Warning: This journal is rated R, for restricted audiences. It contains naughty language and adult situations. If you are under 18, do not read without the consent of an adult. Saturday, July 18, 1998 Hopefully,
What a day. I woke up this morning with Garret's cat sitting on my face, half covered in sweat, half covered in cat hair. I almost threw the little bastard across the room, but I know cats all too well- by next nightfall there would be turds in my shoes or worse- maybe some piss on the pillows, or a dead mouse in my sink. I let him go with good dutch-rub. Beside, Garret would probably beat me to death if he had any reason to suspect me for abusing his precious hairball. A broken leg on that Retarded Garfield and I'd be smart to stuff myself into the overhead compartment on the first bus heading for Vancouver. Of course, the only reason such a rude awakening was bad at all- since my usual disinterested state allows for such hyper-extended sleep patterns that I should thank the sundry beast, noise, or discomfort that insists I open my eyes and actually get out of bed- was an immediately-following phone call from P* in production. She sounded very excited about some feature gig she was working on, and she seemed confident I could secure a full 6 weeks of employment and maybe even a screen credit with this jobby-job. Yay. I couldn't say no. As you are well aware, your faithful narrator's well is dangerously dry, and it's only a matter of time before this idiotic city molests me like one of those girls getting off the bus at the beginning of a Poison video. You won't see me honking johnson on SMBLVD, not without a mean fight, that is. I hung up the phone and contemplated the mixed-blessing of salaried employment; so long, salad days. I wiped cat-ass from my face and stood up and prepared to face my destiny, only 18 hours away. I spent the day organizing (putting things that weren't in duffel or trash bags into duffel or trash bags, putting everything else into backpacks or the trash. Jesus. Now I know why homeless people cling to shopping carts and aluminum can sculpture like the breath of life- when you are shit out of luck, you hold on to whatever you can to remind yourself of self worth. Take away your headless doll collection or newspaper hats and you feel your temporal existence slipping away. You may not be what you own, but ask yourself what you are the next time you don't own shit- not by any spiritual, Ghandi-like consciousness, anyway.) What else...I watched Garret's studio copy of some teenage titty movie today, and let's just say the reoccurring subtitle "Property of *** Pictures, Do not distribute" contributed more to the idiotic story than any of the ten water-headed protagonist's lame dialog or brilliantly crafted hairstyles. I weep for the next generation of film goers. I also did some laundry. Garret's not even home yet and I'm going to bed. I had nothing to drink this day. I wrote two pages of the second act of Kill..., but promptly threw them out. Searching for inspirato. Note to self: need new shorts, maybe pants. Or just cut old pants into new shorts. Million dollar idea: plastic slip ons for socks- your feet won't get wet when you step into the bathroom after a shower.
