Dressing up as a woman for the second night in a row! Should be fun. Gonna leave it at that. And cops aren't all that bad, but the saying goes, "it's fun till the cops show up." On a related note, I blame the prudes for phoning and complaining like hungry dogs more than police officers, who do a good enough job keeping junkies in line.
If anybody runs into Saanitch badge number 299: he's part of a stupid fuckig Saantich police team who hauls people off of couches and knees that person in the fucking body.
Saanitch Cops Suck My Dick! They're a bunch of fucking ding-dongs who run around bustin' up people's good times! There's no need for an indightment, it is an ingightment!
So, as a large, opulent party was underway, cops came along and busted us up. I wouln't have any of it. I sat at the drum kit in the attic and played on. Then, the owner of said kit came up to me and said that he needed my sticks. I finished up my fantastic fill and handed the sticks over. Behind him was a fucking fasciste Saanitch cop telling everyone to stop having a good time.
These are the moments where Canada blows chunks in the eye of socialism. In place of good times, we have "good people": assholes who ruin everything for everybody just because they think this is still Victoian Poetry. Well. Fuck YOU!
I Hate Cops. Know this now, because I am a person going into life expecting this hate relationship.
As I was forced from the party, I kept screaming into cops' faces, "El Policia, El Fascite," again and again,
FUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPSFUCK COPS
I'm in the Dead Zone. Not the Cronnenberg movie with Christopher Walken. Middle-weight nothingness is the zone I'm in. That period between footsteps, that second when both feet leave the ground and the brain goes on without notice.
My Halloween costume: a curly pink wig, a skirt, and a fuzzy top. I don't know what the party will be like. I think I won't know anybody there, which could be interesting. Nontheless, I'll be putting back the eight beers I've been saving. I kinda wanna wake up hungover tomorrow. There's a lot of work that needs to get done.
The Dead Zone. There's nothing right now. I'm in a bubble, flying towards a pair of shoes, waiting to tell you all about it.
Nothing, nothing, nothing at all.
It went without too much hussle and fussle. Then I walked through the flood plain, came back home, cleaned cleaned cleaned, returned DVDs, bought potatoes, bread, spring rolls and some sort of artichoke thing, played guitar, a friend is reading right now, but I didn't feel like going, though I'm hoping someone calls re: beer.
I conceived and wrote a poem in under 30 minutes on Wednesday morning, handed it in time for 9:30 class. It's not perfect, but I like it. I hate the stagnant poetry that gets into my brain. . . "I'll right my right poem when I'm in my right mind." - Ginsberg. So yeah, until then, they're just poems, if there's gonna be lots of them no use getting fussy over a few.
I'm worth $1,881,421.08! How much are you worth?
It's a poo eat poo world out there, kids. Fire crackers go off at dawn.
I woke up at 11:30 am today. That makes me feel like a fresh tart.
School is boring me lately. I'm enjoying the company of the people, but that's about it. The classes are pretty dumb, like a job you don't want to go to. University used to be so much drunken fun. Now it's a perpetual, ungracious pet. I do believe I will be graduating this year! I'll drop my Professional Writing and major in Creative Non-Fiction (which is also called creative non-writing). This is weird to me, as I don't really plan a career in magazine writing. Oh god. Oh god. Something I'll never do, which is a critique in a way of the PW minor. Most people want to learn how to write non-fiction, which is what we do, but we basically only learn how to write features, which, from talking to many of my peers, is something hardly anyone wants to do. So hah. That's what I get for dropping 30k into a fine arts degree. And they wonder why I'm bitter. I'm so fucking bitter I can almost smoke an entire cigarette. Which is gross.
I thought about writing a poem where these foamy mushrooms I saw in the woods were "strangled fists" and then I took a good hard look at a strangled fist.
I've decided that flood plains are fun and pretty darn cool. Go there and watch the creek swallow and fade.
In other news, I took Holy Communion at a Catholic Church. I didn't know what I was getting into. I got in line as a means of studying Catholic culture and the next thing this Bishop sort of dude puts a wafer in my hand. I knew to let it disolve. It wasn't until after I researched into Holy Communion I realized how offensive I was being. Whatever, they look silly, wearing pink skull caps and talking in chants. Not to offend the Catholics. Catholicisms think better on the behalfs of most people, as long as she or he wills him or herself to shake the hand of their fellow neighbour or city deputee, despite good looks by and so forth of any party!