doodiloo doodiloo

OK enough's enough – I need to get some kind of non-permanent job soon or I'm going to go crazy. I am still waiting on a few things, so that's why I have to drag my heels. I have two huge options, and sadly, these could only fall into place a month from now.

I'm so cabin fevered I could literally...start a cult religion.

I mean, for one – I have watched seasons 1-9 of Seinfeld. I love Lainy, I want to be Lainy, I am in love with Elaine. She's ruthless. She does whatever the fuck she wants. Lainy is amazing. Get me out of my apartment!

Secondly, The Internet thing was good for a few days. It lost it's edge. And now it's freaking me out.

I have finished my scarf. With tassles and everything. What the fuck am I going to do now? I mean, 3RM told me I looked very Parisian yesterday. (Quoi?)

It's a very flattering compliment. And a small victory in my day, when one has no big goals, small victories turn into huge things.

I look very... Rive Gauche, he said. Not like a small cretin that lives on the banks of the Seine River? No, no, I look like a frustrated French artist. Ah, so I'm still me. Only better. Good.

“But I don't own a beret!”
3RM: “Only American tourists wear the berets, come on. You have the slightly disheveled hair, the sunglasses, the scarf and the demeanour.”

Wow. (Mais merci, mon invalide. Passez-moi les Gauloises Blondes!)

3RM, an experienced slacker, was trying to teach me how to be one. Because slackers generally don't give a shit, or plan for the future and all that – and now would be an apt time to try it out properly. I need to learn though. I'm way too ADD to be a slacker. I need to do shit all the time, or else I go a little bit mental.
So I can't really be a true slacker. Slackerism doesn't come au naturelle to me, sadly.

I'm unemployed and not really enjoying it. Although just looking at my scarf for a few minutes feels like I'm on drugs. It's this psychadelic I-just-took-acid, all-colours-of-the-rainbow woolen specimen. And if I stare at it long enough – I have the time, let's face it – it makes me feel like I'm tripping.

Arrgh. At least I have a few freelance writing opportunities, and one of my contracts has just been renewed. Yay! But still, I can't even rent movies from the shop across the road because I owe them 400 bucks. (Turns out the DVD was under a pile of magazines for 3 months.)

Chrysler Neon.

PS: Eminem has a track on his Greatest Hits CD entitled “Fack.” Now I love Eminem, I have an extraordinarily soft spot for the Detroit trailer prodigy. But Fack? Dude. I expected more from you. What was ever wrong with a good old fashioned Fuck? Is Fuck too risque for you suddenly? You going soft on me big boy? Jesus man, FUCK. ITS FUCK, NOT FACK.

Anyhoo.

Had dinner with The Dove last night. In a public space. Daring, not to mention great that they served cold wine by the glass. (Can't afford, or be asked to consume the entire bottle.)

The Dove is in film, and more recently has ventured into full-time advertising. She's a talented talented girl. We've decided we're going to write a script together. Maybe an art film, maybe a sitcom, maybe even a slasher movie. Whatever. Might as well give it a bash.