NEIL · AWESOME
writes a thing
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Attn: Paul Thomas "P. T." Anderson Wes Anderson Paul W. S. Anderson Message: GIVE ME A BREAK, WOULDJA?! For crap's sake, we don't want me showing up to a midnight showing of Death Race thinking I'm seeing the next movie by the genius who showed me a not-nauseating side of Adam Sandler, or worse, expecting to enjoy an offbeat night of genius comedy about offbeat white people and their troubles. Though let's get honest here: I do wanna see Death Race. Love ya fo reals, Neil
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sober | |
optimistic | |||
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ATTEMPT #1: 1:30 AM Saturday morning.
ATTEMPT #2: 9:30 PM Sunday night
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annoyed | |||
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Some things:
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light side | |
thrilled | |||
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This is what I would've written a few days ago: Ack! In my apartment! MICE! CAN YOU EVEN BELIEVE IT. It seems they have foresaken my apartment as their sanctuary, but have chosen to continue using my bathroom as their mousey graveyard. I only say this because there are TWO FUCKING DEAD MICE IN MY BATHROOM NEXT TO THE SHOWER WITH THEIR LITTLE MOUTHS LYING IN PUDDLES OF BLOOD. What was this? Some sort of fight to the death? Because if it was, I'm pretty sure I can smell the stench of the decaying referee coming from under my fridge or dishwasher or stove. (That whole kitchen smells like hell. I don't cook there anymore.) Writing today, the post reads as such: First of all, I've had a few. Wooooo! Secondly, my beloved roommate cleaned the bathroom -- including the dead mice! -- while I was away for the weekend. Three cheers! What's that odd smell in the kitchen? I just won't think about it. I have taquitos to microwave!
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eh? | |||
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Which celebrities do I look like???? WANNA KNOW? I'll tell you! The ones who have glasses!!!!! I HAVE GLASSES TOO!!!!!!!!!!! O, technology! Thank God we're finally in the future, am I right?
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I'll post something someday, I promise. And, just because I want you to find out from me instead of from one of our mutual friends -- I've been writing in another blog. I'm sorry, but I promise, you didn't do anything wrong. I just needed another persona. I'm sure you understand. Please forgive me. Love you forever! Neil
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embarrassed | |||
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I caught a mouse! I caught one! Me! I caught it! It hasn't gotten away yet! Now all I have to do is figure out how best to murder it. HA! HA HA! The trouble is, now it's in a giant wheeled storage tub that's full of trash. I'd given up on this trap, because the whole idea behind it is that a mouse would be stupid enough to just leap into a storage tub because it smells like Habenero Doritos. I know as soon as I start trying to get trash out, it'll leap to freedom and I'll be left mouseless and sobbing. But for now... I caught a mouse!
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accomplished | |||
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There was a mouse in a plastic bag full of my roommate's recycling. I kicked it, and the mouse flew into the kitchen. I followed to stomp him dead, but he disappeared under the refridgerator. Dead mice: 0 Caught mice: 0 Kicked mice: 1 Verbally insulted mice: 3 or 4 Number of mice total: Apparently approaching infinity.
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discontent | |||
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There are officially at least three mice in my bedroom. I am so exhausted I'm shaking and nauseous, and they won't stop trying to climb onto my bed and desk. I begin to fantasize: when they fall into the bucket of water -- if they ever do -- I should electrocute them instead of just waiting for them to drown. How fun!
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thoughtful | |||
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This mouse is a total slut. I don't know why he's so intent on getting into bed with me, but every time I start to doze off, I hear his diseased little claws skittering up the bedposts. Oh -- there he was again. I really just want to sleep. Fucking mouse. Go to the goddamn kitchen already and let me eviscerate you in the morning.
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tired | |||
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Apparently too light to tip the tube into the water. The little shit just sat there eating his tasty treat right under my nose. I hurried over to try and strangle him with my own two furious hands -- GOD DAMMIT! GOD FUCKING DAMN MOUSE! I LITERALLY just watched the little shit come up to the tube, kick it into the water, then scamper away. I am going to puke on that mouse and rip his ears off and stomp him into oblivion. Time to construct another tube. A longer one, this time. And I'll fill the garbage can with mouse-melting acid.
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betrayed | |||
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I have built a deliciously inhumane mousetrap. Ramp of books + precariously positioned toilet paper tube with tantalizing mousey treat + trashcan filled 1/3 of the way with water. I feel this will fail, but I wait anxiously. I will listen for your splash, mouse, and I will cover the garbage can with a large book, and you will drown. Then I will throw your mousey corpse outside to be eaten by the giant, giant rats. p.s., I think I may actually have two mice. Hopefully they'll fall into the trap together, and there'll be some Open Water type drama.
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Why, mouse, why? Why live in my room? Why insist in skittering out from under my covers and falling to the floor from my bed, only after I've been laying here for an hour? Why keep me awake with your scratching at my backpack and garbage can? There is no food here. I want to smash your little mouse head into a jelly, then tear off your little mouse legs. Perhaps in reverse order. I could make little mouse tournequets and torture you for hours, using little mousey smelling salts to keep you conscious. I want to imprison you using tiny mouse handcuffs and skin you alive with a blunt knife from the kitchen, WHICH IS OBVIOUSLY WHERE YOU SHOULD BE LIVING, NOT IN MY BEDROOM, YOU LITTLE SHIT. Speaking of little shit, I discovered a cache of mouse shit underneath my bed and on my desk. "Welcome back, Neil!" the mouse seems to shout at me as he zig-zags recklessly over all my stuff. "I know you're already desperately unhappy here, and I plan to make you so unhappy your mind breaks in half and you are forced to spend the remainder of your life as a street crazy!" Maybe I'm just a little stressed out. But I promise you, that mouse dies tomorrow. Painfully, and with as much gore as he has in him.
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predatory | |||
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Bad news: I just dropped a bottle of wine on the floor and it shattered. Good news: One of my plays (the one-woman one-act, for those in the know) was selected to be performed in a festival of one-acts. The performances will be 1/16/2008 - 1/20/08 @8pm, 1/23/2008 - 1/27/08 @8pm, and 1/30/2008 - 2/2/08 @8pm. I'll have more details later. Apparently it's a competition for playwrights - I'm assuming that whoever is chosen as the audience favorite will get some sweet cash moneys. So you should come, and bring all your friends, and pad that ballot box in my favor. Because I'm having a lot of trouble finding a job, and I just broke a bottle of wine.
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pitiful | |||
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My printer needs toner. I can't print. My credit card needs to be activated. I can't buy toner. I call the number on the sticker. I end up talking to some dude, which leaves me flustered, because I was expecting to just speak with the machine -- the nice machine, loving, caring, forgiving. The nice machine who never judges me. The man asks me my mother's mother's maiden name. I don't know. It might have "green" in it, like "Greenwald," or it may start with a C. I am flustered, so I forgot. Then he asks me for the last four digits of my mother's social security number. I don't know that. Obviously I wouldn't know that. I could tell him my own social security number for hours, but I'm afraid my number is the only one I have memorized. This is when the man's tone turns dark. He knows the truth: I must be stealing some poor woman's credit card. "Strange," he says, in the most condescending way any human being has ever said any single word in the history of time. I can actually hear him glaring at me over the phone, which I never thought possible. Then he asks me what my mother's birthday is. I was already on the verge of a panic attack. I usually know my mom's birthday, I swear. I've never once missed it. But with all the sneering and snideness, I panic like crazy. What if I really don't know? I should just say something -- MAY! It's May, I know it's May -- it's May for sure, right by Mother's day -- right? Or is that my parents' anniversary? Or is it MY birthday? Jesus's birthday? OH MY GOD I DON'T KNOW MOM I AM SO SORRY I SWEAR I LOVE YOU PLEASE GOD DON'T HATE ME BOO HOO HOO HOO HOO Needless to say, I still haven't ordered that toner.
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cranky | |||
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Today I saw my first celebrity in NYC. It was Samuel L Jackson, and he was made of wax. So I guess that doesn't count. But my mom says she saw John-Boy staggering down the sidewalk. ...I don't really know if that counts, either.
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