You Can't Have Friends by The Stooges

This song literally just came on my iPod and I remembered I forgot to complain about something else:

MY STUPID FAIRWEATHER FRIENDS, I HATE THEM I HATE THEM I HATE THEM

*not really, I'm just in a really dark place*

Seriously though, FUCK Veronica who is supposed to be my best friend and hasn't spoken to me in a fucking week.  I was with her brother yesterday and he told me all she ever does now is hang with her boyfriend and when we dropped him off at his house, Veronica and her 32 year old ain't-shit boyfriend are chilling on the porch. 

The fact that people on the internet are more hip to what's been happening to me in the last fucking week and my "best friend" has no fucking clue says a fucking lot.

She ignores my calls and sends me "I'll call you tomorrow" texts and she never does.

This girl used to come by my house alllllll the way in fucking Pilsen (we're northsiders) just to chill for a few hours and that bitch hasn't chilled with me at all in TWO FUCKING MONTHS.  I'm talking about she went from seeing me four times a week to ignoring my phone calls and making me feel like a needy little bitch.


By the way, this dude is the absolute worst. 32 years old, lives with his mother, has a daughter with a woman he cheated on my best friend with, cheated with random chicks from the internet, talked mad shit about her behind her back, got suicidal crazy whenever they broke up then got crazy possessive whenever they get back together....

I just really hate Veronica right now and I have no one to complain about her to.

My other friends aren't really douchebags but I don't expect them to really give a shit about me and my problems either.  Everyone has issues, mine are so not a priority for anyone which is fine.

I'm just all emotional and being stupid.  I really just want to drink and eat burgers but I can't afford booze and burgers right now.  Plus, my Jack Daniels is at the bedbug apartment which I don't want to visit today.  I'm just going to go to my mother's house and cry in the bathroom, like the good old days.

But fuck Veronica on the real.

Fake ass bitch.

I hope she reads this, too. 

At Home He's A Tourist by Gang of Four

I'm here to give you an update on my sad life because if I can't be happy then you guys might as well be a little less happy, too.

Yes, I am that bitter.

To begin with, my knees are super itchy because my wounds are healing after having been infected due to my fall from the run-in with the jagaloon in the blue Honda last Tuesday.  But at least they're healing, right?

I'm moving out of my beloved apartment to someplace not yet known.  If the gods are good, I will find an affordable one bedroom above a bar with plenty of windows in a cool neighborhood like Wicker Park or Bucktown.   Until the gods see fit to bestow such a gift unto me, I am living with my mother again.

My mother.

Again.

*runs away from super-depressing topic lest I return to cutting myself*

My landlord was super-pissed when I told him I was leaving and oddly that made me feel better.  He wasn't pissed at me, he was just pissed because I was leaving.  He tried to convince me I did not have bedbugs in my room - he inspected the mattress and box spring then gave them to his cousin because there was no evidence of bedbugs on them.  He told me to compare my bites to Don's (my roommate with the bed infestation) and noted how miniscule mine were.  He told me I would still have to pay for July per the rental agreement and since my 6 months were up in August anyway, I might as well stick around.

He did not realize how seriously anti-bug I am.  I just can't do it.

I'm stuck paying July's rent but since I'll get my deposit back in August anyway, I'm not mad about it.

According to him, the two guys I live with (one with bedbugs, the other with a consistent rent-paying inconsistency) will be out soon so he'll start all over with all new people.

In the meantime, I've been visiting my apartment to pack up clothes (in securely fastened plastic bags) to wash at my mother's house, checking out Craigslist and Domu for single bedroom apartments and watching my Lollapalooza ticket gain views every day it is on Craigslist while getting no bids or even "Watch Item" clicks.  I might sell my clunker of a television set so I can upgrade to a flat screen or just to have Cali money.

While it may sound fiscally irresponsible, that is one thing I am not prepared to give up: California.  I need this trip more than anything now.

There are some good things though: my landlord is going to help me out with finding boxes for packing; I picked up my laptop yesterday so I can continue working on my comic book; I have apartment viewings set up for the weekend and next week; and I started watching Breaking Bad on Netflix over the weekend.  That show is awesome.

Plus, CALIFORNIA IN A MONTH!

So stoked.  Can't wait.  I need me some Danielle lovin'. Oh and Jack White.  Need me summa dat, too.

Too sad to think of a song but it'd probably be something super depressing like Eskimo by Damien Rice.

My roommate had bedbugs.

I think he still does have bedbugs.

This means I have bedbugs and considering how much I love bugs, it might as well be Aliens (the Ridley Scott version) living in my fucking apartment.

I went to sleep last night with my hair in the tightest bun ever, a pair of leggings tucked into tube socks, a couple of shirts underneath a zipped-all-the-way-up hoodie that was also pulled over in my head and tied in place.

No blankets.

On the floor.

Terrified.

Maybe you think I'm over-reacting. Maybe you don't know me in real life so you don't know how my stupid brain works.  Maybe you haven't realized how I've been riding my bike everywhere and so I'm covered in what I thought were mosquito bites but upon closer inspection are far too close and too itchy and too many to be considered anything but bedbug bites. 

Maybe you're a douchebag.

Anyway, I spent a better part of last night and this morning thinking about how I will solve this problem.  I came to several conclusions: throw out my mattress, box spring, all blankets and pillows and take all of my clothes to the laundromat tonight to wash and dry five times over; rent a flamethrower and burn the building down; move into my mom's house; die; move out.

I cannot live with my mother again and I don't feel like dying so I'm going to cross both those out.



I don't know where to rent a flamethrower so that's out.

I'm going to call my landlord and tell him I am getting rid of all this shit, could he please help me get it out of my house.

I have to get the fuck away from these people I live with.

I have to move out.

How can I move out when I have to spend money on a new apartment AND a trip to California?

I cried about this most of last night and I'm biting back tears now.

I have to sell my Lollapalooza ticket.

I HAVE TO SELL MY LOLLAPALOOZA TICKET.

I'm so sad and itchy. I hate everyone and everything.

Does anyone have an air mattress I can borrow in the time being?

You Smell Like Dinner by Jinx Titanic and Super 8 Cumshot

I had already planned to cook dinner for me and my boy, Aidan.

Then I thought to myself (bored as fuck, I might add), "I wonder if I can cook for more than just one person..."

So I went through my phone and sent a few texts that went like this, "Dinner at my place?" thinking I would get a bunch of "Can't, busy" or "No thanks, got plans".

Not what happened.

I don't know what the fuck to do now.

I have to cook for people tonight. I hope everyone's cool with Uncle Ben's rice and chicken quesodillas 'cos that's what's happening.

There is no song that can adequately title my rage.

I rode my bike to the El this morning.  All was well until this FUCKTARD DOUCHEBAG ASSHOLE IN A FAGGOTY BLUE GODDAMN HONDA decided his opinions of my tits should be known to me.

I never feel the need to hear that shit. Honestly.  I get it, my tits are great, blah blah blah. Keep it to yourself. Ogle and move the fuck on.

But nooooooo.

"Aye baby I like the way you ride that shit, girl! Make yo titties bounce for a G!"

1. Who says that?

2. Rahm, we have really got to settle the pothole problem in Chicago.

This guy followed me past three streets. THREE.  I wasn't wearing headphones, he knew I could hear every single word he said the first time but I hadn't given him a reaction which is what he wanted.  So I gave him one.

I would like to know what this fucker expected.  He's not Howard Stern, did he really think I was just going to bare my titties before 7:30 in the fucking morning?  What, was I supposed to hop off my bike so he could motorboat me at a stop sign?

What exactly is so surprising about a woman being enraged after such provocation?

I called him a dickless faggot and told him to go fuck himself.

He responded by letting his car drift into the bike lane.

"Who's a faggot?  Who's a faggot?"

 There were two drivers behind this fucking cunt: the first one took advantage of Dickless harassing me and passed him up; the other one started honking his horn seeing that I was in danger.

After another swerve into the bike lane, my instinct told me to make the slightest of rights to avoid the parked cars.  However, I couldn't avoid the curb.

I basically flayed my fucking kneecaps falling off the bike.  By the time I got up, the blue Honda was gone but the other driver (silver-ish something driven by a dude named Albert) pulled over and helped me up, even offering me a ride.  I gave him my number and told him to drive ahead and if he saw the blue Honda to text me the license plate (where I work, I can find so much shit with just those digits). 

Hopped back on my bike and made it Grand to find a text from Albert: no sign of him. he proby made it 2 the eway. (sic)

Thank you, Albert and all those like Albert.

To the dude in the blue Honda and all those like that dickless wonder: I'll be carrying rocks in my bag now.  Fuck with me.

Not About Love by Fiona Apple

Is it just me or does it seem like everything on the internet correlates to your love life some kind of way?

Maybe I spend too much time on Tumblr (or maybe heartsick teenagers spend too much time on Tumblr) but it seems like every other post is some lovey-dovey or achy-breaky post on love or the lack thereof.

Man love, lady love, self love, kitty love.

Can't we all just admit to ourselves and each other that it's okay to not be in love with someone else?  Can't it be okay to hate yourself sometimes?

I'm not in love.  I tend to have random flashbacks of some stupid or shitty thing I did some time in the past and then hate myself for five minutes.

And that's okay.

I'm not swooning over this guy or that girl or even my reflection.  Isn't this also a part of the human experience or is it just the so-called "bitter" part?

Fuck love, fuck hate, just fucking live.

Why does it have to be one or the other?

This ha been a blog post about detachment.  Now go and call me lonely, bitter or whatever the fuck you tender-hearted bastards call cold-blooded bitches like me.

Promo, bitches.

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Seriously though.

I'm so excited for my summer of music. Lolla, Outside Lands, Riot Fest....

Only disappointment MIGHT be Lolla. Only cos I'll be alone for the first two days. That's really it. 

Then again, I'll also have no problem getting to the front of the crowd so maybe it will work out. 

Whatever.

Sing with me!

I'M GOING TO RIOT FEST
I'M GOING TO RIOT FEST
I'M SO EXCITED
THEY GON HAVE A CARNIVAL
AND SOME ROCK N ROLL
AND I'MA GET IT ALLLLL
I'MA GET IT ALLLL
YOU MIGHT COME TOO
IF YOU WANT TO
TICKETS IS ON SALE
3 DAY PASSES SOLD OUT BUT THAT'S OKAY COS FUCK THE CONGRESS THEY DON'T GOT NO FERRIS WHEEL AND WHAT THE FUCK KIND OF LIFE IS THAT WHATEVER IT IS I AIN'T ABOUT IIIIIIIIIIIT
HOLY FUUUUUCK
THIS SONG IS ON POINT
I THINK IMA MAKE IT MY HIT SINGLE
IT WON'T BE A HIT THOUGH
MORE LIKE A SHIT SHOW
WHATEVER
NO FUCKS ARE GIVEN

End.

Your Time Is Gonna Come by Led Zeppelin

Last night I could not sleep.

Bullshit - I slept but it took me a long time to get there.  When I did, I had a huge smile on my face.  Granted, that smile evolved into a gaping, snoring mouth after ten minutes but the point I am trying to make here is I slumbered happily without resorting to masturbation or smoking pot.

"What could be better than masturbating or smoking pot?" you may ask.  Not a lot of things, I'll admit (especially when you're masturbating stoned or even better, stoned and letting someone else do the touching for you which feels amazing - but I digress).  Usually I fall asleep after counting my worries, assessing my problems and coming to grips with the doom descending upon my tiny universe (then masturbating cos fuck it, why not, I'm gonna die poor and alone anyway) but last night though, I fell asleep counting the few weeks I have left of writing, the possible months of drawing ahead of me and then the payoff: printing and distributing my comic book.

My comic book, y'all.

I am writing it and it is mine.

Someday, it might grace your shelf.  Or more likely the magazine rack some people keep in their bathroom. Or some asshole will forget it on the blue line one stoned afternoon.

This feels me with glee. 

The subject matter is disturbing and partially controversial, I have no idea how I'm going to draw the trippy-weird shit I have planned and I've no idea if stores will even sell them for me BUT...

I don't give a fuck.  Even if I fail at this one thing - even if it humiliates me, cripples me emotionally, permanently puts a dent in my right hand's middle finger, ruins my social life and gets me fired from my job, I'll have completed this one thing.

I'm always setting goals for myself and then allowing the hard work to end there but this is different.  It's not about being famous, creating a legacy or even making myself look cool to a minuscule percentage of human beings (and tigers) on the Internet.  It's about me accomplishing something I set out for myself and being able to say in fifty years when I'm hideous and childless, "I did write that comic book though - that was awesome". 

That's all I want really. To know I was awesome once, even if I was the only one who saw it.

Oh and to be childless.  That'd be great, too. (No offense to Moms and Pops, I just don't want none of that scene.)

Something Is Not Right With Me by Cold War Kids

I met up with three different people yesterday and came away from both questioning my method of expressing affection.

One of my coolest friends stopped by my mom's house to drop off a comic he borrowed from me a while back (Casanova Luxuria; I didn't even realize how much I missed it till I had it again) along with a letter he wrote.  I love getting mail (excepting of course bills and spam) but I rarely get letters.  It's become a once-in-a-really-good-year thing for me. Naturally, due to my general impatience with everything, I opened it forty seconds after we parted. It was sweet, encouraging and funny but left me feeling anxious.  I wasn't sure if I should reply via a text or phone call or e-mail but after reading it again several more times I decided it was best to just write Aidan a letter of my own.

On my walk home from the Blue Line, I decided to call my Twitter friend Joe (though I always call him Waan) just to shoot the shit.  Usually when I call him, he's in Ohio (he's a trucker) and from what I can gather, Ohio is one of the most boring states of all time so I decided to free him from his boredom.

For some reason, I tend to make at least one bad/stupid/inappropriate/awkward joke a day and yesterday, it just happened to be while I was on the phone with Waan.

Waan: "What's up."

Me: "Nothing. I got bored and thought 'Who do I call when I get bored? Waan.' So here we are."

Waan:  "You get bored like twice a year.  What a nice life.  I wish I could get bored that often."

I know he didn't mean anything by it but after he said it I tried to recall the last time I called him.  It'd definitely been a while.  I started to feel badly but we both kind of waved it off and started talking about movies and shit like we usually do.

When I got home, we hung up and I started cooking way too much food cos I was so hungry.  My cousin Heather had been texting me so when she came over, too much food turned out to be the perfect amount of food.  We sat on the couch and talked about work, hobbies, plans and then relationships which I'm horrible at.  I'm not just horrible at talking about relationships (I tend to rant about honesty/self-respect/insecurities/choosing your SO over your friends/etc), I'm horrible at being in them.  In every form. 

Romantically, I'm terrible with affection.  I'm no good at the PDA part and thank the gods for that but even in private I can never just kiss someone.  Kissing should be simple but some asshole in the back of my head always talks me out of it and I panic inside and just wait to the "fooling around" portion of the evening reveals itself so I can just go crazy on you. 

With friends, I'm not giving and warm. I'm reclusive and selfish.  Aidan wrote me an endearing and genuine letter and here I was, "Should I send him a thanks text? Do I call and make it weird?"  Waan is not the only person who has ever vaguely complained of my lack of contact.  My best friend Jeanette has mentioned it, too. The only friend I really maintain a steady contact with is Tenetia and only cos I'd get Wednesday texts that say "Call me, we gotta talk about Game of Thrones". 

.....

Just realized I may be mistaking intimacy with affection. 

I DON'T KNOW THE DIFFERENCE AND THIS WORRIES ME. Please tell me I am not alone, Internet. 

Do You Realize by The Flaming Lips

I attempted to quit smoking for three days. The word "attempted" should tell you everything but if you're one of those "I need a map for everything ever" then I'll speak plainly: I'm still smoking.

I am trying to write a comic book but after several days of writing "long panel", "page", "column panels", I started cleaning out my desk, downloading my vinyls, organizing my books, selling some books, did laundry.... Basically I have not written in several days because I DO NOT KNOW WHAT THE FUCK I AM DOING WITH MY FUCKING LIFE.

Then I saw a quote on Tumblr:

Normally, I don't really pay mind to quotes on Tumblr due to their usual inaccuracy (though a friend is reminding me telepathically, "You did fall for that mermaid thing on Animal Plant" to which I reply "I WAS DRUNK AND I LOVE MERMAIDS, GIVE IT A REST") but this one hits close to home.  Is it because it's true or because I needed someone else to agree with my lazy self that "No, you don't have to know what you're doing with your life because you're a woman-child and nothing more"?

Then I started to think, "Fuck that. You're a grown woman. You decided that when you moved out of your mother's house and started living halfway across Chicago to declare your independence.  Stop making excuses for yourself and grow the fuck up already. GET YOUR SHIT TOGETHER, LORIMAR."

(At this point you should know I spend a lot of my day arguing with myself.  Sometimes it interferes with my interactions with others.  If this is a symptom of some kind of mental illness or personality disorder, please do not tell me.  I'm the kind of person that researched schizophrenia for about three years for a story I was writing then spent two years debating whether or not I had schizophrenia because I'm always arguing with myself.  The fact I have yet to suffer delusions - SHUT UP AIDAN - and hallucinations are the only reason I have not yet committed myself. Lorimar = Psychosomatic.)

Anyway, what I am trying to tell you, Internet (and myself, if I would only just listen) is this: I'm going to chill out on all the freaking out.  I'm going to stop telling myself what I should or should not be doing and just start doing things (right after this post which is clearly me telling myself to do things by saying to not do them).  I doubt the arguments will stop but here's hoping a new voice comes along saying, "Lori, Lori: stop arguing with each other. Chill out, smoke a cigarette, watch some Adventure Time. Everything's going to be fine."

Actually I hope that voice doesn't show up.  Or at least let it be my voice.

Fuck, I am a crazy person.