Dream a Little Dream of Cocaine and Volatile Relationships
Help me fulfil my dreams - 20
Date: 2005-01-04, 4:13PM EST
My life dream is to become an urban hipster at the age of 22, a lifestyle in which I will indulge for about 3 years, before I get into a pretentious law school, sell out and become a yuppie with a black Mercedes SUV, a glowing Caribbean tan, and a penchant for sashimi at dimly-lit restaurants with monosyllabic names.
During those two years, I would manage a mediocre up-and-coming post-punk band. Instead of actually doing anything useful for them, I'd just sit at outdoor cafes in inappropriate burgundy crushed silk-lined velvet coats, big dark sunglasses and scarlet lipstick, drinking espresso, smoking bidis, and chatting on my ironically large black plastic cell phone to someone I repeatedly call “darling” in an affected Oxford British accent while heatedly discussing the latest spawn of the Ukranian independent film industry.
Of course, I would be stick-thin due to my heroin addiction. The bruised, tired-out, hollow-eyed look would lend itself swimmingly to my destitute-but-fabulous and overall bohemian appearance. I would also shun my Asian heritage even more than I already do, and become an embarrassment to my parents when I live-in-sin with a tall and lissom Icelandic bass player named Isleifur, who would have mild homosexual tendencies, beautiful cheekbones, a vintage guitar, an eyebrow piercing, and a rampant and expensive cocaine addiction.
During that time, I would also not have a real job and would instead sponge off my parents, all the while pretending that I had never attended an elitist boarding school or an equally elitist liberal arts school, and that I was living in poverty, despite the $2500 rent on my matchbox studio apartment in Billburg that I share—-along with my boyfriend, and my boyfriend's boyfriend—-with my idle, self-pitying, starving performance artist, gay friend with whom I'd have post-modern, marijuana-fuelled, so-deep-as-to-be-impenetrable night-time conversations on the fire-escape. The final addition to my hipster family would be an obnoxious French narcissist named Olivier who neither cleans up after himself nor has taste in music or women and instead just sits in front of my black-and-white vintage television, playing his Gameboy advance obsessively, and fending off the lusty advances of my live-in-boyfriend's ethereal Swedish Versace model live-in-boyfriend Enar Matteus Cowbelliantus Hagstedt.
I would, irresponsibly, manage to bear three sons: Jorvi, Miguel and Constantine. Jorvi would be the only permanent reminder of my stormy and dramatic relationship with Isleifur, and Miguel would be the result of an adulterous affair with Andres, the sublimely louche and beautiful Argentinean singer of the band that I sort of managed. The youngest son, Constantine, would be the product of a drunken cocaine bender with Enar, who would begin to question his homosexuality, break up with Isleifur, and move out of the studio apartment. The only time we would ever hear from him would be on Constantine's sixteenth birthday, when Enar decides that he wants to be a part of his son’s life, although he has taken refuge in the Three Jewels and has become a Buddhist monk. Constantine would, of course, ignore his father's pleas, and spend the rest of his life in therapy for not having a father figure.
My sons would be beautiful, exquisite creatures who would resent me for having given them terrible, terrible names and would acquire intense Oedipal complexes (which I would ignore), inflicting them emotional and commitment issues for the rest of their lives. When they reach the age of fourteen, they would suddenly hate me for being "like, way too, like, superficial and materialistic and stuff" and sit in their rooms wearing black clothes, hair gel, and listening to embarrassingly bad thrash-metal, whereupon I would ship them off to boarding school.
So, if your name is Enar or Isleifur, or if you're a sublimely louche and beautiful Argentinean singer--drop me a line, and we'll discuss rent.
Total Number of Replies: 28
Number of Serious Replies: 24
Cream of the Crop:
"have you ever had a personal slave to run all your errands and clean for you."
Yes. Doesn't everybody?
"its FULFILL. and dont try so hard. youll get more responses with an ad like IM YOUNG IM CUTE I WANNA MEET A CUTE GUY FOR A DRINK"
"Pictures. Doesn't anyone take the time to get to know people anymore? is it all about the shopping list? tall +5, bites his cuticles -3, six-figure income+20, ugly feet -15, the list goes on and on."
I feel like that's how the college admission process works.
"god dam that was almost as painful to read as it was to invision."
I can envision how painful reading must be for you.
"You are hideously descriptive and have a penchant for acute distractions."
"The rent is manageable, the question is are you focused for a relationship with an older than you man!"
"hii its me nick"
Hi, you Nick!
The Good-Humoured Minority:
"Many were the times I was asked, "but how can you be a capitalist and call yourself an artist?" Hm...maybe it's because I work for a living and can't afford to take off to D.C. to get naked outside of MSG in a lame (and really just confusing) attempt to get George Bush to create a new Palestinean state!"
"if you feel a sudden and unexplicable urge to hump your screen after seeing my almost-prince-charming-calibre pics but relucted because you rather fleece me of a $1000 dinner first before telling me that "we don't have much in common, but thanks for the dinner" , i'm all ears! enjoying the only overcrowded city on Earth that still manages to be the best one to guarantee the start of a new year in soul-crushing isolationism"
"The only thing you're missing is that a reality TV show should spring up from your complex-ridden family, so that the rest of the world (or at least the rest of the world living in trailer homes) can appreciate your success."
Drugs Will Fuck You Up:
"I wish I had a penny for everytime a girl in the bigcity wanted a piece of an a lounge singer fromUbangebange. I would be ...I'd have ...,.If I had aDIME ,yes ,a dime,...Im going nowherewith this ,Im much more fluid in the real...You'rewords ,are like music,,,,to my .....eyes?,I guess.Your probably published ,and if your not you shouldbe....I like pancakes, just like most guys...Afterweening away my spoonfeed tendencies.Decided I 'd getaway, "Away from a land so battered and torn"J.H.. Idont even know why im writing all this ...shit.. I'dlove to have some converstion...... and pancakes . ,Inwhat evert order you feel more comfortable with . "
Date: 2005-01-04, 4:13PM EST
My life dream is to become an urban hipster at the age of 22, a lifestyle in which I will indulge for about 3 years, before I get into a pretentious law school, sell out and become a yuppie with a black Mercedes SUV, a glowing Caribbean tan, and a penchant for sashimi at dimly-lit restaurants with monosyllabic names.
During those two years, I would manage a mediocre up-and-coming post-punk band. Instead of actually doing anything useful for them, I'd just sit at outdoor cafes in inappropriate burgundy crushed silk-lined velvet coats, big dark sunglasses and scarlet lipstick, drinking espresso, smoking bidis, and chatting on my ironically large black plastic cell phone to someone I repeatedly call “darling” in an affected Oxford British accent while heatedly discussing the latest spawn of the Ukranian independent film industry.
Of course, I would be stick-thin due to my heroin addiction. The bruised, tired-out, hollow-eyed look would lend itself swimmingly to my destitute-but-fabulous and overall bohemian appearance. I would also shun my Asian heritage even more than I already do, and become an embarrassment to my parents when I live-in-sin with a tall and lissom Icelandic bass player named Isleifur, who would have mild homosexual tendencies, beautiful cheekbones, a vintage guitar, an eyebrow piercing, and a rampant and expensive cocaine addiction.
During that time, I would also not have a real job and would instead sponge off my parents, all the while pretending that I had never attended an elitist boarding school or an equally elitist liberal arts school, and that I was living in poverty, despite the $2500 rent on my matchbox studio apartment in Billburg that I share—-along with my boyfriend, and my boyfriend's boyfriend—-with my idle, self-pitying, starving performance artist, gay friend with whom I'd have post-modern, marijuana-fuelled, so-deep-as-to-be-impenetrable night-time conversations on the fire-escape. The final addition to my hipster family would be an obnoxious French narcissist named Olivier who neither cleans up after himself nor has taste in music or women and instead just sits in front of my black-and-white vintage television, playing his Gameboy advance obsessively, and fending off the lusty advances of my live-in-boyfriend's ethereal Swedish Versace model live-in-boyfriend Enar Matteus Cowbelliantus Hagstedt.
I would, irresponsibly, manage to bear three sons: Jorvi, Miguel and Constantine. Jorvi would be the only permanent reminder of my stormy and dramatic relationship with Isleifur, and Miguel would be the result of an adulterous affair with Andres, the sublimely louche and beautiful Argentinean singer of the band that I sort of managed. The youngest son, Constantine, would be the product of a drunken cocaine bender with Enar, who would begin to question his homosexuality, break up with Isleifur, and move out of the studio apartment. The only time we would ever hear from him would be on Constantine's sixteenth birthday, when Enar decides that he wants to be a part of his son’s life, although he has taken refuge in the Three Jewels and has become a Buddhist monk. Constantine would, of course, ignore his father's pleas, and spend the rest of his life in therapy for not having a father figure.
My sons would be beautiful, exquisite creatures who would resent me for having given them terrible, terrible names and would acquire intense Oedipal complexes (which I would ignore), inflicting them emotional and commitment issues for the rest of their lives. When they reach the age of fourteen, they would suddenly hate me for being "like, way too, like, superficial and materialistic and stuff" and sit in their rooms wearing black clothes, hair gel, and listening to embarrassingly bad thrash-metal, whereupon I would ship them off to boarding school.
So, if your name is Enar or Isleifur, or if you're a sublimely louche and beautiful Argentinean singer--drop me a line, and we'll discuss rent.
Total Number of Replies: 28
Number of Serious Replies: 24
Cream of the Crop:
"have you ever had a personal slave to run all your errands and clean for you."
Yes. Doesn't everybody?
"its FULFILL. and dont try so hard. youll get more responses with an ad like IM YOUNG IM CUTE I WANNA MEET A CUTE GUY FOR A DRINK"
"Pictures. Doesn't anyone take the time to get to know people anymore? is it all about the shopping list? tall +5, bites his cuticles -3, six-figure income+20, ugly feet -15, the list goes on and on."
I feel like that's how the college admission process works.
"god dam that was almost as painful to read as it was to invision."
I can envision how painful reading must be for you.
"You are hideously descriptive and have a penchant for acute distractions."
"The rent is manageable, the question is are you focused for a relationship with an older than you man!"
"hii its me nick"
Hi, you Nick!
The Good-Humoured Minority:
"Many were the times I was asked, "but how can you be a capitalist and call yourself an artist?" Hm...maybe it's because I work for a living and can't afford to take off to D.C. to get naked outside of MSG in a lame (and really just confusing) attempt to get George Bush to create a new Palestinean state!"
"if you feel a sudden and unexplicable urge to hump your screen after seeing my almost-prince-charming-calibre pics but relucted because you rather fleece me of a $1000 dinner first before telling me that "we don't have much in common, but thanks for the dinner" , i'm all ears! enjoying the only overcrowded city on Earth that still manages to be the best one to guarantee the start of a new year in soul-crushing isolationism"
"The only thing you're missing is that a reality TV show should spring up from your complex-ridden family, so that the rest of the world (or at least the rest of the world living in trailer homes) can appreciate your success."
Drugs Will Fuck You Up:
"I wish I had a penny for everytime a girl in the bigcity wanted a piece of an a lounge singer fromUbangebange. I would be ...I'd have ...,.If I had aDIME ,yes ,a dime,...Im going nowherewith this ,Im much more fluid in the real...You'rewords ,are like music,,,,to my .....eyes?,I guess.Your probably published ,and if your not you shouldbe....I like pancakes, just like most guys...Afterweening away my spoonfeed tendencies.Decided I 'd getaway, "Away from a land so battered and torn"J.H.. Idont even know why im writing all this ...shit.. I'dlove to have some converstion...... and pancakes . ,Inwhat evert order you feel more comfortable with . "
posted by Laura at 2:04 PM
1 Comments:
you make me tired. keep dreaming sookah, it will keep you alive.
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