Everyday Swan

must.fictionalize.blog.

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"You should write some fiction again. You're too much into your personal stuff right now"

And? I don't have a fucking contract. No assignment. I vomit or cry or laugh or cum here. Do I bore you? Well, tell someone who fucking cares.

Funny thing is, I don't write fiction at all. Nothing is made up. Created at best. From the reals, the truths, the days. Reflexions and thoughts brought to life through Words that sometimes make no sense, or too much.

I hate that idea that a blog must entertain. Must adress the reader. I must nothing. You must? Good for you. When I stumble upon your blog and I read your musts, I won't judge you. That's what you like to do, must. When you stumble upon mine, and read my musn'ts, please keep going if that's not for you. I swear I will not loose any sleep over it.

I want to tell you about a fantastic fuck, a miserable evening, a great walk. Blog, whatever that word means, to me it means I can come here and be. Whoever, whatever I want. In the form I choose or feel right for the moment.

Dear diary, tonight, I wrote about you. 

Isn’t this fun?

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I was thinking, there comes a time when it’s ok to say fuck it and just let it go. Just forget for a while. Forget, forget, forget. Drown in nothing but inconsequential stupidity.

I was sitting at our table when the party started. A disco lamp ball (NO, not a disco ball, a disco LAMP ball fuck), fat chicks dancing around their purses to the sound of a trio of idiots doing a horrendous disco revival. A Joe Pecci lookalike (the whole thing, down to the black turtle neck with a gold chain over it), a generic back up signer wearing a walmart lamé dress and a bald guitar player trying to play to the rythm of his taped music. Fuck. Gawd. And the fat chicks screaming and clapping and the drunk mullet wearing middle aged sales reps doing their John Travolta moves (including a very dangerous attempt at a split which resulted in 5 other drunk guys helping him up but mostly just leaning on him as to not to fall on their own faces).

I was sitting at our table and suddendly I said “What are we doing here? What the FUCK are we doing here?”. And he says “You know, it’s ok to have fun like this. Once in a while, it’s ok to enjoy yourself and let it go.”.

So I got myself another drink and decided to try. I even danced a little bit. Don’t tell anyone though.

Going a little further, what he told me struck me. Am I not able to have fun, stupid fun? Hell yeah. I have fun a lot. Just with the kind of stuff that I like. Laughing at people makes me laugh (fuck judgement, everyone likes it). Playing video games makes me happy (mostly ones involving murder, slaughter, or fast cars). Watching American Idol is a great source of tv entertainement for me (NOT the auditions, I hate that). Senseless stuff I like: Jackass, Ultimate Fighting, standup comedy (not polititical, they mostly suck. I go to Jon for that), browsing youtube, google videos or Ifilms or movie-list for hours. Singing karaoke with midi files (you have to try this), playing point ‘n click and escape the room games on Nordinho and Gamershood. Spending way too much time playing with my new blog.

So I can have fun. On my own terms. I just can’t stand disco lamp balls and Joe Pecci singing Dancing Queen.

Bear with me…

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The changes are almost done. Nothing’s permanent.

Nothing.

About that mood…

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About That mood post.

I feel I have to say something. So I will. Because I think it will make things easier for me, for whoever stops by here.

I’ve said this in private, and now I will say it here. Nothing that I write here relates to anyone that reads me. It is not about you, or you, or him, or her. Unless I notify you in private, you will not read about you here. Never. I do not fuck with other people’s feelings or trust.

I would love to say the things I write to the persons my words are intended to, and sometimes I do. This is only an extension of feelings and thoughts. Not a place to settle scores or give false hopes or whatever might be percieved.

My email address is right here in my profile. If you want to talk to me, please do so, I’ll be happy to hear from you. I’m not hiding. There is no screen. No games.

I just wanted to make this clear. I hope no one takes it the wrong way. I don’t want to hurt anyone, that’s not what I’m about. So if I have, I apologize. But I’m glad I said it.

Broadcast

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And let me stay
I can be small
I can be invisible
But let me stay

—–oOSOo—–

I’m so tense these days, I can’t stand still. I blog for a while, then move to the couch to read a few pages, then go tidy up the kitchen, then come back to the computer, then watch some tv. Spin cycle. Yet everything is a mess.

—–oOSOo—–

Fickle. Too many pulls. Not enough will. Even this post tears me apart. A mountain of words. Can’t seem to settle for one. I want to say, write, sing, chant, whisper, implore for fuck’s sake. I belong here. I belong here.

—–oOSOo—–

It’s not block. It’s confusion. About every single stupid decision I’ve made. I’m not second guessing myself all the time. But I feel like I forgot something at the crossroads. Nothing, no one can bring it back for me. Because every one has moved on. What’s left behind is my bad judgement.

—–oOSOo—–

I’m hungry. Again. Always. I have to be fed.

Mother’s day…La fête des mères

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Perfect gift: home alone for a few hours

Even more perfect gift: CSI’s second season DVD boxset

.

Le cadeau parfait: quelques heures de solitude à la maison

Le cadeau plusss parfait: le coffret DVD de la deuxième saison de CSI

EDIT: Le cadeau ultra plussss parfait… genre:

(j’ai du enlever le code, désolée) T’as le look Coco, c’était la toune.

I rock… sink to the bottom

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1400 people at the Montreal Traffic Club’s Lobster party tonight. That’s alot of toupees and cheap suits. That’s my world. That’s people I’ve worked for/with/against for ten years. That’s also alot of eyes on me. For the first time. In a long time. Eyes like hands. Eating. Drinking from my fountain. And I gave free refills. Cleavage, tight black pants, heels, leather coat. My hair like an aura. Eyes trying to see through mine. Smiles hard to contain. Both sides.

-They look at you like you’re a piece of meat!
-And?…

-My God, you look FAN-TAS-TIC!
-Why, thank you!

-Wow, the older you get, the better you look!
-Oh, that’s so kind, thank you!

-Hey! You lost weight! You look amazing!
-Thank you! Yes, 30 pounds!

-Swan, you are beautiful tonight, wow!
-Thanks Ex-Boss!

-Haven’t we met before? Don’t I know you? Oh, wow, I can’t believe it’s you!
-Awww, come on! (keep it coming)

Level 1 000 568 on the ego scale.

Home. I’m invisible. No hands. Crash. Back to square one.

Yes, clearer

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I show my face. Well, some of it. Enough for now. All I’m able to.

I’m playing with my template too, some changes already there, some more to come. But I love my header, so I have to work with it.

I just want this space to be more clear, more unblurred, more opened, more me.

It’s spring, old skins shed, windows opened wide.

I’m breathing, it feels good.

Get off the path

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For fuck’s sake, why do you think it’s called a bike path? Does it say pedestrian path? Is there a little stick man painted on the asphalt? NO! So get the fuck out of my way. Seriously, lovers strolling, grabbing their asses, taking the whole fucking width, or families, with brats running all over the place. I’m coming full speed, braking, saying excuse me, you’re playing fucking deaf and act surprised when I give you shit. At least stay on one side, at least walk in the same direction as the traffic, at least watch behind you once in a while, at least teach your kids to be aware that there are people coming at 20 miles per hour in both directions. Better yet, why don’t you find a fucking sidewalk and stay off the fucking BIKE path.

That being said, I got my new bike today. A great ride. I love it.

On another note, I’m very pissed off at myself today. I had a horrible day at work, a coworker lost it and screamed at me like I was a piece of shit, basically because she can’t handle the work load I give her and she keeps fucking up big time. As of December 2005, she has cost the company over 5,000$ in mistakes, and a major one could’ve cost us around 100,000$ but we were able to repair it. But she’s the wife of my boss’ friend. So. Anyway, all that to say that instead of telling her to eat shit and die, I ate my emotions. Gummy bears, Goodies, Pretzels. Like a damn pig. And I hate it, I hate that feeling. Those feelings. Tomorrow I’m going to come into the office and kill the bitch.