that’s because I have serious competition.


look at dat face, look at dat face, look at dat face!

Okay, okay you’ve looked at it, now back to me.

When I rock the s**t out of my neck brace, I want to be unique, not lame like this look.


She’s clearly not committing.

This is commitment,


at least according to the men of new york. Those delightful little scamps.

I’m more a fan of the classic look such as the game changing and sexually ground breaking movies Sixteen Candles which featured the inspiring Joan Cusuak. Joan totally stole the show from Molly Ringwald with her unforgettable and astounding water fountain moment.

Incredible. Even now, I’m slightly aroused.

Sadly there are those who don’t know when to stop.


Poser much?

But why a neck brace you ask?

I’m sorry you just did that, that you asked.

If you have to ask you clearly don’t get it.

Darling you wear neck braces because they are the THING. You wear them because they’re the bomb. You wear them because they’re the shnizzle, they’re fierce, they kick ass, they’re sick, they’re ill. You wear them because  they’re reDUCNculicious. You wear them because you have a sense of style, class, finesse and as the french say ‘a certain something but I do not know what it is, and if I did I wouldn’t tell you so there’

You wear them because you are in the know.


or because you got hit by a car, but whatever.



it’s because I’m extremely sensitive. Extremely, extremely sensitive. I know that I’m sensitive because my mother, my sister or father will not hesitate to inform me so every half an hour or on hour if I have forgotten for even a moment. I admit it, I am overly sensitive. I’m sensitive when my my sister turns off the light in the room while staring right at me, I’m sensitive while my mother yells at me to CALM DOWN or my father and I battle over bathroom towels. I’m so sensitive that I might just take a massive butcher knife before this holiday is over and show them what real sensitivity looks like.

pretty, so pretty and so red.

And it’s not just me, the weather is also sensitive.

(Don’t tell her I told you but actually the weather is being a number one (#1)bi-polar hobag)

It’s raining so we decide not to go to the beach and lurk at home, then it stops raining so fling on our swim suits, get creamed up (shut up not like that) leap into the car and then drive to the beach where it immediately begins to rain again then we drive home and my head begins to ache and my stomach hurts because I know what lies ahead.

Trapped by the rain and wild for something to do, my family makes me undergo the ultimate cruelty and unmitigated agony.

I scream that I’ll talk, tell them everything they need to know but it’s no use. I can hear the mesmerizing goose flesh crawling chinkety chink chink chink  noises coming closer as the foul little green bag is brought out , the thick dull pound of the board as it hits the table, the agonized squeak as plastic counters are forced whiningly across wood and suddenly  I am pushed into a chair the world begins to spin

‘No!’ I call out hoarsely ‘I beg you I’ll tell you anything!’ ‘NO FOR GOD’S SAKE HAVE MERCY, HAVE PITY ON MY SOUL PLEASE PLEASE I’LL DO ANYTHING YOU SAY!’

but it’s too late


Or as Mahatmah Gandhi liked to say ‘the shittiest game on the face of the planet’

I truly and utterly (ten points)deteste (eight points) scrabble (fourteen points) with every fibre (nine points) of my qi (nine hundred and thirty two points when placed on a triple word)

Although my scrabble playing sentiment would be best summed up by the following seven letters

so no lik

I try to put words down ‘screw’ and ‘evil’ and ‘frog’

I was told to save my ‘s’s-actually I’m told to save that quite often through life.

The saddest part is the the  glowing and supportive praise I receive from my otherwise nonsensitive critical family which makes me realize how truly challenged I am by this game.

Oh look Sophie put down ‘frog’

‘Well done Sophie!’ beams my mother  a player  of ‘exile’ ‘luxury’ and ‘azure’

‘Frog is a good word!’

‘You play great!’  Says my sister inflictor of ‘genuflect’ ‘longue’ and ‘xenophobia’

Frog! Well done!’ adds my father who’s gentle use of obituary, arbitrary and zeal (on the triple word) can kick our s’s any day of the week.

Family at their finest.

Added to this I still basically have tuberculosis (self diagnosed and me with only a MFA) which is a blast to bring to a summer holiday at the the beach. Let me tell you nothing like a hot tan, sexy bikini and a wracking and endless cough for a light hearted and fun filled conversational starter. For best results cough heavily into the inquirer’s face. They’ll just eat that up.

But as Nietchze that famous party animal once said

‘Life’s a beach and then you DIE hahahahahaha!’

The point is for you to stop looking at me like that you judgemental jerk, or the next person I visit with the butcher knife is you, unfeeling schmuck.

After all, I’m sensitive.

Occupying Wall Street. Yet.

October 13, 2011

that’s because I just finished occupying my kitchen.
And it’s evil.

There’s a TOTAL misuse of marinaded mushroom, and an excessive excess of prosciutto. It’s not even domestic prosciutto but IMPORTED prosciutto. And it was eaten by bourgoise fingers.

Fingers that haven’t had a manicure in a while, but look like maybe, just maybe they could again.

What the hell is happening here?

Why? How? Who would have the kind of greed and immorality to sit down and snarfle up these frivilous yet delicious deli goods meant to be snarfled only at lunch time in prepared salads for which Tupperware which were specifically bought?

Anger. Disillusionment. Impotent Fury.

I shall move away from this occupancy and proceed undaunted.

Instead of not occupying Wall Street and I stumble through to occupy my living room instead where I’m faced with even more discrepencies.

It starts off okay.

One(1) somewhat cracked and filthy out of date Mac book in which to gain and send information to the people? Check

One(1) highly aware uber goldfish named Pedro already occupying his tank (long before it was cool) and one(1) fish follower? (That guy is total poser) Check

One(1) bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon to ease the writing process?…..



No! that is not okay or acceptable. Where are my meaningfully named garden brewed beers, where are the stranger’s lovingly passed water and/ or gnawed on coffee cup specially donated to me by the assistant to the special assistant of Susan Sarandon?

Now I’ll have to drink the entire bottle of wine in order to angrily recycle it. Oh the fury of occupancy!

I’m now stumbling off to occupy my bathroom as opposed to Wall Street. But because of my lack of twitter and facebook skills I find myself alone. Alone! In the bathroom! And we were doing so well. I send a text to myself to send a text about it. This is exactly the kind of thing that could trip us up if we’re not ready for it. Next time I enter my bathroom I expect to see a plethora of determined yet relived people.

Or at least a twitchy determinedly good humored line of people who have yet to be relived.

Finally I intend to occupy my bedroom instead of Wall Street. Once again I’m…well, let’s not say annoyed or angered but rather gently disappointed. And by gentle disappointment I mean I break an ugly but meaningful vase that was given by a relative.

That’s because I care.

What’s the use of occupying my place if I can’t get at least one meaningful liberal yet delightful celebrity in my bed talking about meaning? Aren’t I the 1%? who need to be convinced, preferably by hot nakedness?

Since I know how many of the occupiers will be reading this tonight on their anti-government ipads under their extra heavy sleeping bags (lined by the hands of small Asian children) I have the following phrase for you to shout out and then repeat the next day to one another (oh yes I know how your sound system works) I will shout it out now in my occupied apartment and hopefully you’ll hear it from where you lie on the cold flagstones of Wall Street.


He must answer the call. It is the call of the people. It is his destiny. Right?

All this occupancy is making me sleepy. I’m off to plan further plans about where to occupy. I’m thinking something retro, something that will really shake them up and get things going….


You may ask

‘what does your lack of saturated carbohydrates, sex and the death of one of America’s greatest innovators ever to live have in common?

Oh so you did have to ask huh? Couldn’t trust me. Typical.

It’s a loss, okay? A loss. Three kind of happiness are gone;

1. instant gratification…(fries)
2. delayed (but hopefully not too much delayed because it can be even better that like right, right) gratification …. (work with me here)

3. no gratification. Got it? A dead screen. A DEAD SCREEN.

it was Steve Jobs who made it possible, possible to have meaningful discussions and debates backed by the finest graphics concerning fries and other visionaries choices in choosing fries. If he had done just this much my people would have said

DIANU (which means enough) but

but these conversation might even led to some of these sad yet brilliant nerdles who had previously spoken to each other online about fries now able to meet and maybe even be able have sex in the first place… WITH EACH OTHER.


and then getting together and collaborating (which they do after sex-they call it their ‘after-play)  oh yes collaborating on fry based projects in order to create the newest ”IPET’ or whatever


but then we all want to buy an ipet and we do and we love it and we wonder how we could have lived without it and it’s different new colors which are coming out in November and we line up for days and eventually buy one


but then it breaks and we have to take it and then we have the most overwhelming and beautiful heavenly experience of actually speaking to a bonofide GENIUS.


Steve, how could you leave us?

Now on a more serious note. I know there are plenty more things that Steve Jobs did and was in connection with that had nothing to do with fries. Or getting laid.

but I prefer not to focus on them.
Still too soon

All that’s important is a demonstration. A demonstration that will make the Wall Street Demonstration wish that they could lick our demonstrations manly balls.

so listen up

One(1) faction must rise and
a) grab your house keys
b) put on your dressing gown or old t-shirt or whatever no one’s judging (much)
c)head over the the 24/7 Mac Store on 5th ave near Central Park.  NOTE THE PLACE because you can easily miss it as it’s very subtle

There that faction will stand and sway in line  till finally aided by various geniuses, allowing this group to purchasing anything and everything that Steve Jobs even scratched his brilliant bootooty on? ipads, iphones, ipods, icomps, and everything else starting with ‘i’

THEN we run out of the store and meet our other faction.


They’re the soldiers who have so bravely marched their slippered and bootied footies down to the lower east side to obtain as many Beljum fries as inhumanely possibe in sacks if you will PLUS two sauces of our choosing and to meet their comrades back at the park.
Please take a moment to smell these sauces.

Together these two camps must meet, those of the fries and those of the ‘i’s and after an initial growling and sniffing and swipping introduction. The entire group all say 750,000 of us silently march to the park. Then there is distribution a sharing of information if you will until. One ipads clutched in one hand and a fistful of greasy fries grace the other one, till all can experience that joy of tech and heaven.

Then the entire group should all be lying flat on our backs, the sheer insane amount of our gadretry illuminating the sky and in one great voice (though muffled by alarming amounts of fries) we must all cry out



somewhere very faint with all of the 750,000 holding their breath we can hear him

Hey guys

even the breath freezes, if only Steve deliver his final message, again his voice

If there is one thing…you should know….it is that-

Then Silence. Thanks A T & T Thanks a lot.

At this stage the animalism  and nerdtastic instincts and sheer consumerism and fury and grief  all becomes a rolling swirling roar of  ipads and Vitenames Pineapple Mayo and Pomegranate Chili and pods and Honey Mustard Mayo and head phones Sweet Ketchup and tiny teeny speakers and raw onions and we are and become but a weeping, sticky, fizzing conglomeration, an overlogged underloved generation mourning together for our fallen leader. Weeping and rolling and feeding and logging in and texting and tweeting and bleeting and eating and everything that apple and Steve Jobs meant to you.

I wish you well. I’ll be in my apartment, still not getting laid.

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