The Kate'n'Steve game.

In another place, in another time.

His name was Justin. And I didn't know much. We were just two American kids in Greece, on this island called Corfu. The water was postcard-turquoise, the waves rolled softly in over sandy beaches below a cotton-candy sky, in a landscape dotted with jagged rocks and goats. At least I think I remember goats and their weird satanic eyes.

My parents were busy getting drunk on Retsina and fighting in the hotel room. Justin's parents had a house that they returned to every summer for a month or two. His father was a writer and would sit typing on an actual typewriter, on the terrace overlooking the sea. I thought that was pretty badass, even back then. His mother, on the other hand, wore the apron as if it was tattooed on her body. And she always seemed uneasy, as she served us crackers and milk or Greek salads or whatever it was she served us. I remember thinking, even back then, that I'd rather die than be like her.

Justin and I spent the days snorkeling, reading comic books and perusing shops in pursuit of souvenirs that we didn't have any money to buy. One day I shoplifted a key-ring with a shell that said Corfu attached to it. I gave it to Justin. Maybe he saw that as a sign.
Because that evening – we were alone in their house for some reason – he suggested we'd play a game that he called the 'Kate'n'Steve game. Steve was his older brother. He had plenty of chest hair and a gold earring. And Kate was his girlfriend back in the States.

I said: Ok, let's play this 'Kate'n'Steve game.

Justin instructed me to lay down on the sofa in the living room. He went to get his dad's briefcase. Then he went outside. I lay there waiting for a moment. After a minute or so Justin opened the door and shouted: Honey, I'm home. Then he sat the briefcase down and came and laid on top of me. First he just laid there. I felt uncomfortable under his weight. Then he started to move up and down, rubbing his crotch against mine.

I didn't mind. I didn't mind at all. I felt carbonated and flushed.

After that we began to play the Kate'n'Steve game all the time.


Thing is, this Justin guy just showed up on FB. He lives in Los Angeles now.

Tabula Rasa

Blogging while drunk is not something you should do. I am perfectly aware of that. I am also, as we speak, as I type, perfectly plastered. Bourbon is a beautiful thing. So is taxi cabs.

I called Monica half an hour ago. When the voice mail picked up I called again. And again. Then I threw my iphone into the neighbor's backyard. They have a Doberman who's Satan incarnated. One day that beast will eat me, I am certain.

And I loved my cellphone nearly as much as I loved Monica's kisses.

I promise all of you that by tomorrow afternoon, monster headache aside, I will be a clean slate; a Tabula Rasa.

Sweet dreams to anyone that may read this!

her new limited edition violet nikes

I have a friend named Rita. She lives in West Hollywood. Her apartment has a walk-in closet filled with sneakers. She circles the globe on jet planes, dipping down in places like Tokyo, Stockholm and Beirut to get a hold of some rubber-soled treasures.

She's told me that she's spent many nights in the closet arranging the sneakers. She's tried organizing them by colors, by price and by names.

She likes to wear sneakers when she fucks. Which she rarely does, because she's also terrified of germs. She's one of those girls that has to use 15 napkins or so, when using a public restroom. First, she covers the seat with them, then she uses a couple to hold the flusher, then the door knob of the stall, the faucet and finally the restroom door.
Today Rita and I had lunch together at the In'n'Out. Except she only got a water. She was supposed to comfort me, but I ended up having to comfort her.

First, she talked about every square inch of her new limited edition violet nikes that she'd ordered off the Internet.

Then she told me that she thinks about dying all the time. That she imagines that dying would feel like the most intense orgasm, followed by a warm pool of soft darkness.

I asked her why.

She said that the anti-depressants only have caused her to gain weight and that therapy is a waste of time and money. And that the world is cruel and hideous. And that her parents never loved her.

I love you, I said. But it was a lie. A white lie, yes, but nevertheless a lie.

I don't love her. I don't even know why I am still friends with her. We've grown apart since high school. We have little in common apart from our age and hometown. She's boring and self-absorbed. And she's cheap too. The kind of person who says; you owe me a dollar fifty.

But still, I don't want her to think about dying.

As for myself, I need to stop sulking.

I've always liked crooked teeth

It is the hour of silence. The night is a velvet hoodie, but there's also the premonition of light. That it will come again, and that it won't be too long.

Love is just a wish. It only exists in my head (but the touch still pricks my skin from when I was a believer). I often mock it, but when I dare to be honest, I want it; the romantic kind, the one that saves and damns.

Monica's teeth looked like a wind-worn fence. I've always liked crooked teeth. Her breath on my face was faintly perfume-y. And she could cause permanent damage to my inner organs with her thighs.

Right now I think that I'll always remember the moonlit walk along the beach. When we escaped, drove north after she fought with her husband, the editor, said she was leaving him.

But soon I'll think, what the hell was I thinking.

In the meantime, daddy is here, and he's having loud sex with this hippie-chick (not much older than me) that we met at a brunch spot in Topanga Canyon.


Image by simen johan

i like danger

She took me to an Italian restaurant in Santa Monica. I should have known that our first proper date would also be our last.
In the parking lot outside, Monica lit a joint, and after smoking she called her husband and finished the phone call with sweetie.
THAT felt like a paper-cut. 


Our nervous hands fidgeting above the starched tablecloths, our stocking-feet seeking contact below.

Pot makes me horny. I couldn't help but imagine me, Monica and the panna cotta starring in an R-rated movie.

But Monica had other plans; I have never done something like this before, crossing the line, that is.

And then; I am not even gay.

And later; You are so young.

After we finished pushing our food around the plates I begged her for a farewell fuck. She wouldn't. She said she would give me a referral to another clinic. And that she would work on her marriage and on being a better mother.

I came home and cried and cried.

Why do I let myself get so carried away? So tangled up in happy-ever-after-daydreams?

Daddy tried to comfort me. My wailing interrupted his yoga session. Dressed in tank-top and shorts he came and put his arms around me. But his hug felt like wrestling with a monkey, he's so goddamn hairy.

I texted Monica. No replies.

cul de sac

i know this can only end badly. i can only end up broken and bruised. my deceitful (hateful) heart is leading me down this cul de sac. there is no turning back.

i hear daddy downstairs practicing the sitar. distant sirens wailing down sunset. i have my own emergency.

monica's eyes shift from chocolate to pitch black swiftly.  monica has a child who destroyed her life, much in the same way as i destroyed my mother's.

Monica with the violent velvet tongue.

the throbbing we do.

I can't see you anymore. she said. And I shattered.

As your therapist I mean.

I could hear this shopaholic wife with sad eyes and dry skin cough on the other side of the door.

I still straddled her.


photos borrowed from bruno dayan and http://ghostwerld.wordpress.com/

Monday dread

despite not having a job (but a decent cash flow),  I always have angst on Sundays. Could this Monday-dread be embedded in my genes?
I mean, it's not like I have to be somewhere, do something. I can just continue to be useless.

Yes, I watched the Golden Globes. I do appreciate the crudest form of entertainment sometimes.

I engaged in extreme eating. First vegan pizza, then a whole bag of Reese's Pieces, 2 cans of coke, a bag of chips. Some cantaloupe. I waited and finally, an hour ago, Monica texted. We have a date tomorrow.

There are a thousand moths in my belly. And the bruise is getting paler by the minute.

Monica

Let's call her Monica.
Monica claims to be 41, but I think she might be a bit older. She's vain; I know this because I've rummaged through her purse once. It contained more creams than a Walgreens.
She's had some work done too. Her nose is a bit generic.

I started therapy just before I left for Berlin. Dad said I lacked direction and that he suspected I was suffering from a chronic dull level of depression.

So I went to this clinic in Silverlake. And I met Monica. She is an ex-Freudian, now a firm believer in cognitive therapy. And pills. She didn't want to hear me talk about the past. Stay with what's going on now, she said. The past has past.

She's married to an LA Times editor. They fuck once every two weeks. According to her foreplay consists of him asking her if they should do it. Then he kisses her, generically, and starts to unbutton his pants. They have a child. And a nanny to take care of that child.

I liked her from the start. Those legs and those baby-blue panties peeking out. But I didn't like therapy. I didn't like the way it made me feel self-indulgent. Paying someone to listen to my problems made me feel as if I had no problems (which I do).

Then, just before Christmas, I ran into her in the parking lot, and we got to talking. Just small talk you know, about what we would do for the holidays. She asked me if I would come sit in her car and listen to her favorite song. It was 'Maps' by the Yeah Yeah Yeahs, which surprised me. Maybe I am prejudiced now, but she seemed too old to like it.

We sat there listening and the air was so loaded I felt I had to chew every breath I took.


Wait, they don't love you like I love you

images borrowed from super-cool: ghostwerld.wordpress.com/

I don't know, but she seems to like violence

the first thing i noticed when i sat down on that couch – the color of unexplored parts of the grayscale and so firm it hurt my ass – was her legs. Slender but strong. Those legs were not just made for walking, but for kicking, trashing, hurting.

And do you realize how much I hurt now? If I hadn't lost my camera during our Moonlight drive along Mullholland Drive, I would post a picture of the bruise, mapping out only a tiny fraction of my pain. It's slithering its way across my lower ribs and around my back.


I don't know, but she seems to like violence.

Maybe it's payback time?

After our first session she asked me how it felt. And I said, a little like getting a pedicure.
At that I saw her jaw tensing and I saw her brown eyes turn black like those holes at the outskirts of the milky way.

Do you know how long I've been studying? she asked me. And when she re-crossed her legs I caught a glimpse of her panties.

I have never been kissed like I was kissed tonight. It really felt as if she was sucking my soul out. And I liked it.

I am having an affair with my married therapist.

the heart is overrated

the heart is most certainly not to be trusted.
sure, it seems real and all when it trashes in your ribcage,when it yearns and shoots jolts of pain-infused desire down to your crotch area.
But it’s also the heart that makes you beg in the most unflattering way, the heart that makes you forgive the fist that gave you a bruiser. Because you love him, and lover conquers all.
It’s the heart that makes you smash your brand new iphone. because that text never came.

i think the heart is overrated. trust the brain.

that said, i am falling in love as we speak. And the object my heart has fixated itself upon is highly inappropriate. And I mean HIGHLY.
more on this soon.

I was really starting to like him, despite everything

This was a long time ago. Back then I had even less of a clue. And i believed in Santa Clause. Because he would come, reeking of booze, and he would bring me books, the toy of the season and banana republic sweaters (way too frumpy to be seen in public in).

I fell in love with a boy retard cripple in a wheelchair. I was visiting my aunt and uncle in Venice. We were down at the boardwalk buying ice cream when I saw this boy all by himself next to some garbage bins. It was as if someone had just rolled him into the shade and left him there. He was wearing a visor and the ice cream he was clutching was melting all over his hand. His legs were super-skinny and twisted in a way that looked as if he'd a category 5 hurricane had had its way with them, and at the bottom of these legs were a pair of velcro sneakers. His face was dull and expression-less, in the usual retard way, but his eyes were electric green. Even the high noon sun couldn't wash them out.

I left my aunt and uncle in line and started walking towards him. I hesitated. He could have been dead had it not been for those laser beam eyes. There was a little pool of drool forming at the corner of his mouth.

Then he spoke, in a voice that sounded as if it came from a burning bush;
We have something in common you and I.

I took a few steps closer, not sure that I'd heard him right.

Neither of us are enjoying this sunny day. He smiled a bit and there was ice cream all over his crotch now – a whole puddle. His lips were really full.

No, I don't really like the boardwalk that much.

I know what you mean, all those fucking rollerblades. A bubble of spit formed and bursted as he spoke these words with venom.

I was really starting to like him, despite everything. But just then a girl in short shorts, hot pink lipstick and a blond pony-tail whipping her bare back came hurrying past me saying; we're leaving now, Steven. They said we have to go. And she power-walked south down the boardwalk, pushing Steven in front of her.

I couldn't stop thinking about him for weeks. I even went down to Venice Beach a few more times looking for him.

But that was it.

Beauty

I knew this beautiful girl who felt bad about all parts of her body.

She said; my ears look like Jewish boy ears, that's why I can't wear my hair up.

She also said: I can only wear A-line skirts because my hips are too wide. And I must always wear high heels since my legs are too short. And not wearing pantyhose isn't an option, there are too many visible veins running up and down my legs.

Her neck was so hideous she had to wear turtlenecks always, even to the beach. She bleached her hair every other week, so that no roots would ever show. She also shaved off her eyebrows to 'feel blond in the way Marilyn did.'
Her hands were, according to her, unbelievably hideous, but there wasn't much she could do about that.

Her diet consisted mostly of carrots and cottage cheese. And cigarettes. Because they don't have any calories.

Then, this beautiful girl became a crack whore. I went to see her in her crack den the other day. Her hair was a halo of steel wool, her body unshapely with fat rolls and sagging, greenish skin. Her teeth had started to rot and her fingers were horribly nicotine-stained. When she greeted me at the door she said:
I am not beautiful anymore.
Well, I recognized you, I said.
Then she said: When I was beautiful I never felt beautiful, but now when I am ugly, I feel beautiful.

I am a writer of fiction

I think I've finally decided what I should to with the rest of my life (however that may be now with earthquakes in the backyard)

i once dreamed about running away with the circus. i said I wouldn't mind selling cotton candy or corn dogs as long as I got to travel in a caravan with line dancers and midgets with webbed toes.

then I had silly Hollywood dreams. They weren't mine, they seeped under my skin through osmosis. I even dieted a bit and went to yoga. Had a facial or two.

My most recent dream was to be of use. Like a fork, a power-tool or a nurse.


But for now I've decided that I am a writer of fiction.

ghoul girl

I was at the bar last night, doing the lonely-girl-at-the-bar-thing that I often do. I was writing pathetic poems on paper napkins when a girl from my waking insomnia dreams walked in. And I am not talking about THE girl of my dreams now, no, this person was a ghoul from nightmares. Maybe I have been obsessing a bit too much about vampires lately, but this girl made my blood curdle. She was tiny, thin and translucent with eyes so pale that they almost looked like white neon. For a while she just stood there, just inside the door, looking around. Searching for a victim. The strangest thing was that nobody but me seemed to notice her. Then she decided to sit down next to me. She smelled like a corpse, yet her clothes looked like pretty normal low-key hipster.
She sat there quietly and stared at the bubbles in her glass. But every time I looked away I had the feeling her eyes were tearing holes in my flesh.

my iphone means the world to me

with my iphone i am never bored. i have the whole world at my fingertips. and there's an unexplored part of the milky way; and it's filled with all sorts of interesting and useful apps – many of them available completely free of charge. the other day I turned my precious iphone into a lightsaver and then I ass-fucked myself.

furthermore, with my iphone I am never alone. I have 614 good friends on Facebook. I can confess my dirtiest, most shameful secrets to them. I can cry on their soft yet firm shoulders. I can call them on desperate nights and purge my insanity with the help of the radioactive waves my beautiful, sleek iphone produces.

i am a very happy girl, indeed.

2010

it's a new year, a new list and a new ailment. I have an ingrown hair in my groin.
And I didn't manage to leave myself behind this time either.

I hate party hopping. I always have, always will.
Just when you start to enjoy yourself somewhere, your friends drag you on to the next location. This constant chase not to miss a thing, makes you miss everything.
It's my eyes glued to the iphone that makes me miss the flicker of a soul orgasm flickering across a plain friend's face beautifying it beyond your imagination for a split second.

I was with Abby, Thora and Chris. We started out at a house party in Silverlake that Abby had been invited to. It was the usual area hipsters. Lots of crippling heels and nerd glasses (that's not a good combo, if you ask me. Which you don't). The Gossip and MGMT on the stereo. Champagne and snow. I was talking to a dude about starting a band together. It was just one of those snow-covered conversations, nothing but fluff, but I was enjoying it. Then my friends wanted to go to another house party in the Hollywood Hills. That party was terrible. Just a bunch of cloned blondes and their greasy male friends. I was poking fun at one guy without him realizing. That was hilarious. I was just; that is SOOOO interesting, that is SOOOO rad, as he talked about small parts in B-movies that he had landed. Then I stole a bottle of Dom Perignon from a cooler on the terrace before we headed to the next destination. We didn't make it there in time for twelve o'clock. Instead we shared the champagne with our cab driver, stalled in traffic on Sunset. It was the highlight of the evening.

We hit three other parties, none of them memorable. Conversations were dull, people strange and I felt numb.