Babalon's Crooked Antenna

Shapin' Up, Shippin' Out

noreply@blogger.com (Amie Scott) — Thu, 08 May 2008 18:24:00 +0000

I made a new blog. It's over here, and it's better.

The Madness of Untitled Amie

noreply@blogger.com (Amie Scott) — Thu, 01 May 2008 14:07:00 +0000

You know, the older I get, the more I realize that I'm totally insane.

This realization isn't a result of getting wiser with age, although I suppose that's inevitable for most people. No, the older I get, the more I do crazy things.

While some people have skeletons in the closet, I have an ever growing stockpile of bats in my belfry. They just keep multiplying, like rabbits.

Or rabid bats?

Ever hear about that study that was done by some nameless research group who concluded that the mind of a true artist works more like that of a schizophrenic than the mind of the regular person? I guess it has something to do with, among other things, being able to see regular everyday objects through brand new eyes over and over again.

From my own experience, it also appears to involve being incapable of choosing logic over emotion.

Like a child.

Acting first, and thinking later, as it were.

But my hindsight is fairly accurate. I always know what I should have done, after the damage has been inflicted.

I'm working on a strategy in those regards. Basically, whatever I think I should say or do, I should just do the opposite, and then I will be more like the regular person, and thus, less impulsive. Less destructive, less offensive, less embarrassed, less like me.

But that's so unnatural.

Sometimes that "useful" filter is more like horse blinders, or tunnel vision.

And it's not like everything I do ends in disaster. Sometimes I'm capable of completing an impulsive act with utter success. Sometimes my lunacy actually helps others, and myself too.

Lately, one of my biggest problems has to do with the subjective need to level with people. To clear the air where it doesn't necessarily need to be cleared.

This has happened at least three times over the past month, and with disastrous results for the most part.

I learned that not everyone is as altruistic as they sometimes should be, according to me, once again subjective.

I also learned that I can be referred to as both "disgusting" and "noble", all for the same action, depending on the perspective of the observer.

A Load Off

noreply@blogger.com (Amie Scott) — Thu, 01 May 2008 02:21:00 +0000

I cursed myself with that MANifesto.

Ever since I wrote it, I have completely chickened out. I can't even look a man in the eye, much less chat one up.

And ask some dude out on a date? You must be kidding.

Paralyzed.

My self confidence is at an all time low, and the timing couldn't be better.

I haven't even the faintest whiff of a crush on anyone. Well, barely. Nothing worth speaking of, at any rate. I deleted that post, so let's pretend for the sake of consistency that there's not even the faintest whiff of a crush.

Ahem.

I am a rock unto myself. A slimy rock, lying in my own filth. Acting out a very passive form of self destruction.

Avoiding my art, avoiding a social life, avoiding all logic at the expense of my own self denigrating inner dialogue, which I'll bet you two to one is far worse than any exterior bad words said in my honour.

Ah, me.

Fortunately, my MANifesto has not gone unnoticed. It is being used by others to improve their own love lives, and successfully so, I might add.

At least my words are making a positive impact, even if my actions are not.

Do Your Abilities Meet My Needs?

noreply@blogger.com (Amie Scott) — Fri, 25 Apr 2008 22:47:00 +0000

Damn, Lenin'stache.

You might be so full of Bolshevik that it's oozing out your ears, but I don't care. You are one foxy commie pinko bastard.

Did you know that red is my favourite colour?

I would Frida your Trotsky any day.

Lesson Not Learned, Still Owing

noreply@blogger.com (Amie Scott) — Mon, 21 Apr 2008 02:59:00 +0000

I am fully exhausted.

Mentally, emotionally, physically exhausted.

Squeezed through a wringer, dragged across town square, drawn and quartered.

Chastised, assaulted, belittled by the masses. Likely, some of the very same people who read last week of my oh so talented hands and the fabulous frocks they created.

Fucking people.

A despicable human trait, where we so enjoy creating these pristine pedestals upon which to perch, and point our accusatory finger at those we deem inferior.

I worked so hard this weekend.

Guts spilled, no glory, tiny amount of lucre with which to feather my nest.

O Humans

You are the speck of dirt in my oyster.

Irritating, to say the least.

And if I don't make a pearl, it is only due to my unskilled meat, and nothing more.

Last night, all I wanted was to be held tightly.

Tonight, after a second day of torture, all I want is an unconscious night without dreams of blame addled twits.

Tomorrow, maybe I'll want a pap smear and a tetanus shot. Hopefully, because that's what I'm getting.

Epilogue

noreply@blogger.com (Amie Scott) — Thu, 17 Apr 2008 17:52:00 +0000

Yesterday, when I told a co-worker that it was my birthday, he responded with "Aw, you're going to get smashed! There's going to be videos on youtube of your night tonight!"

I figured that would be a good thing, it would help me remember my night.

Luckily, I behaved myself amazingly well, considering how drunk I was.

Really, I know what I'm capable of when I'm in my cups. I have, in the past, ended friendships, fucked in public, puked in taxis, gotten friends into fistfights with strangers, saved lives, pissed in my garbage can, smoked pot with homeless people, messed around with chicks, messed around with married men, and insulted innocent bystanders, to name a few things.

And that was just what I can remember from last week.

So, putting last night into perspective, I was almost an angel.

Almost.

I did forget my new drinking mantra, "Don't hit on the bartender", but I also came up with an even better mantra for next time, "Don't hit on the bartender and his foxy friend and offer them a hit from my flask, even if they are off duty and off property". Doesn't exactly roll off the tongue, but whatever, poetry is for suckers.

I got some nice presents.

I got a little man-toy-voodoo thingy, which I'm planning on unleashing on my various crushes.

So take heed, Dear Various Crushes, if your penis starts a-twitching, and you can't stop thinking about me, you should probably just surrender before it gets messy. Don't worry, I don't bite. Unless you want me to.

And if you aren't a member of the Various Crush Club, but your penis is still a-twitching and you think about me too much, you probably have syphilis. Gross.

If Not Pent Up, Might Not Blow

noreply@blogger.com (Amie Scott) — Wed, 16 Apr 2008 01:34:00 +0000

So yeah, tomorrow is my birthday.

And for the past four years or so, I've suffered some sort of mental breakdown as a result.

Crying, panic attacks, irrational fears over my teeth falling out, it's never a pretty sight. Last year was the worst. Heading into a new decade with a compound hangover, and some horribly unforgettable behaviour on my part, I was not terribly pleased with my birthday extravaganza.

One year, I had a huge bawling fit over having to waitress the day after I saw my grandparents. Mind you, I really love my grandparents, who I rarely get to see, and really hated the customers at the Groundhog Pub, so I feel I had good reason to be on an emotional roller coaster at the time.

When I was in grade one, birthdays would be celebrated by the entire class standing around the birthday boy/girl, and singing them a Bonne Fete (French Immersion). I think there was also some sort of cake eating involved, and maybe some festive hats, too. I was totally looking forward to this special treatment for my own birthday, so you can imagine my disappointment when my stupid teacher forgot my birthday.

And when I told my mom about it, and she called my teacher to ask WTF, the teacher told her that we did celebrate my birthday, and I must have just forgotten.

What a freaky bitch.

Anyway, tomorrow, I'm planning on working during the day and getting drunk with a few select friends in the evening. If drunkenly hitting on the foxy bartender is the worst thing I do, and I hope I don't even do that, I'll count myself blessed.

Wish me luck!

My 31st Birthday is on Wednesday

noreply@blogger.com (Amie Scott) — Tue, 15 Apr 2008 03:03:00 +0000

This week is starting off disgustingly.

The skin on my left hand is flaked and peeling.

My hair is graying and unwashed.

My complexion is sallow and unhealthy.

I am aging at an alarming rate.

I spent the entire day eating and then fretted over the possible weight gain and the chances that no man would ever want me; which I know isn't true, there's always some desperate chub-rubber kicking around, and it's not like I was getting any more action weighing five pounds less. Nevertheless, I'm going back on that soup diet to drop what I picked up along the way.

Now last week, that one was way more interesting.

I drank so much, and so frequently, that I stopped getting hangovers by Friday. I felt both better and worse about this. Better because I wasn't hungover, and worse because my entire state of normalcy had lowered itself a couple of notches into a new realm. From general comfort to slight crapitude.

And knowing that my body could so easily adapt to this onslaught of toxins did nothing to improve my perspective. I just figured I had found a new nook or cranny to grow a tumour.

Oh, and I lost my voice over the weekend. I sound stupid.

So I did nothing productive today. I went to Value Village and stocked up on all the garbage books I had been craving when I didn't have the time to waste on frivolities. Archies, Baby Sitter's Club, Sweet Valley High and the ever enthralling V.C. Andrews.

I have spent the entire day in greasy pulp heaven.

Tomorrow, I'll get back to work and pull a commercial Spring/Summer line out of my ass.

Tonight I'll dine on cigarettes and the traumatic adolescence of Catherine Dollanganger. I was never that horny when I was sixteen, I can't even imagine where she'll be at thirty. Oh wait, I already know where she'll be: living in sin with her brother after having fucked her step father, her guardian and her hetero ballet dancing husband who kills himself after breaking his back in a drunk driving accident.

Fucking love V.C. Andrews.

Telemarketers, Revisited

noreply@blogger.com (Amie Scott) — Thu, 10 Apr 2008 13:56:00 +0000

My phone just rang, which is annoying enough at any time of day. The ring is loud and abrasive and usually startles the hell out of anyone within hearing range, hearing range being the entire GTA.

When I answered with a "Hello?", an electronic voice told me that this was not the appropriate response.

Fine.

Next time I'll take the more traditional approach and answer my phone with a hearty "Fuck off!"

Brother, I Wanna Thank Your Mother for a Butt Like That

noreply@blogger.com (Amie Scott) — Mon, 07 Apr 2008 23:21:00 +0000

Guess how many times I listened to this song today?

I think it was six. I wasn't counting.

Anyway, I really like Salt n Pepa. I find them refreshing. They are a perfect complement to my New World MANifesto.

Bowzer Sucks

noreply@blogger.com (Amie Scott) — Sat, 05 Apr 2008 02:54:00 +0000

Know what I really miss?

Super Nintendo.

I had one a few years ago, which was wicked, but then it busted. Understandably, it was about 15 years old, ancient for the world of technology.

What I wouldn't do for some Super Mario Land/World/World3, or even Mariokart.

My roommate and ex boyfriend and I would take turns playing against each other in Mariokart. I would be Yoshi, Roommate would be Mushroom, and Ex would be Luigi. Or was it Mario?

As far as abilities went, Roommate and I were on par with each other, and Ex was way better. He was three years younger than I, two younger than Roommate, and therefore, spent more of his childhood playing Super Nintendo, thus giving him the mad skills to beat our asses on a regular basis.

Ex was both a sore winner and loser, so on the odd occasion that he lost, we totally had to rub it in.

We invented our own slang for the games.

When you bang into a wall and can't turn around, it's called "clamming".

And when you have a hard time gaining momentum after you clam, and are lurching forward at an awkward pace, it's called "clam chugder".

We had a special curse, which was "Doom of Death". As in "Get ready, Motherfucker, it's the Lightning Round and you're gonna get the Doom of Death." But we never used that particular sentence. Just speaking the phrase "Doom of Death" was threat enough.

Those were the only terms we invented.

Art Makes a Great Wingman

noreply@blogger.com (Amie Scott) — Thu, 03 Apr 2008 17:27:00 +0000

Countdown:

In another 36 hours, I may never have to make another crinoline again.

If there's one thing I learned from this whole experience, it's that I hate making crinoline, and that I spent way too much money on a clothing line that will never bring me any financial return.

It's not a commercial line, it's just art. And really, where's art gotten me in the past?

Nude, lewd and screwed, among other things.

I guess that's pretty good. It's gotten me more fun than grocery shopping, at any rate.

And now that this sewing debacle is over, I can once again indulge in the finer aspects of life.

Yep, nude, lewd and screwed. That's where I'm heading. Again.

I Actually Pay Cash for The Experience

noreply@blogger.com (Amie Scott) — Mon, 31 Mar 2008 21:38:00 +0000

Words of advice:

Don't ever go ten years without visiting a dentist. Not like I did.

Even though I only have two small cavities, my tartar buildup was spectacular.

I thought I'd chipped a tooth a few weeks back, but as it turned out, I just lost a big chunk of tartar.

So gross.

And the dental cleaning was all sorts of traumatizing. I had no idea there were such large gaps between my bottom teeth. They had been filled up with ten years of tartar.

And the bloodshed. Good heavens, it was like a scene from a horror movie.

But I got a new pink toothbrush for being such a good girl, so I guess things aren't all that bad.

Hot Iron Fist

noreply@blogger.com (Amie Scott) — Mon, 31 Mar 2008 02:32:00 +0000

Ow
Ow
Ow

Ow
Ow

Ow
Ow

My uterus hurts something fierce.

Like a Fox in a Hen House, Strike and Strike Hard

noreply@blogger.com (Amie Scott) — Sun, 30 Mar 2008 22:34:00 +0000

Sometimes all it takes is a new perspective to change everything.

Learned a valuable life lesson this weekend, one that I'm going to share with all the ladies in the city.

I had a conversation with a girlfriend about men and their apparent apathy in regards to the dating scene.

Why don't guys show any interest in fucking/dating anymore? I can't even remember the last time a viable dude hit on me. By viable, I mean nice looking guys around my age who are into the same things I'm into. Nothing outrageous, just regular guys.

She was going through the same scenario, and had had the same conversation with other girlfriends. The dudes are apathetic.

So I talked to two trusted male friends about this, and they gave me the exact same answer:

The dudes are scared.

Scared of offending us. Feeling that approaching a pretty lady to offer her a drink and some light conversation will be seen as sexist. So they do nothing and everyone loses.

Until now.

Because of this cross-gender breakthrough communication, we have found the answer.

It's our turn to take the wheel, girls.

These guys aren't going to change. They were brought up in the post women's liberation movement, and so were we.

We no longer wait by the phone, with baited breath, hoping Prince Charming will call. Even our mothers called that old fashioned. It's time we put our money where our respective mouths are. We get up off our lazy asses and pick out our own princes.

I personally prefer to choose which man deserves to share with me a shot of Irish Whiskey and some light conversation. If he turns me down, I don't take the rejection too seriously, I'll just cast my line back into the ocean and reel in another.

It gets easier with practice, trust me.

Anyway, they usually say yes.

Don't get me wrong, this is by no means a one way street. You are not expected to do all the menial work, ladies. These guys have to pull their own weight, too. Just don't wait around for them to start things up, they're too chicken.

Ladies Initiate, Fellas Reciprocate. New world order, pass it on.

Or Maybe a Realistic Robot

noreply@blogger.com (Amie Scott) — Fri, 28 Mar 2008 03:21:00 +0000

I am so hungry.

For food, mostly.

Even though I have been eating my weight in junk these past couple of weeks, I could still eat more.

My appetite knows no satiety.

I actually ate McDonald's last week. A Big Mac combo, and I threw out the Coke, after taking a single timid sip (remember, I quit drinking pop recently, but was curious about what my reaction would be. Luckily McDonald's pop is watered down, or I'd have even another delicious monkey on my back), but I inhaled the rest in less than ten minutes. I don't think I actually chewed.

I eat fast food once a year, on average. Maybe twice; I had a bite of my friend's Happy Meal back in December, which counts for something.

But why am I so hungry?

Not just hungry for food, although that has been the primary craving, but also for man.

The week before last, I went out four times, got drunk four times and made out with three different men. The one night I didn't score was because I was entertaining Roommate, the night was kind of a bust for everyone involved, our plans were marred from the beginning. On the other nights, I did that whole point and choose method that I so enjoy, and I really enjoyed the respective experiences.

Initially, I'd thought that it would make me feel better about myself, after this endless dry spell, to rest assured knowing that I could still be attractive in the eyes of hot strangers. I rubbed their crotches to make sure, and sure enough, they had hard cocks, even while piss drunk.

Unfortunately, the good feelings were short lived.

I did not develop any lasting confidence that anyone would want anything to do with me the next day. Not that I was honestly after any of the men in question, they were just handsome and drunken experiments, but generally speaking I just don't meet men of quality who find any interest in me, drunk or otherwise, beyond my most obvious and trivial assets.

No one gives a shit about personality anymore. It's either the good girls with merit whose husbands get bored and come on to me in the back of a taxi while we search fruitlessly for a boozecan, or sleazy girls.

Sleazy girls like me.

And I didn't want to be THAT GIRL. I mean, I recognize that I have the tendency toward sleaziness, I drink and smoke and swear and enjoy fucking and hate health clubs and eat all kinds of meat and strip down in public shamelessly for "art" and mess around with chicks when the feeling strikes me.

But there's always more than one dimension.

I also care about things. I have good friends, I like to read, I have a family who loves me and is planning on taking me out for a post birthday dinner knowing full well that I'll be hungover as hell, I have a good rapport with most cats, I like to learn new things, and I laugh a lot, I see beautiful things almost every day of my life that make me want to cry, and I've been both in love and in loved back more than once.

Those two paragraphs seem so unrelated, when they are referring to the same person.

Just saying, sleazy girls need love, too.

Fake Man, Real Man, Rich Man, Too

noreply@blogger.com (Amie Scott) — Mon, 17 Mar 2008 22:09:00 +0000

Things I learned this week:

1)Most people don't have imaginary boyfriends/girlfriends.

2)Some men can smell a woman's crotch when together in an enclosed space.

3)Jonathan Richman was really hot when he was young.

1)People have imaginary friends when they are children, so why not make one up as an adult? I've been making up imaginary boyfriends for myself since I was a lonely teenager, dealing with my first and hardest heartbreak . Their names, backgrounds, personalities and appearances have changed throughout the years, but the need has remained the same.

I need these fantasy men to get me through my winters, my break ups, my dry spells, and my never ending loneliness, which can be excruciating at times. Basically, wherever real life men fall short, these fake men pick up the slack.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not afraid of real men, not by a long shot. That is something else I learned this week, by the way.

I have no problem asserting myself and pursuing the men of my choice. Basically, once I have a few drinks under my belt(or not, I've done it sober too, and it's slightly more daunting, but still possible), I pick someone out and go for it.

Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn't, but once I developed a callous over the part of my heart that deals with rejection (it happened at some point in 2007), I was able to approach men with nary a shake.

It ain't love, after all. It ain't even a crush most of the time, just some random fox who I'd like to bag.

2)Gross. I had no idea men could smell crotches like that. In enclosed spaces, like an elevator. Apparently it's a turn on to straight men, so long as it's a regular musky scent, and not some putrid, yeast infected, maxi pad odour.

I had an acquaintance ask me once if I were premenstrual, and I'd initially thought it was because we'd been discussing my cranky mood. It was a week before my period was due, and I told him so. As it turned out, he could SMELL my PMS. Pheromones, man, what can't they do?

3)Jonathan Richman. Fuck yeah. Looks like Pretend Shane MacGowan has some competition.

Snip

noreply@blogger.com (Amie Scott) — Mon, 10 Mar 2008 07:20:00 +0000

To My Dearest Finnegan Wellington Charlesworth,

I have done us both wrong, and now it is time to dispose of you, with safety and with love.

There once was a time when you served a purpose, but in recent months, you have been nothing but an albatross about my neck. You worked well when I first needed you; yet I had no idea you were merely a single serving.

So I thank you for breaking the ties that once bound, and now I am letting you go.

Be free, Finnegan Wellington Charlesworth, to do as you please, to give comfort to other lady friends in need.

Although, I may still be in need of some comfort, I have outgrown you like an old shoe. I am willing to go it alone, and would prefer to do so without your now useless presence.

We never loved each other, but we gave help where help was needed.

I hope that next time, I can achieve my goals without the use of successful sorcery, and I hope that you will leave the next gal in better condition than when you first arrived, much like you did with me.

Fondly, and never yours,

Miss Amie Scott

Red

noreply@blogger.com (Amie Scott) — Sat, 08 Mar 2008 00:02:00 +0000

Last night, I went out, and had a strange experience with the colour red.

I was in a dark bar, the Drake Underground. Everything that was red stood out in stark contrast to the rest of my environment.

Clothing mostly, but I ended up carrying a large red feather home, too. Taken from the coat check. I don't know why they had a bundle of colourful feathers, and I don't care, either.

Also, while outside smoking, I gave change to a guy in a red jacket. The guy returned some time later and showed me the pizza slice he'd bought with the change. That was both weird and friendly.

At some point, I picked out the most attractive man in red, who also happened to be a redhead (extra points, I suppose) and shared with him a shot and a smoke.

Yeah, that was one hot ginger. Even with his fly unzipped, still foxy.

A Dream

noreply@blogger.com (Amie Scott) — Tue, 04 Mar 2008 12:48:00 +0000

I had a dream that I was in the back seat of a car driven by my mom.

Beside me in the car were an acquaintance, who was a twelve year old child in the dream, and her mother. The acquaintance had had an operation that went wrong, and her organs were all twisted and sewn into each other.

We were rushing to get her fixed up.

It was dusk, winter, and we were driving down a country road.

The acquaintance's mother was superstitious, she started to panic when she saw a white horse with a beige patch stumbling in the snowy field to our right (her side of the car). The horse was dying.

The acquaintance was crying, and I started to pray.

I recited the Lord's Prayer, and gained strength as I spoke it. I managed to kill the panic, and with that, possibly save the dying girl.

Stupid Water

noreply@blogger.com (Amie Scott) — Tue, 04 Mar 2008 04:15:00 +0000

I have completed dress #4.

Tomorrow, I shall complete #5, and, energy willing, start up on dresses #6 and #7.

I am somewhat out of sorts, you see. I chipped a tooth yesterday, and suspect my longtime cola habit to be the main culprit in the tooth decay that led to the chipping.

So I swore off the cola, which should be interesting. I've been loving that shit since I was two, and drinking it nearly every single day of my adult life.

It's only been two days, and I'm worried that I'll go into withdrawal sometime tomorrow. I can already feel a slight change in my body chemistry.

For example, my senses of taste and smell have improved. Everything I ate today (mostly soft foods, so as not to exacerbate my situation), tasted really good.

Hmm, I was wrong. My withdrawal has already started. Wow, I think I'd just about kill for a Pepsi right now. Cold, fizzy, sugary, heaven. Like the semen of angels.

Damn.

My stupid tooth might very well save me from diabetes. Or stomach cancer. Kidney failure. Pancreatic failure. Gout. Heart disease. Female hysteria.

For now, I'm going to keep smoking.

I actually feel healthier already. I had no idea pop was so destructive.

Maybe it Really is a Blood Gift

noreply@blogger.com (Amie Scott) — Tue, 26 Feb 2008 04:28:00 +0000

Luck.

I believe in luck as a pure force. Both good luck and bad, I believe that one can be subjected to either without any actual provocation.

I could wax poetic about the luck involved in being an heiress or an HIV infested baby, but I only really came here to discuss my own luck with sewing, as of late. So if you'll pardon my self absorption - and I don't really care if you don't, it's all part of being self absorbed - here I go:

I am currently working on a line of clothing to show for the upcoming Toronto Alternative Arts and Fashion Week in April. I have been working on my line since early January, and I just tonight completed my second outfit. I have eight more to complete in roughly one month.

It wasn't supposed to happen that way.

I started off wonderfully, you see. I made the first dress in less than a week, and it went off without a hitch. I had never made a dress like this before, so I was learning as I went along. And I was going along swimmingly.

Then I hit a snag.

My serger was acting funny, so I decided to get my second serger fixed up so as to avoid any major catastrophes. I got the second serger fixed, and as it turned out, it wasn't even broken, it was just switched to some weird setting.

Then it broke for real.

I fixed it, and it broke again.

Fixed it again, and got the wrong part from the dealership. So it's still kinda busted. And the first one is still possessed by some sort of needle breaking demon.

While all of this was happening, I got lazy. Then I got sick.

Now I'm better, but I'm currently working with two half busted machines, and I almost broke my sewing machine tonight finishing the second dress.

And I really think that I would have broken the sewing machine if I had not accidentally stabbed myself in the hand with my fabric scissors. I wasn't actually using the scissors at the time, mind you, they just flew across the floor, somewhat forcefully, and gouged a crater out of my hand.

I managed to appease, or at least entertain, the gods of sewing. I didn't even know they existed.

I am familiar with the restaurant gods, after having spent the past eight years waitressing for the bulk of my income.

Restaurant gods work like this:

You've been slow all day, like ghost town slow, and as soon as you get some food to eat, customers arrive. And they keep arriving, one by one, in a slow endless trickle, not unlike beer piss, thus preventing you from eating more than one bite every five minutes. It never actually gets busy, just busy enough to completely prevent you from eating.

You need a cigarette like nobody's business, everyone is taken care of, all is well, as soon as you step outside and light up, some asshole shows up looking for a burrito. And that was your last cigarette. And the customer doesn't tip because they're European or something, or they ask a lot of stupid questions that could easily be answered by reading the fucking menu. Or they aren't even a customer, they just walked in and walked back out (people do that), but it's too late to salvage your cigarette because you already ground it into a flaky mess on the concrete.

You are feeling sick/tired/hungover, and the night is slow. It's 8pm, and you can go home early at 8:30 with your coworker finishing up the boring night. At 8:25, a table of ten walks in with no reservation and you are now stuck working all night, hopes that up until five minutes ago didn't exist, have been butchered before your very eyes.

Just a hint to everyone, don't randomly show up to a restaurant in a group of ten, especially to a restaurant that only holds thirty. You suck so much.

Anyway, that seems to be how the sewing gods operate, too.

They are all part of the same union; The Gods of Luck.

I wish I could figure out how to appease them properly.

Some More Kickass Coen Brothers Movies, Too

noreply@blogger.com (Amie Scott) — Mon, 18 Feb 2008 22:48:00 +0000

I'm about to tread on a sensitive subject, but it's one that has crossed my path twice in recent weeks, several more times in recent years, and I feel the need to get something off my chest.

It's about old friends; the ones from whom I've grown apart over the years. Running into them again can be stressful. Especially when it becomes apparent that life has not treated them as well as what would have been expected. The disparity between the potential and the end result.

Life is fragile. It's really easy to fuck up. Drugs, dead or toxic relationships, being dishonest with yourself, laziness and cowardice are so insidious and they all have such potentially dire effects.

I'm doing fine. I am enjoying my art and the learning process involved, making enough money to live a comfortable life, I have a tight circle of great friends and I'm self reliant. I've learned a lot from my life experiences and although I may be cynical, I'm not a bitter person by any stretch of the imagination.

I hope that as I continue to live, I'll continue to love and to learn.

Beyond the creature comforts, that's all I really want anyway.

A Hug?

noreply@blogger.com (Amie Scott) — Sat, 16 Feb 2008 03:00:00 +0000

I could do without these useless fits of melancholy.

Unproductivity can go fuck off, too.

I'm just so tired.

Uninspired.

Busted serger.

Busted heart that is patched up and scarred, neglected, abused. Funny how this miserable organ can keep on breaking over and over, yet it still puts up a fight for survival.

Ever the optimist, I suppose my heart enjoys the occasional change of scenery, from sleeve to locked drawer and back again.

I haven't even the energy to masturbate, which only makes me sadder. I want an orgasm to shake this mood.

A trip away from my muddled head and frankenheart.

A distraction.

I'm Claiming Victory

noreply@blogger.com (Amie Scott) — Thu, 14 Feb 2008 13:17:00 +0000

Let's talk trivial celebrations.

Christmas is when I reap the largest crop.

Halloween is when I get the most excited. And the drunkest.

Victoria Day is when I eat the most meat. Lots of meat. I'm talking Noah's Ark in my tum.

And Valentine's Day is when I take stock of my loins and my heart.

Emotionally speaking, V-Day up there with Christmas. I hate them both and wish they would disappear like the Tooth Fairy, in a cloud of youth-centric bullshit.

But they aren't disappearing, so maybe I should try a different tactic. I mean, I need to do something about it, because I can't just ignore them. They like to get all up in my grill and shit, so I have to acknowledge them, or rather, the emotions that accompany them.

So here I go with the Valentine's acknowledgment:

I remember when I was first breaking up out of my longest relationship, nearly two years ago, and I told myself that if I had to choose between spending my life together and restrained or independent and lonely, I would choose the latter combo.

I still choose the latter.

I prefer growth to stagnation, raw feeling to robotic motion, and independence to consistent cock. Pain, when properly experienced, can be a fantastic learning process.

So I will not allow one stupid day to wreck my mind. One stupid day that consists mostly of empty platitudes and caters to a huge minority.

There.

I finally discovered the personal note attached to this song.