It really is all in the wrist.
Category Archives: Uncategorized
Just because I am a Bad Person, doesn’t make me a Bad Person
The list of persons who aren’t speaking to me just grows and grows. For much of this I am grateful, because there are very few people whose struggles interest me. If you are one of those people who gets their head stuck in the door on your way out of the house, you are one of them! No, no this is a bad habit – that of keeping company with those whose folly amuses you. I like to keep the circle of friends irony-free. But I have at long last uncovered another painful truth- I am fundamentally undateable! How I slogged toward this conclusion is not important, I am just looking forward to dedicating my remaining years to bitterness and ire in my studio.
-xo
Vomitola Personals
SWF: seeking friends. Will buy you inappropriate gifts. Will follow you from the bar to your house, order from one party to another. Will get to know your acquaintances just to get to know YOU better. Will show up at your front door uninvited. Will AIM you every ten mins. to tell you about useful things I bought on Ebay, generic such as a sofa beader or synthetic crotch toupees (they look so REAL! only 50 bucks for a whole set!). I will track your movements, knowing when you are on and offline and I will chart the places you go to see if you have been doing things without inviting me. I will call you up 20 times in one day without leaving a message, forgetting about caller ID, finally I will leave you an angry, drunken message at 3am to ask you where you have been. I will hound you for your advice on menial details of my day and then ignore whatever it is you say. I will be overly familiar from the first moment we exchange names, and express my hurt and angry feelings when you fail to reciprocate my awkward intimacy. Then I will spread nasty rumors about you but still hold out hope to be your dearest friend. I will take back everything if only you will love me! Please direct all response to SWF@vomitola.com.
What I Did On My Summer Vacation
 by Lambchop.
Me and the old school chums collected in NH, one year older and further embittered. What do we still have in common? Childlessness, irresponsibility, we love Blur? We also love to float on the river for hours at a stretch, smoking and towing a cocktail raft. We had a Japanese cuisine night, white trash grillin’, rum drinks served in gigantic pineapples, midnight moonlit swims, fireworks, the Gay Parrot Disco, and mud wrestlin’! We inflated a giant castle in crayola colors and set sail with it on the river.
Life has its downs, even greater downs, and downers, but I hope I will always have NH on the fourth of July. Do you think I could sell these pictures as Scat Porn? Maybe if I crop out the kiddie pool.
-xo
les salaires de la douleur sont philosophie
Autoportrait avec la gueule de bois
(Self-portrait with hangover)
l’odeur de la crainte
Je colle mon museau dans l’existence — il sent de rien.
(I stick my snout into existence — It smells of nothing.)
Fancy drinks and lucky toasts
Everyone, please enjoy your holiday weekend. Do as Leah’s mom* suggests and wear pots on your head if you are in a shootin’ kind of neighborhood. No handling fireworks unless you are a carny, and stay away from all the ucky carbs in the potato salad. I always pick them out.
Earlier this morning I asked “Dear Ethicist: Should I put on pants? Also, is it wrong to eat a second microwave entree if the other one did not fill me up? It was only 230 calories.”
I am still waiting to hear back. Every second he dilly dallies is another that I stay like this. By that I mean taller and happier than you. And thinner, since I eschewed the second entree.
I’m in a punchy mood because Mr. H and I somehow went through a lucky tollbooth a few weeks ago, and things are going right, right, right. We should go back and find that grizzled hillbilly with the friendly eyes and buy him a corn dog. I imagine he took us into his good favor simply because we were the first people that day not to heat up the change with the cigarette lighter before handing it over. Don’t worry, hateraters, because I am sure all this rightness will be followed by a period of wrong, wrong, worst.
For instance, the T in my keyboard starting sticking shortly after receiving good news. When Wheel of Fortune gives you R-S-T-L-N-E, that’s pretty goddamn generous because there are a lot of Ts in words.
I leave you with this summation of everything in my heart:
*Get a blog!
-xxoo
Every day is like Sunday
Well, at least according to the New York Times. For some reason, my Sunday paper does not arrive on Sundays. Instead it arrives on Monday, and then another copy will show on Tuesday. I have called several times, and the helpful customer service representative said “I will put a note on your account that it is important that you receive the Sunday paper on Sunday.” At this rate, I will be able to wallpaper the rumpus room with newspaper that I still haven’t had time to read. As a child I was fascinated with the olde tyme newspaper printed on the tables at Wendy’s, so I imagine this would hold similar appeal.
Now we have a glut: entirely too many anecdotes and not enough time to natter about everything. There’s the hair raising tale of our weekend in Maine, Mr. H’s trip to “Bangladore,” getting Hepatitis A, that fucking chipmunk who keeps eating my plants, including the cilantro that totally did it with the dill (Dilettantro), and minor league baseball from last week. Did you know the mascot for the Lowell Spinners is the Canaligator? Even Kitty Winn has a backlog, and these problems are real humdingers. I just can’t focus. I’m going a million miles a second here.
Also, why not contribute to John Kerry today? Midnight tonight is the deadline for the last FEC filing before the convention. I shoveled some more into the pile, but I confess I used my credit card because we are still poor. And that reminds me of another story about what happens to poor chicks, but Mr. H made me promise that he could guest blog that one. Soon, pretties.
-xxoo
What’s your tragic flaw?
I am in the midst of an irresponsible creative writing project with my sister, discount the moose. I would love to explain, as I am now more sure than ever that I am just marking time until someone phones with a Genius Grant, but some of you milksops might steal the idea.
The term “creative writing” alone is enough to make my throat grow tight, as I associate it with all kinds of ridiculousness. I took a college creative writing class, and one of the group exercises involved plausible lying. We had to go around the room and offer two false biographical sketches and one true one. Most people lurched into the lies, giggling and blushing, “Um…one summer? I worked as a life guard?” No one could pick mine out, but I suppose I had the advantage of a completely bizarre childhood. Everyone thought the story about doing a screen test for a commercial for a chocolate company was true. They were taken in by my description of having to spit out the chocolate without eating it between takes. My true story was about getting attacked by a nest of yellow jackets, but everyone was skeptical until I showed them the scars on my shoulder. Those were actually from chicken pox, but what are you going to do?
I suffered my only other creative writing experience at the age of six. My parents were not big on activities for children save sitting quietly or hobbies and interests beyond “living off the land,” but one shocking day I was enrolled in a program sponsored by the county library. It was billed as a potpourri of creativity. For an hour we plucked the strings of child-sized violins, and then we did our creative writing. Here is the story generated by allowing a group of kindegarteners to shout things out at random: “One day, a bird, no, a peacock! Went down the hill. (What did he look like?) And he had oily, watermelon feathers. (Did he have any friends?) And he had a friend. And they did things. At the store. The end.”
Clearly my tragic flaw is that I am just like the little tapir who never got over his past. Oily, watermelon feathers will haunt me until the day I die. Also, during the “fine arts” portion of the potpourri, we had to draw a charcoal portrait of Michael Jackson. The teacher kept pointing out that his head had a perfect egg shape.
-xxoo
Earth below us, drifting falling
I gotta stop doing hallucinogens first thing in the morning. I had this horrible vision that I got up and showered and dressed, like so many normal people do. My hair smells like papaya extract. Hmm, and so does my arm. Pretty great. And then I had coffee and set about the tasks of the day. I even replied to emails from clients, entered information into my address book, and started coding something. I only became enraged for one fleeting moment. I will even give myself a pass on that, because the target of my objection is like one of the little creatures of nature: they don’t know that they’re ugly!
Then I went outside and found a chipmunk sitting in the flower pot that contains my chives. Just keeping them warm, I suppose. I can’t wait until they hatch, releasing millions of tiny Monarch butterflies and pieces of confetti.
It’s high time Kitty Winn answered some letters, so please reply here with your awful problem, and I will put her right on it.