The Life Neurotic.
Shit. Shoot me now. Two weeks ago, in a snit, I turned down an interview with Cillian Murphy. I'd wanted to talk to Neil Jordan, see, but my editor wanted Cillian Murphy. No, I pouted, I wanna talk to the diiirreeectoorrr!!11!!
Then I saw Breakfast on Pluto.
Fuck, fuck, fuckity-fuck. Shoot me now.
And when you're done shooting me, disfigure my corpse. I've been hauling around some Vivienne Westwood originals, purchased at Seditionaries on King's Road back in 1977, including hand-knitted mohair sweaters, bondage trousers and original design straight-jacket shirts. Same stuff you find these days in art galleries and even museums (the Victoria and Albert, during its Vivienne Westwood retrospective). Worth a lot of money. A LOT. Not to mention a buttload of memories. So. Because I'm an eccentric, I've been keeping these items, along with other archaic objects, in plastic garbage bags, stuffed in the furnace room of my apartment. And last week my landlord cleaned out the furnace room... including all those silly garbage bags. Everything went to the dump. THE DUMP.
Disfigure my corpse, please.
Apropos of nothing, I wrote a letter to Bill O'Reilly in this week's column.
Dear Mr. O'Reilly:
My name is N--, and I would like to be on your Enemies List. I voted for Prop I. I do not want military recruiters stalking high-school students. I do not want high-school graduates shipped off to Iraq. It is marginally better than working at Wendy's, but it's still a grim fate. And by the way? I did not want this war.
I do, however, want you. I mean, I want you to put me on your list. How else can I convince you to pay attention to me? Please pay attention to me. I assure you that I am evil. I like small, furry animals and voted to ban handguns in San Francisco, although I confess that I rather enjoy guns at times. Put me on a shooting range, boy, and start running. What I don't enjoy are my fellow creatures; I much prefer them unarmed. I would rather carry a machete for protection, anyway. Does that sound too... I dunno... Third World? Better than a scythe, don't you think? Because that's just Iron Curtain like whoa.
But I digress. Are you still reading, Mr. O'Reilly? Bill? Let me assure you that my Enemy credentials are impeccable. I favor hybrid technology, recycle regularly and have been called a feminist. I eat French cheese. I regularly write a column you have never heard of, but which I promise celebrates all manner of unnaturalness.
I deserve to be on your new list. What's more, I think you owe me, particularly in light of your failure to include me on your earlier list of "terrorist helpers." Imagine my chagrin when I found myself passed over for the likes of the ACLU, Michael Moore, Al Jazeera, Cynthia McKinney, Jim McDermott, Dick Durbin, the BBC and the United Nations. Forgive me if I seem bold in suggesting that you cater to celebrity, Mr. O'Reilly. Are "terrorist helpers" who toil in liberal obscurity any less a threat to national security than filmmakers, politicians and the British? The CIA and FBI don't think so. Unlike you, they are egalitarian Americans to the core, compiling dossiers on the powerful and tiny alike. But you, sir. You! Only the big names. Always the stars.
Must you ignore me? Am I so plain? Damn, but you right-wing ideologues are divas. You imagine that, if you list enough high-profile enemies, you will make yourselves seem more important in the process. Maybe you're into team spirit; you figure giving your fans big targets for their invective will encourage solidarity. Or! It could be you just want attention. Well, it hasn't worked. I'm not paying attention to you. And I couldn't care less whether or not I make your precious list.
Why are you ignoring me?
Mr. O'Reilly, give a girl a break. Add me to your Enemies List. Don't make me beg.
Best,
N
P.S. I might be willing to beg a little. I've been told I look good when I beg.
P.P.S.S. You have a point about Coit Tower. Dude. So much with the ugly. Great frescoes and museum, though. Can we save those? For the children, you understand.
Finally, since I haven't said it for over 24 hours, how 'bout that Ralphemort?
Then I saw Breakfast on Pluto.
Fuck, fuck, fuckity-fuck. Shoot me now.
And when you're done shooting me, disfigure my corpse. I've been hauling around some Vivienne Westwood originals, purchased at Seditionaries on King's Road back in 1977, including hand-knitted mohair sweaters, bondage trousers and original design straight-jacket shirts. Same stuff you find these days in art galleries and even museums (the Victoria and Albert, during its Vivienne Westwood retrospective). Worth a lot of money. A LOT. Not to mention a buttload of memories. So. Because I'm an eccentric, I've been keeping these items, along with other archaic objects, in plastic garbage bags, stuffed in the furnace room of my apartment. And last week my landlord cleaned out the furnace room... including all those silly garbage bags. Everything went to the dump. THE DUMP.
Disfigure my corpse, please.
Apropos of nothing, I wrote a letter to Bill O'Reilly in this week's column.
Dear Mr. O'Reilly:
My name is N--, and I would like to be on your Enemies List. I voted for Prop I. I do not want military recruiters stalking high-school students. I do not want high-school graduates shipped off to Iraq. It is marginally better than working at Wendy's, but it's still a grim fate. And by the way? I did not want this war.
I do, however, want you. I mean, I want you to put me on your list. How else can I convince you to pay attention to me? Please pay attention to me. I assure you that I am evil. I like small, furry animals and voted to ban handguns in San Francisco, although I confess that I rather enjoy guns at times. Put me on a shooting range, boy, and start running. What I don't enjoy are my fellow creatures; I much prefer them unarmed. I would rather carry a machete for protection, anyway. Does that sound too... I dunno... Third World? Better than a scythe, don't you think? Because that's just Iron Curtain like whoa.
But I digress. Are you still reading, Mr. O'Reilly? Bill? Let me assure you that my Enemy credentials are impeccable. I favor hybrid technology, recycle regularly and have been called a feminist. I eat French cheese. I regularly write a column you have never heard of, but which I promise celebrates all manner of unnaturalness.
I deserve to be on your new list. What's more, I think you owe me, particularly in light of your failure to include me on your earlier list of "terrorist helpers." Imagine my chagrin when I found myself passed over for the likes of the ACLU, Michael Moore, Al Jazeera, Cynthia McKinney, Jim McDermott, Dick Durbin, the BBC and the United Nations. Forgive me if I seem bold in suggesting that you cater to celebrity, Mr. O'Reilly. Are "terrorist helpers" who toil in liberal obscurity any less a threat to national security than filmmakers, politicians and the British? The CIA and FBI don't think so. Unlike you, they are egalitarian Americans to the core, compiling dossiers on the powerful and tiny alike. But you, sir. You! Only the big names. Always the stars.
Must you ignore me? Am I so plain? Damn, but you right-wing ideologues are divas. You imagine that, if you list enough high-profile enemies, you will make yourselves seem more important in the process. Maybe you're into team spirit; you figure giving your fans big targets for their invective will encourage solidarity. Or! It could be you just want attention. Well, it hasn't worked. I'm not paying attention to you. And I couldn't care less whether or not I make your precious list.
Why are you ignoring me?
Mr. O'Reilly, give a girl a break. Add me to your Enemies List. Don't make me beg.
Best,
N
P.S. I might be willing to beg a little. I've been told I look good when I beg.
P.P.S.S. You have a point about Coit Tower. Dude. So much with the ugly. Great frescoes and museum, though. Can we save those? For the children, you understand.
Finally, since I haven't said it for over 24 hours, how 'bout that Ralphemort?