If You're Feeling Sinister

Belle and Sebastian. So good. My first memory of listening to them was at a tranny's apartment in Macon circa 2001. She was named after a wine, but I can't remember what kind--Merlot, maybe. Billy Watson was house sitting for her. It was a beautiful place. We made out a lot, listened to French Pop and of course B & S, and talked about theoretical physics. The next morning I woke up to him riding me. I was a little confused at first, but I went with it. Then he made falafel. He was such a brilliant and beautiful person--Native American, I think. I lost touch with him over the years, with the exception of his birthday party at his new boyfriend's high rise condo in Atlanta. We sat in the window and smoked cigarettes, talking til dawn.

I found out he passed away a few years ago. AIDS. He never told me. I wish I still had the pictures we took that day. I can still see one in my mind I took of him shirtless and cooking over the stove in that apartment. He had a nice smile.

Fuck I wish I could time travel.

Anyway, I sort of skimmed through my old journal entries this morning. I actually have another LiveJournal that goes all the way back to 2001. It's strange to see how much I've changed--or at least, how much my stories have changed. I used to be so carefree and happy. Now I'm some sort of dystopian nightmare future version of myself.

I had exactly enough money to buy two Lortabs from Mikey's friend and some roasted pine nut hummus and pita chips from Kroger as well as a Slim Jim for my roommate. I took one of the pills early this morning, slept for like 10 hours, and woke up and took the other one. It should be wearing off soon. The next three days should be a bitch. My next doctor appointment is Wednesday at 3:15. I'm going to have to give my bottle to my roommate so she can dole them out to me like the man child I am.

This hummus is good as fuck.

Oh yeah, so Mikey's friend and I briefly bonded over the fact that we were both homeless in Los Angeles at one point. He mainly stayed in Hollywood because he heard that they were killing homeless people in Venice Beach. I'm pretty sure that would've been Skid Row, though. Venice is the best place to be homeless, I think... well, at least it was. I've never been homeless in Hollywood, although I did live in a butler's apartment in an old mansion up Ivar in the hills. Gigi Edgley inhabited the maid's apartment. She was a gorgeous and sweet Australian actress. She played the blue alien on Farscape. We never really hung out, but she did help me pick out an outfit for a job interview once. Last I heard she was riding unicycles in Sydney.

The main house was inhabited by some big time producer at CNN. Apparently he also had a hobby of inviting young girls over and photographing them half-naked on the front terrace. Strange dude.

I was subletting Paul Yate's apartment. I think I wrote about him briefly in another entry. I took his gay virginity--at least, that's what he claims. He's currently a struggling surrealist director, although he used to be Moby's best friend growing up, and he played keyboard for him at some shows and on David Letterman. Now he's good friends with Jen Lynch, David's daughter. He's married and has a kid now, so we don't talk about how we fucked. Whenever I'm in Los Angeles, we meet for vegan cupcakes. I last saw him when I was there in February. We met at some little place in Echo Park for the second time, and I had a salted caramel cupcake. Some guy he knew came in and spoke to him. He introduced me to him and then asked me if I'd watched the OA. I told him I tried to, but I fell asleep. He then said he went to school and was friends with the writer/director, but that he was kind of a douche or something. I thought maybe he was being factitious or something and that the guy talking to us was the director, but I didn't ask.

About a month ago, I was trying to put some puzzle pieces of my life together, and I decided to Google Hiam Abbass to see if I could get in touch with her. She was the Palestinian-French actress who, along with director Jean-Baptiste Sastre, stalked me with cameras after I got stoned and signed a release form without reading it. There's way more to that story, but I'll go into it later. Anyway, so apparently Hiam recently starred in the OA, so I messaged Paul to see if he could get me in touch with her because I wanted to find out what footage they got of me (according to my friend Kai, they showed me on the big screen at some premier at the Masonic Lodge in Hollywood Forever Cemetery). I think they just used some footage of me playing my ukulele and singing Non, Je Ne Regrette Rien by Edith Piaf, but I'm not entirely sure.

What a lie. I totally regret tons of shit. But at the time I was in love and super optimistic, so the song was appropriate.

Anyway, so Paul never responded to my message, which only exacerbated my paranoia that I'm part of some sort of fucked up CIA experiment or something, so I unfriended him. I still haven't heard from him. Asshole.

But if you are feeling sinister, go off and see a minister. He'll try in vain to take away the pain of being a hopeless nonbeliever.

La la la la la la.

I wish I could just download my thoughts instead of typing. I don't really know why I'm doing this. It's not like I have to worry about posterity or anything. I mean, maybe if I could make some money from disclosing my tragic innermost thoughts, but I highly doubt that will ever happen. Do people even read anymore?

Speaking of tragedy, when I asked Hiam what their project was about, she said it was a "Greek tragedy". Story of my life--literally. I'm unsure about my ethnicity, even though I've taken a DNA test, but I do know I have what they call a "Greek toe". It's also referred to as a "royal toe", which sounds better in my opinion. Both of my parents have it too. I know I'm descended from Emperor Ferdinand of the Holy Roman Emperor on my mom's side. I'm not sure about my dad's.

Blah blah blah blah blah.

I've lost the will to type. Maybe later.