Stavin Chains play party at Squallyaks. Pics by Matthew Stone
So I’ve realized that I’m still intensely and disgustingly in love with my ex-boyfriend. Hell. I ran into him in the street a couple days ago after not seeing him for nearly five months, and I swear I could feel my ordinarily cold heart begin to melt. It was horrible. After crying in his lap for half an hour whilst he kept making excuses as to why he had to leave, I eventually just gave in and confessed my undying love for him, saying that I can’t live without him, and that he’s the only guy for me, and blah blah blah loads of other cheesy embarrassing bullshit that I now wish I could forget. I hate myself.
Speaking of horrible situations stemming from randomly running into people in the street—I met a fan of my blog the other day. Woo hoo! This came as quite a shock to me as most of the emails I receive from readers tend to say things like “die u fucking whroe,” and “Ur so gross u make me penis retract back into my body” (actual quote), which led me to believe that I didn’t have any actual fans, but rather just an army of bored cunts who love to hate. So, when said fan came up to me in the street and started gushing about how much she loves Slutever, I was utterly flattered. That was until a few minutes into our conversation, when it suddenly became shockingly clear that her interest level in my had dwindled to next to nothing. Confused, I asked her what was wrong. To this she responded, “Oh, nothing… I just thought you’d be, you know, funny.” Fucking bitch.
But anyway, back to my ex. In hopes of getting him back, I’ve decided to devote my entire existence to correcting all the things Blaine hated about me toward the end of our relationship. For example: my growing porn addiction, my casual consumption of mountains of ketamine, my obsession with America’s Next Top Model, and, most importantly, my tendency to “continuously broadcast my sexual life and fantasies over the internet,” as he so eloquently put it. The last one is the important one, really. So unfortunately this means no more sex talk for a while. Yup, from now on I’m only going to write about nice things—things like flowers, smiling, being sober, not participating in weird, drug-fueled orgies, team work, smiling again… you get the idea.
But no worries… there will be plenty of interesting / retarded stuff to write mindless paragraphs about. Like, for example, at the moment Bunny is sitting next to me planning his next weird, masturbation ritual thing. (He calls them ‘sigils,’ I call them ‘circle jerks.’) Basically they’re just gatherings where a bunch of people sit in a room get themselves off, only they add in some candles and weird symbols and shit which supposedly makes it art or something. Who knows? I reluctantly attended one not too long ago, but left when my flatmate Simon started reciting improvisational poetry over the repetitive beat of his hand smacking against his boner. Count me out.