it. I felt no discernible effect. I had planned on sleeping so I decided not to try having more. I smoked the weed and watched The Nines on TV. I was so high that everything looked like neon.
I turned off the TV and went to my bedroom around two am. I couldn't sleep, but didn't mind. I put music on and listened to it for hours. The sun rose. I had work. I took another lick of speed. A big one. This one I felt. It was like everything went from a shitty worn-out video tape to crystal clear DVD. I put on Feeding the Birds and Hoping for Something in Return by Something for Kate, which is not a danceable song at all, and jumped up and down to it like I was on ecstasy.
At work the "buzz" wore off but I realized that I was thinking like a true genius. I was very focused and I was thinking about everything very intensely in a wonderful whirlwind while working very hard. I wasn't talking to anyone but in my head I was Superman. A girl asked me if I was feeling bad. Feeling bad? I figured the intensity of my thoughts were manifesting themselves externally as sadness. For reasons I can't remember, I said I was feeling sad. She asked if I wanted to talk about it after work and I said no because she was kind of gross and pimply and also I would have had to wait a couple of hours for her to finish because I finished earlier than her, but in retrospect I should have waited it out and fucked her anyway.
Work ended. I went home. I took another lick. I was feeling very buzzed from the sleep deprivation now and all the speed was accumulating in my system and all of my thoughts were grandiose and complex and detailed yet manageable.
I became in the mood for creativity. I took out my notebook and started to write. Scenes unfolded. There was no incendiary idea. I just wanted to write - so I did. It was like I'd turned on the idea tap on and all the ideas just came flowing out - clean, pure, perfect. The story I was writing, I discovered, was about a crystal meth addict - her thoughts, her shitty job, her pill popping boyfriend and her addiction. I stopped intermittently for water and coffee and maybe ice cream but for about eighteen hours it was almost all I did. I felt weird when it was done. I wanted to keep going, I had the energy, but the story had reached its natural conclusion and it would have been counterintuitive to continue.
This was the inception of my current writing method. I found my voice as a writer by reverse engineering the techniques I summoned then.
I took another lick of speed and saw part of one of the Pirates of the Caribbean movies on TV. I was unbearable.
I put music on. Up on the Ladder by Radiohead caught my attention. I picked up my guitar and figured out the riff. I transcribed the lyrics, then I figured out how to sing it. I didn't know how to sing. I had done a few songs with a vocal, Too Late for instance, but it was all smothered in reverb and delay because it would have been unlistenable otherwise. All it took to figure out how to sing was I recorded myself singing then I listened back to it then I recorded myself singing then I listened back to it over and over for about twelve hours. By the end of it I'd taught myself how to sing.
My memory is nearly empty beyond this. I remember working another shift and being very tired even though prior I eaten all the speed I had left, the biggest lick yet. But that's all. There's nothing else. There's only the vaguest idea there of what happened. The sleep deprivation, I suppose, got the better of me in the end.
25/09/11 - PART ONE
A warning to constant readers: I'm going to explain a dilemma that I have right now, but in the process I'm going to reiterate things that I've already written. You may skip this entry if you like.
Okay?
About six months ago I took an overdose of Seroquel and was hospitalized. While they were emptying me of the drug, I was sedated with Propofol, the effects of which wear off very quickly. Because of this, what would happens is I would wake up every couple of hours with tubes coming out nose, mouth, arms, dick, etc., helpless, trapped, unable to talk, etc., at which point the hospital staff would drug me again. Of all the times I woke up, the time I remember most vividly was I saw (and heard) a doctor talking to the nurses, presumably about me (I was vague from the Propofol, I can't be certain), and though I don't remember all of it, I remember quite clearly "suspected Borderline Personality."
But let's go back.
About midway through my senior year of high school, I took mushrooms. The trip was amazing. Afterwards though, everything changed. All the horrible things I deal with now - suicidal ideation, anxiety, intrusive thoughts, etc. - happened only after the trip. I told my mom how I was feeling without mentioning the incendiary trip. I told her I needed help. She called Community Mental Health. So began our lengthy and exhausting relationship.
My first case worker was an Indian pediatrician. I didn't like him. He made me nervous. I was therefore evasive and therefore I lied to him. With only bullshit to work with, he thought I might have had Asperger's Syndrome, which he didn't tell me this, but my mom who then, later, told me (as well as anyone else who'd listen). I wasn't self-aware enough then to know that this proto-diagnosis was a mere whim in the mind of a clueless man. I became convinced that I was afflicted by an incurable, horrible disease (no one awesome has Asperger's, aside from maybe Ladyhawke and Craig Nichols) and disappeared into a psychosis-laced fog of drugs and alcohol. My self-medication uninhibited me to the point that I was overtly displaying BPD [1] symptoms e.g. cutting, impulsiveness, dysphoric episodes, the desire for and testing of people's love/approval, etc., some of which have stuck around but are closely moderated by me because I know when they present themselves they hurt my friends and family terribly. I don't have total control - there is nothing I can do about the dysphoric episodes and furthermore, I knew perfectly well that the seroquel "suicide attempt" was non-lethal (I googled it) and I did it so I could go a while longer without working. I did not mention these symptoms to my circa-then case worker Paul. I was generally sober (sometimes overcaffeinated) when I saw him and was very anxious and because of this, I evaded the issues that I really needed to discuss with him. We talked instead about books, movies, philosophy, etc., which he liked, and hence I kept it up - it was a break, for him, from listening to crazy people's crazy problems. I wanted him to like me and I knew that he liked just having a normal conversation.
I moved to Brisbane and became sober due to poverty. I studied up on mental illness and all but memorized the DSM-IV-TR. I became very conscious about not overtly displaying any particular cluster of symptoms, particularly Asperger's (not enough pieces had fallen into place for me to think about BPD yet), particularly around Mental Health staff, and I am still that way, which I imagine makes it impossible for any mental health professional to get a true hold on what I'm still going through and how to treat it. I suspect it derives from the overwhelming desire to be liked (or "loved" in BPD terminology) and I'm afraid that if I become a mere diagnosis then I will be dehumanised by my case workers, that once I am diagnosed I will be seen by them as a disorder and not a person, that if they think I need to 'fixed' then then I no longer have their love/approval, etc.
My sobreity in Brisbane encouraged me, in an odd way, to talk about the difficult things that had happened to me and what I was going through. The intense drug/alcohol induced states were absent from my life and therefore the conversations I had with people became very intense to supplement that. Now I believe that humour is just as intense emotionally but in a positive way and is more successful w/r/t being liked so I do that instead of being aggressive/intense/confrontational. I explained thoroughly to my then case worker Shannon all the things I had gone through, the drugs/alcohol, the BPD symptoms (not, at this stage, connected in my mind to BPD), etc., but I never really exposed my manipulativeness for fear of me not being able to manipulate her if she figured out I was manipulative. She asked me once if I had ever suspected that I was BPD. I told her at the time that the odds were low considering 4 in 5 people diagnosed as Borderline are women.
I've told you that I fell in love with her. I told you that I moved back here. I've told you about the Seroquel "suicide attempt."
We're back at the beginning.
I really think the mushroom trip led to me developing BPD, and the post-proto-diagnosis drinking/drugging episode explains what I imagine is my case workers' unwillingness to tell me what, precisely, they think is wrong with me.
I worry about whether I ask them. "Do I have BPD?" You know. My fear is that if (at the moment) they don't think I have it, and I tell them that I think I have it, they will then consequentially have reason to believe I have it, and I then run the risk of being dropped as a client due to BPD being essentially untreatable.
I'm not asking for advice. I'm going to figure it out for myself. But I know I'm going to be searching for an answer anyway, and I would much rather do it in a way that's entertaining for you.
Okay?
About six months ago I took an overdose of Seroquel and was hospitalized. While they were emptying me of the drug, I was sedated with Propofol, the effects of which wear off very quickly. Because of this, what would happens is I would wake up every couple of hours with tubes coming out nose, mouth, arms, dick, etc., helpless, trapped, unable to talk, etc., at which point the hospital staff would drug me again. Of all the times I woke up, the time I remember most vividly was I saw (and heard) a doctor talking to the nurses, presumably about me (I was vague from the Propofol, I can't be certain), and though I don't remember all of it, I remember quite clearly "suspected Borderline Personality."
But let's go back.
About midway through my senior year of high school, I took mushrooms. The trip was amazing. Afterwards though, everything changed. All the horrible things I deal with now - suicidal ideation, anxiety, intrusive thoughts, etc. - happened only after the trip. I told my mom how I was feeling without mentioning the incendiary trip. I told her I needed help. She called Community Mental Health. So began our lengthy and exhausting relationship.
My first case worker was an Indian pediatrician. I didn't like him. He made me nervous. I was therefore evasive and therefore I lied to him. With only bullshit to work with, he thought I might have had Asperger's Syndrome, which he didn't tell me this, but my mom who then, later, told me (as well as anyone else who'd listen). I wasn't self-aware enough then to know that this proto-diagnosis was a mere whim in the mind of a clueless man. I became convinced that I was afflicted by an incurable, horrible disease (no one awesome has Asperger's, aside from maybe Ladyhawke and Craig Nichols) and disappeared into a psychosis-laced fog of drugs and alcohol. My self-medication uninhibited me to the point that I was overtly displaying BPD [1] symptoms e.g. cutting, impulsiveness, dysphoric episodes, the desire for and testing of people's love/approval, etc., some of which have stuck around but are closely moderated by me because I know when they present themselves they hurt my friends and family terribly. I don't have total control - there is nothing I can do about the dysphoric episodes and furthermore, I knew perfectly well that the seroquel "suicide attempt" was non-lethal (I googled it) and I did it so I could go a while longer without working. I did not mention these symptoms to my circa-then case worker Paul. I was generally sober (sometimes overcaffeinated) when I saw him and was very anxious and because of this, I evaded the issues that I really needed to discuss with him. We talked instead about books, movies, philosophy, etc., which he liked, and hence I kept it up - it was a break, for him, from listening to crazy people's crazy problems. I wanted him to like me and I knew that he liked just having a normal conversation.
I moved to Brisbane and became sober due to poverty. I studied up on mental illness and all but memorized the DSM-IV-TR. I became very conscious about not overtly displaying any particular cluster of symptoms, particularly Asperger's (not enough pieces had fallen into place for me to think about BPD yet), particularly around Mental Health staff, and I am still that way, which I imagine makes it impossible for any mental health professional to get a true hold on what I'm still going through and how to treat it. I suspect it derives from the overwhelming desire to be liked (or "loved" in BPD terminology) and I'm afraid that if I become a mere diagnosis then I will be dehumanised by my case workers, that once I am diagnosed I will be seen by them as a disorder and not a person, that if they think I need to 'fixed' then then I no longer have their love/approval, etc.
My sobreity in Brisbane encouraged me, in an odd way, to talk about the difficult things that had happened to me and what I was going through. The intense drug/alcohol induced states were absent from my life and therefore the conversations I had with people became very intense to supplement that. Now I believe that humour is just as intense emotionally but in a positive way and is more successful w/r/t being liked so I do that instead of being aggressive/intense/confrontational. I explained thoroughly to my then case worker Shannon all the things I had gone through, the drugs/alcohol, the BPD symptoms (not, at this stage, connected in my mind to BPD), etc., but I never really exposed my manipulativeness for fear of me not being able to manipulate her if she figured out I was manipulative. She asked me once if I had ever suspected that I was BPD. I told her at the time that the odds were low considering 4 in 5 people diagnosed as Borderline are women.
I've told you that I fell in love with her. I told you that I moved back here. I've told you about the Seroquel "suicide attempt."
We're back at the beginning.
I really think the mushroom trip led to me developing BPD, and the post-proto-diagnosis drinking/drugging episode explains what I imagine is my case workers' unwillingness to tell me what, precisely, they think is wrong with me.
I worry about whether I ask them. "Do I have BPD?" You know. My fear is that if (at the moment) they don't think I have it, and I tell them that I think I have it, they will then consequentially have reason to believe I have it, and I then run the risk of being dropped as a client due to BPD being essentially untreatable.
I'm not asking for advice. I'm going to figure it out for myself. But I know I'm going to be searching for an answer anyway, and I would much rather do it in a way that's entertaining for you.
- 1. Borderline Personality Disorder
24/09/11
The inside of my desk drawer smells like dust and mold.
Thank God I wasn't born ugly!
I had a dream that this girl I work with had a penis.
Writing is better than making music in the sense that I can smoke while I write.
I'm wet, not like a woman, but from spilled water.
Too much coffee. My face is alive with the feeling of fire.
Thank God I wasn't born ugly!
I had a dream that this girl I work with had a penis.
Writing is better than making music in the sense that I can smoke while I write.
I'm wet, not like a woman, but from spilled water.
Too much coffee. My face is alive with the feeling of fire.
23/09/11
I haven't written a diary entry in some time. I lost faith in them. I find them difficult to write and unimpressive to read. Maybe fiction has more inherent worth than whatever this is. I find fiction dull though. I prefer this rigorous self-analysis to fantasy. This is more useful. I prefer conversation to writing. I like the feedback. I like the reactions. I don't like the uncertainty here. I don't like asking myself if something is interesting. I just want to look at someone and know.
Do you ever get so tired that it feels like the size of you is fluctuating? Like one moment you're the fattest man in the world and the next you're so skinny that you couldn't even have bones?
I put on a John Cougar Mellancamp song. I don't know why. He is one of the worst musicians. He must be so drunk on delusion to have not killed himself by now. He is worse than Nickelback.
Do you ever get so tired that it feels like the size of you is fluctuating? Like one moment you're the fattest man in the world and the next you're so skinny that you couldn't even have bones?
I put on a John Cougar Mellancamp song. I don't know why. He is one of the worst musicians. He must be so drunk on delusion to have not killed himself by now. He is worse than Nickelback.
ROCK STAR
I can't get used to the penthouse view. It's so far down.
I've been here three nights and already the room smells like cigarettes.
I stumble into the bathroom. My eyes are bloodshot and what once was stubble has become wild. I shave and shower. I look even worse now that I'm not filthy.
We finish the song and the producer tells me that Letters to Magazines is too similar to a recent hit and we're going to have to cut it. I'm too hungover to object. I tell him it's fine and make a mental note to find a new song.
"I need a song." I say.
"You want one of mine?"
"Yeah."
"WHAT'S YOUR NAME?"
"MARY!"
"WHAT?"
"MARY!"
"MEREDITH! HOW OLD ARE YOU?"
"FOURTEEN!"
"WHAT?"
"FOURTEEEEN!"
"I met a girl last week. She's the one, man. Her name is Mary Julien. That's a hot name, I think. She is touring with us."
"Oh, the girl from the news. Her parents were crying."
"I heard about that. I'm trying not to think about it."
I've been here three nights and already the room smells like cigarettes.
- HEY YOU MILLIONARES
- SUNDAY MORNING
I stumble into the bathroom. My eyes are bloodshot and what once was stubble has become wild. I shave and shower. I look even worse now that I'm not filthy.
- WORK WILL SET YOU FREE
We finish the song and the producer tells me that Letters to Magazines is too similar to a recent hit and we're going to have to cut it. I'm too hungover to object. I tell him it's fine and make a mental note to find a new song.
- PINSTRIPE TALE
- THE COMIC
"I need a song." I say.
"You want one of mine?"
"Yeah."
- WAIT FIVE MINUTES AND THEN SHOOT YOURSELF IN THE FACE
- SHOW ME MARY
"WHAT'S YOUR NAME?"
"MARY!"
"WHAT?"
"MARY!"
"MEREDITH! HOW OLD ARE YOU?"
"FOURTEEN!"
"WHAT?"
"FOURTEEEEN!"
- OOH SHE'S GOT A BODY UNDER THAT SHIRT
"I met a girl last week. She's the one, man. Her name is Mary Julien. That's a hot name, I think. She is touring with us."
"Oh, the girl from the news. Her parents were crying."
"I heard about that. I'm trying not to think about it."
- ALL THAT'S MISSING IS A LISP
- GOD LOVES HIS CHILDREN, YEAH
- THERE WAS NEVER MEANT TO BE ONLY ONE
THE FILM
The idea for the film struck me in the back of a taxi. I thought of calling someone but thought better.
*
My roommate was sleeping. It was three in the afternoon. I was at my laptop. The idea was becoming a script.
Yawn. "Morning," my roommate said.
"It's not the morning."
*
Sony Classics bought the script. They gave it to Scott, a friend of mine.
Scott: "I like the story."
Me: "There is no story."
"That's what I like."
"They want me to make the picture. And I want to make it."
"That's great."
*
We had a meeting with the on-set exec, Rubin. Scott convinced him that I was the writer/director of an uncredited short film that had mysteriously appeared in Hollywood circles about a year prior to much praise and reverence. Rubin said that if I could bring the energy of that film to this one, then I ought to be there. I nodded and fought the urge to thank him.
*
INT DAY
KARA is sprawled on her bed, smoking a cigarette. She's on the phone to DAVE, who we see in splitscreen.
*
Lucy, who was Kara, was smoking.
Me (to Scott, about Lucy): "She needs to talk slower. She goes fast when she's acting. It's weird. I like her normal voice."
Scott: "If I tell her she won't listen."
"Tell Rubin."
"She won't listen to Rubin."
"Why does it have to be her?"
"I want her. She's pretty."
"She's not a good actress. Everything she says is affected. I hate it. I don't want her."
"I do."
I sighed.
*
INT NIGHT
Techno music blares. A sweaty, disheveled JENNIFER dances with a crowd in the club.
CUT TO:
EXT NIGHT
JENNIFER and a guy, JOE, sit on the hood of JENNIFER'S car. We can half-hear the techno.
*
Me: "Who's playing Jennifer? What's her name?"
Scott: "Debbie."
"I like her."
"She's not thin enough."
"I like her weight."
"She looks big on camera."
"It suits her."
"The audience won't believe that she's getting that much sex."
"I believe it. I'd fuck her."
"She's not as fuckable as Lucy."
"I'd rather fuck Debbie."
"That's because you know Lucy. The audience doesn't."
I sighed.
*
On set, Debbie smiled at me. We'd hardly said two words to each other. She was shy. It was weird. I smiled back. It might have come across as mocking. I don't know.
*
INT DAY
In the office, KARA plays solitaire. DAVE appears.
*
Lucy: "I don't like this line."
Scott: "It's fine. When you see the movie, it'll make sense. Trust me."
"I don't like it. I want to change it."
"Please. Trust me when I say it'll makes sense."
"Rubin will let me change it."
"Don't get Rubin involved. Rubin only wants to make money. He doesn't care about your career. I do. Trust me when I say this. Your performance will be worse if we change the line."
*
Debbie: "I like your script."
Me: "Yeah?"
"It's real, you know?"
"Hmm."
"..."
"..."
"Scott doesn't listen to you. That pisses me off. It's your script, after all."
"He's a good filmmaker. He'll make it work."
"You're a better filmmaker."
"I didn't do that short. That was a lie."
"Huh."
"..."
"You know, I wrote a script. Can I show it to you?"
"Alright."
We went to her trailer. She gave me the script. We fucked.
*
INT DAY
JENNIFER's apartment. JENNIFER climbs out of bed. JOE's asleep on the opposite side. JENNIFER writes a note:
CU, v/o:
Joe -
Gone to work.
Last night was fun.
Call me some time.
555-1298.
Lock the door when you go.
- Love,
Jennifer
*
Rubin left. For good. He had another film to do. He was replaced by a different exec who wouldn't let Lucy smoke. She wore the patches.
*
At dinner.
Scott: "You know, Lucy and I are fucking."
Me: "Oh."
*
INT DAY
JENNIFER's bedroom. KARA jerks off her top. Her breasts jiggle.
KARA puts the top back on. KARA pulls it off, slowly. KARA's breasts jiggle. JENNIFER reaches out and caresses KARA's nipple. KARA throws her top aside, then leans gently back onto the bed. JENNIFER climbs forward, back arched, like a cougar. JENNIFER sucks on KARA's nipple. KARA moans and writhes slightly. KARA and JENNIFER make eye contact. KARA and JENNIFER kiss awkwardly. JENNIFER rubs KARA's cunt through the panties. KARA and JENNIFER kiss pasionately. KARA moans. KARA and JENNIFER's movements are erratic and spontaneous. KARA pulls JENNIFER's panties down.
KARA and JENNIFER roll over. KARA eats JENNIFER out. KARA moans.
CUT TO:
The two lay nude on the bed. JENNIFER caresses KARA's midriff.
*
My roommate was sleeping. It was three in the afternoon. I was at my laptop. The idea was becoming a script.
Yawn. "Morning," my roommate said.
"It's not the morning."
*
Sony Classics bought the script. They gave it to Scott, a friend of mine.
Scott: "I like the story."
Me: "There is no story."
"That's what I like."
"They want me to make the picture. And I want to make it."
"That's great."
*
We had a meeting with the on-set exec, Rubin. Scott convinced him that I was the writer/director of an uncredited short film that had mysteriously appeared in Hollywood circles about a year prior to much praise and reverence. Rubin said that if I could bring the energy of that film to this one, then I ought to be there. I nodded and fought the urge to thank him.
*
INT DAY
KARA is sprawled on her bed, smoking a cigarette. She's on the phone to DAVE, who we see in splitscreen.
- KARA
- DAVE
- KARA
- DAVE
- KARA
- DAVE
- KARA
*
Lucy, who was Kara, was smoking.
Me (to Scott, about Lucy): "She needs to talk slower. She goes fast when she's acting. It's weird. I like her normal voice."
Scott: "If I tell her she won't listen."
"Tell Rubin."
"She won't listen to Rubin."
"Why does it have to be her?"
"I want her. She's pretty."
"She's not a good actress. Everything she says is affected. I hate it. I don't want her."
"I do."
I sighed.
*
INT NIGHT
Techno music blares. A sweaty, disheveled JENNIFER dances with a crowd in the club.
CUT TO:
EXT NIGHT
JENNIFER and a guy, JOE, sit on the hood of JENNIFER'S car. We can half-hear the techno.
- JENNIFER
- JOE
- JENNIFER
- JOE
- JENNIFER
- JOE
- JENNIFER
*
Me: "Who's playing Jennifer? What's her name?"
Scott: "Debbie."
"I like her."
"She's not thin enough."
"I like her weight."
"She looks big on camera."
"It suits her."
"The audience won't believe that she's getting that much sex."
"I believe it. I'd fuck her."
"She's not as fuckable as Lucy."
"I'd rather fuck Debbie."
"That's because you know Lucy. The audience doesn't."
I sighed.
*
On set, Debbie smiled at me. We'd hardly said two words to each other. She was shy. It was weird. I smiled back. It might have come across as mocking. I don't know.
*
INT DAY
In the office, KARA plays solitaire. DAVE appears.
- DAVE
- KARA
- DAVE
- KARA
- DAVE
- KARA
- DAVE
- KARA
- DAVE
*
Lucy: "I don't like this line."
Scott: "It's fine. When you see the movie, it'll make sense. Trust me."
"I don't like it. I want to change it."
"Please. Trust me when I say it'll makes sense."
"Rubin will let me change it."
"Don't get Rubin involved. Rubin only wants to make money. He doesn't care about your career. I do. Trust me when I say this. Your performance will be worse if we change the line."
*
Debbie: "I like your script."
Me: "Yeah?"
"It's real, you know?"
"Hmm."
"..."
"..."
"Scott doesn't listen to you. That pisses me off. It's your script, after all."
"He's a good filmmaker. He'll make it work."
"You're a better filmmaker."
"I didn't do that short. That was a lie."
"Huh."
"..."
"You know, I wrote a script. Can I show it to you?"
"Alright."
We went to her trailer. She gave me the script. We fucked.
*
INT DAY
JENNIFER's apartment. JENNIFER climbs out of bed. JOE's asleep on the opposite side. JENNIFER writes a note:
CU, v/o:
Joe -
Gone to work.
Last night was fun.
Call me some time.
555-1298.
Lock the door when you go.
- Love,
Jennifer
*
Rubin left. For good. He had another film to do. He was replaced by a different exec who wouldn't let Lucy smoke. She wore the patches.
*
At dinner.
Scott: "You know, Lucy and I are fucking."
Me: "Oh."
*
INT DAY
JENNIFER's bedroom. KARA jerks off her top. Her breasts jiggle.
- JENNIFER
KARA puts the top back on. KARA pulls it off, slowly. KARA's breasts jiggle. JENNIFER reaches out and caresses KARA's nipple. KARA throws her top aside, then leans gently back onto the bed. JENNIFER climbs forward, back arched, like a cougar. JENNIFER sucks on KARA's nipple. KARA moans and writhes slightly. KARA and JENNIFER make eye contact. KARA and JENNIFER kiss awkwardly. JENNIFER rubs KARA's cunt through the panties. KARA and JENNIFER kiss pasionately. KARA moans. KARA and JENNIFER's movements are erratic and spontaneous. KARA pulls JENNIFER's panties down.
KARA and JENNIFER roll over. KARA eats JENNIFER out. KARA moans.
CUT TO:
The two lay nude on the bed. JENNIFER caresses KARA's midriff.
- KARA
THE BOY WHO GOT ADDICTED TO DRUGS
"Hey, try some of this HEROIN, would ya?" said Thomas.
"Sure thing," said the boy. He injected himself and exclaimed, "I feel like I'm on the moon!"
"It'll do that to ya," said Thomas. "Now how about ya try some of this ACID?"
The boy "dropped" the acid. "I'm hallucinating old Beatles videos!" he said. "I AM living on the Yellow Submarine. I AM. I simply insist! I merely do!"
"Now," said Thomas, "how about ya try this CRACK COCAINE?"
He drank a whole bottle of the stuff. "I feel like rapping! Praise the Lord, he's our savior! I am on my best behavior! Do a ditty! Do a dance! Why not take a foolish chance? I will burp! I will fart! You are dumb! I am smart!"
"You are addicted to drugs!" said everyone
"Nooooooo!" said the boy.
"Sure thing," said the boy. He injected himself and exclaimed, "I feel like I'm on the moon!"
"It'll do that to ya," said Thomas. "Now how about ya try some of this ACID?"
The boy "dropped" the acid. "I'm hallucinating old Beatles videos!" he said. "I AM living on the Yellow Submarine. I AM. I simply insist! I merely do!"
"Now," said Thomas, "how about ya try this CRACK COCAINE?"
He drank a whole bottle of the stuff. "I feel like rapping! Praise the Lord, he's our savior! I am on my best behavior! Do a ditty! Do a dance! Why not take a foolish chance? I will burp! I will fart! You are dumb! I am smart!"
"You are addicted to drugs!" said everyone
"Nooooooo!" said the boy.
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