ass-lazy tropicana of the mind
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2001-12-16
"For God's sake, Delia, lighten UP!"
So, y'know, one of the best articles in Roz's book is about language and Buffy. And it's all about how the show fucks around with syntax and grammar and god knows what to create a different and unique language style.
And, y'know, while a lot of my speech comes from the show (at least, my tendency to turn verbs into nouns and adjectives into adverbs and vice versa or whatever), a lot of it just comes from a variety of pop culture references and other obscure references that I cobble together into something either resembling an episode of BtVS, Spaced, or a Tarantino movie.
So when I say things, I have a tendency to be intensely irreverent and taking me literally is usually the worst thing y'all can do.
Especially when it comes down to "fuck your fascist ___ standards." 'Cause, shit, I used that when talkin' about Star Wars and how Mace Windu should be wearin' purple. "Yeah, he's gotta wear beige 'cause he's a jedi? Well fuck you and your fascist Jedi standards, bitches!"
(although, now, dude, Samuel L. Jackson went on Parkinson and said that Mace is getting a purple lightsaber. You gots to be a badass mo-fo if you're fightin' with a purple lightsaber! Proof that he's the baddest brother out there!)
So, yeah, um, see the topic of this entry? It applies to the world. In general. Or, at least, me and my journal.
If I'm being fucking serious, then, y'know, it'll be pretty damn clear. I mean, fuck, I'm not gonna sandwich seriousness in a discussion on Cordelia fucking Audrey Horne in a twisted Twin Peaks crossover (which, by the way, a certain demonic wonder says she's gonna write me for Christmas...wheeeeee!)
Oh, and the topic's a quote from Beetlejuice. Hey, maybe Cordelia Chase is named after her aunt Delia, and then, y'know, Cousin Lydia comes to L.A. to spend some time with her little cousin. And then, y'know, ghosts is ghosts.
Then again, that'd be pretty shite.
So here's the new design. Got any thoughts on it? If so, you know what to do.
Maybe it's a bit too minimalist and quirky. Maybe I shouldn't have the Oingo Boingo lyric with the takeaway box. I don't know. It made sense when I did it.
I moved everything around too, which means that things are going to be a bit wacky, but pretty damn cool anyway.
Or so I like to believe. I could be wrong. Jesus knows I normally am.
So I did my hair today and finally the fucking beauty supply gods have been smilin' upon my tawdry ass, 'cause this hair looks fine.
it's coppery blonde, and with blonde streaks in the front. It's mellow and cool and there I go with my kick-ass hair. Aw yeah, it's delish.
It took me awhile, and I ended up with a lump of foil in the middle of my forehead while I waited for everythin' to work, but it looks fab and that's all I ask for, huh?
Maybe I should go back to that annoying little brat in the salon and go "Look, see? Just because I ain't paying you through the fucking teeth for your fancy salon color, it don't mean I can't have fan-bloody-tastic hair!"
Yeah, the hair is fabulous.
As it should be.
Watchin' U-Turn now, which is shite, but watched The Brood earlier today, so, y'know, the movie karma is balancing out. The husband's down with a cold, so the movie's soundtracked by coughing and nose-blowing, but, y'know, that's how it's gotta be sometimes.
God, the twenty million things I've gotta do eventually. The lack of interest in any of them. Maybe I ought to fly fly fly away from everything, become a fucking recluse where everyone goes "What ever happened to Baby Kate," change my name and my face and move to a burnt-out equatorial third-world country where the booze is cheap and the women are cheaper.
Yeah, there I am. In a tiny little caf� at the end of the world, a cheap cigarillos in my mouth and a bottle of rotgut in front of me. A notepad soaking in drops of drink and a stubby pencil in my hand as I write and curse at the same time.
There's my future, kids. Oh yeah...
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