Tag Archives: drunk

I am a whore

My friend Tom says that I’m not a whore because one has to sleep with (fuck) the whore-er to be in consideration for the position of whore. I suppose he might be correct. But I still feel covered in a veil of metaphorical whore-ity, if you will. Let us defer to dictionary.com.


[hawr, hohr or, often, hoor]
noun, verb, whored, whor·ing.
1. a woman who engages in promiscuous sexual intercourse,usually for money; prostitute; harlot; strumpet.

hmm… apparently, dictionary.com says that I’m not a whore, either… though I must say, strumpet sounds like something that I would be (it sounds like a cute, homeless chick that you found in the woods). But unlike Tom and/or dictionary.com, I take liberty with words. And by ‘take liberty’, I mean, not know what a word actually means and rather than looking it up, “feel what it should mean” and then use it in this capacity. It works. Well, it’s never not (yay, double-negative!) worked. I have considered myself and have been considered by others, a writer. My grave inability to speak (or rather, the slow slow process of retrieving thoughts from my brain to my mouth) forced my communication skills to align with the written word, rather than the spoken word.*

*this brain-to-mouth process would also be a huge catalyst behind my theoretical need/acquisition & usage of/subsequent addiction to methamphetamines… but this is another story.

In addition, I understand the fact that time and culture can morph words into things that are, though at their core still the same, a very different animal. I also understand the fact that the word “whore” is thrown around these days like America’s dirty rag-doll. I totally throw it around all the time. …and I enjoy it!

But, then again, I do take liberty with words.

And here is the unreconcilable nature of whore/non-whore: by this definition, I could never be considered a whore.

You see, as much as I brandish around and revel in my position as a high-level, extremely knowledgable and versatile drug addict… I would probably say that I am a college grad; possibly entry-level at best, sex person.

sex, drugs and rock n roll, baby.

Certain things go hand-in-hand, or are rather, frequently associated with one and other. Drug addiction, self-destructive tendencies, sexual promiscuity, blahblahblah. But frequent association is just that. This is why “the syndrome” is so retarded. Medical professionals taking symptoms that frequently co-occur and bunching them together and naming it something-syndrome. But I digress.

If we take “whore” in it’s most literal iteration of whore = sexual promiscuity… I would never be a whore.

As awesome and fun and socially-reinforcing as I can be… it could be said that I am also, for lack of a better word, afraid of people. I like controlling my own thing, being self-sufficient and choosing to self-destruct by myself, on my own… or not.

And thus, enter whore-ity, stage left. Drinks. ghey. “Lets do drinks”. ghey. Unfortunately, this is sort of a requirement in the entertainment industry. Fortunately, in the absence of hard drugs, I’ve become quite the alcoholic. And the condescending sounding vernacular moves aside while I step in to order a vodka and something. But to ease for mere seconds back into the category of condescending ghey once more, there is an art to Drinks as chronicled, in the best possible way, in this article from stuffhollywoodassistantslike.com. Read it. Its kind of awesome.

Anyway, whether one is in whatever city they are in, if one works in the entertainment industry… ‘drinks’ are kind of a requirement. In so saying, new again to New York… I decided that accepting the offer to have aforementioned ‘drinks’ with talent manager A was probably a good thing (-martha stewart).

Martha!? Was it a good thing? Was it really?

I am poor and after the project I was working on was done, I am also unemployed.

Why would Talent manager A even want to have drinks with random, who the fuck are you-me? There was an email exchange that made him think that I had integrity. Apparently, integrity is the end-all, be-all with this guy. So, there’s that. Also, at the time, I was working for one of the most respected people in this field. Furthermore, three or four people that have been Boss A’s assistant in the past, have gone on to be retarded-successful in their own rites.

As my first instinct is to steer clear of people (either that or the exact opposite, to go balls-to-the-wall) plus this job, the schedule and my sanity… I basically ignored him. But his persistence and because of Martha Stewart’s words of wisdom, I decided that one drink after work wouldn’t kill me.

I never thought, though, that it would make me a whore.

But it didn’t kill me. Two drinks. The end.

…or I thought.

Another penciled… and I mean very lightly penciled in theoretical drinks were to be on the books. Months pass. I prolong as I’ve prolonged before. Then, as I was still unemployed coupled with the fact that he made it clear, in no uncertain terms that he would pay for everything all the time (He used to do this with Boss A… in his own words, smiling, he said, “she used me all the time. Whenever she wanted to see a show, she would call me up and I would pay for it”) I went.

And this is where something goes a bit awry. I have become quite the bottomless pit of alcohol. He pays. I drink. We talk. It’s fun. But just because I can hold my grey goose doesn’t mean that I don’t fall victim to my own rose-colored social glasses that accompanies excessive drinking. I can talk about everything, everything is interesting… the world is my oyster, anything is possible… and I think that I kind of agree to be a girlfriend-ish person.

…to be continued.

I am aware that the “to be continued” phrase on 23rd street is almost always a lie, but I believe this will actually be continued.

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Random Posts from the Interwebs

and so it is...

…just another refreshingly sad image found stumbling around on the interwebs.

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StoryTime! …yay!

Its as straight-forward as it sounds. Story Time = a Time for a Story.

On with the show.

02 June 2007…
I don’t know if I’m tired. But I find myself on a cousin of the vinyl/plastic-y comfort of the mats that line all high school gymnasiums. In a certain New York suburban abyss, they were orange; here, I believe they are some sort of navy…. With my scratchy fiber-glass “blanket” that I am instructed to take from one in a series of garbage cans that hold things like scratchy blankets and useless sheets… And so, I feel absolutely exquisite!!!

…if not for the fact that I just ruined my entire life and/or the fact that I now share quarters with crack-addict middle-aged women felons in the felony tank somewhere in Van Nuys. I don’t even know where Van Nuys is. I understand that it is in ‘The Valley” though. A place where, unless required to by a work commitment, or a medical emergency, one really has no reason to be. No reason to travel over the wondrous Hollywood Hills to Burbank or Sherman Oaks. It’s like living in Manhattan and going into Brooklyn or Staten Island . Useless and time consuming.

But for not better, and much much worse, I find myself in the Van Nuys prison. I must side-track a second here and say that I was looking pretty kick-ass. My hair was still passable as awesome [growing out, but still boyish short and adorable at that] and I was wearing this totally unconv-trendy-like almost sea foam green Diesel t-shirt/dress-like, though sweat-shirt material ensem; completely off-the shoulder, it wrapped around just under my collar bone… with black capri leggings; lace at the bottom and ballet flats [this will become useful later].

After a myriad of finger printing and confiscating of bag complete with searching through and itemizing; counting of my cash; removal of all jewelry [rings, earrings, toe-ring, necklace… some of which I never take off]. I am sent to this random room then to holding cell; where I’m first introduced to bed-cots with aforementioned high school gym-mat mattresses while cold cold air blows on me. It is June in California , there is no reason that cold, cold air should blow on anyone. Though it is the valley, I suppose.

I am allowed to keep my jacket. In the holding cell, there are no scratchy blankets or useless sheets; and my exposed shoulders and bottom of legs POP with goosebumps. There is this one other chick in there when I get in. Sort of young like me watching some mind rotting reality-something on this television that is blaring it’s sound from the ceiling with it’s friend the cold, cold air. It’s like I’m on an ecstacy trip gone bad wherein all of my senses are hyper-aware of all that is uncomfortable in my immediate experience of the world and rendered unavoidable. [this is theoretical, mind you, I was not on ecstacy]. And this is also when I stop receiving information about what is presently and will happen to me.

I was arrested in West Hollywood probably a quarter of a mile from my house. The arresting cops were really nice. I dug them. And asked them a lot of questions about themselves. I mean, I was freaking out a bit, this was not part of the night’s plans or anything, but why not make it fun? There was this one rookie cop that was totally fresh off cop academy or whatever. I asked the other guy, seasoned and such if he’d ever killed anyone. He had not.


heh… I always say that.

It’s not a lie unless I die without continuing…

p.s. the fact that I got caught was surprising to me. kiko is above the law, you see. I mean, the rules never applied to me before this relatively ultimately debacle.

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a minor detail

So, I have this minor lingering ‘thing’ (that would probably be addressed if I had ever gone to rehab or NA… but then, this blog wouldn’t exist, atleast in this manifestation, if I had) that plagues me and prevents me, in part, from easily sliding back into the human race.

Like, what the fuck do people do? As leisure and all of that?

The way I see it, this issue has developed and built upon itself in a slightly exponential manner via a few channels.

a. Relative sobriety, for me, meant that I needed to find substitute behaviour. The aforementioned substitute behaviour would have been work. Work for work’s sake. Very ‘meth’, if you will. Meth behaviour without methamphetamine. This, in itself, is very suspect. Though I might add the physical quitting of the actual using of the meth is far and away the largest step in the correct direction. …or atleast, that’s what common sense seems to dictate. And furthermore, I just need to add, I am naturally very inclined toward repetitive, action-oriented meth-like behavior in general. Some might classify this as slight OCD, I might (read: do) classify these people as retarded.

Okay, back to why this is suspect… I began working at a new place, but continued doing things that I’d been doing my entire professional time in Hollywood. …things that I could do with my eyes closed, both-hands tied behind my back …oh, and high on meth and drunk on white wine. For more detail, see: ‘this took a bit more planning…’ And this may seem a bit backward, but I had been doing these Hollywood assistant-type things, at this point for about two years high and drunk. Yeah, there were about two years before that where I wasn’t. But I wasn’t very good, either: shy, learning and really just unaware of everything. And so, I was sincerely afraid that I wouldn’t be able to continue to do these things in the way that I’d finally learned to do them (communicate on the phone, blahblahblah) if I wasn’t. …high and drunk. So, it became a very focused effort to get to work on time and do my job as well as I could. Plus, one thing at a time, man… I mean, I didn’t even know that I’d be able to function in any sort of human capacity in general without the glory of intoxication.

And it may strike a longer sympathetic chord when I remind one of the fact that Hollywood is Hollywood (behind the scenes business-ness or not)… meth makes you skinny with minimal effort. When one’s only expenses are meth and 2 buck chuck… the money that would have gone to food now goes to cute, funky clothing and highlights. And not to digress too much, but the alcohol drops one’s normal filter and heightens one’s warmth and humanity and certain degree of no-holds-barred honesty while meth acts as a strange but directed filter on the ‘normal’ filter that alcohol dropped. Then meth brings forth the stagnant ideas floating around the brain while the alcohol soothes the anxiety that the meth ideas bring forth. It all balances out in a way that, on paper, seems like, “why bother doing any of this?”.

I can’t say anything to this other than “try it”.

So, in the end, I was obviously able to do my job. And because obsession is rooted in fear and I am me… it, like most things, became a highly ritualized no-brainer. But a highly ritualized no-brainer that I lived and died by. I came in early (imagine that) and stayed late. I did nothing else. …well, except for the court-ordered weekly DUI alcohol program that wasted my money and ate my soul for three months. But after this, it was seriously almost three years of nothing but work, weekend hibernation, work… you get it.

Toward the end of my Hollywood tenure, I did become more comfortable in my own skin and thus went out just a bit; slightly dipping a toe here and there back into the land of eating disorders not-otherwise-specified… oh, and drinking half a bottle of white wine a night, after work. All mild stuff (not excusing any of the behaviour)… but it is what it is. I was milder in my self-destruction and older in my time-line. So, as it goes, the intoxication became less absolute, dramatic and spiky… and more the equivilent of a bud light or something absolutely… slow and exquisitely mundane.

…to be continued. (I mean, because you can’t just have an a.) that way).

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Posterity Pile

I’m showered. Glasses and all. Mid-day.


…I mean, what do they think would happen if there was a holiday that forced workers to come into work then leave work prematurely?

…all riled up and ready?

…okay, maybe not ‘workers’ in general… but me.

Apparently, it’s good. Good Friday. like, all bunnies and eggs and jesus and it all just happens.

…because there’s passover that happened before or continues to happen. …and good friday isn’t easter…

so, its like, “hi!… I don’t know what you guys did in the bible and stuff but it seems to somehow coorrespond or whatever…. just the timeline seems to be more than serendipity or coincidence would explain. Good, Bad… no connotation… its just all like, we’re all just not going to work in this integrated capitalistic society. Yay!” …regardless of the base, the root, the actual meaning of anything.

I can dig.

so, yeah, I should educate myself and not pose questions based on knowledge of nothing… but, in this utilitarian society

…and in my subjective experience of life in general

… it’s really is all how it effects me.

mememememe. Yeah, I know. … but, it’s friday: I had to wake early for work; to be functional as a human being.

Now, pay attention, if you would:

This is hard… okay?

For me, it’s hard. The routine of the workweek disrupted. I don’t like it… I’m not into it… I may be more sensitive than the median populace to idle hands and non-directed buzzing, but it’s categorically different in its discontinuous property. Maybe I am inflexible-esque. But the difference in not having to wake and deal as if it were any other work day versus having to push yourself to wake and deal and take yourself to that level of functionality….

I don’t just wake up and do it. …It’s just not how it happens.

I can’t.

I have to shut neurological frequences down… all of the buzzing. Then just do it.

Not impossible in the least. Rather, just intensive… vampirc amd consciously just draining in itself. back and forth and back and blah.

This sounds retarded, I understand. Just wake the fuck up and go to work! …whore!

I get it… I get that.

and, so, I’ve found a way to do that. but… this cut short bullshit?

It’s like being on the skateboard or the car… stopped short. reallly fuckin’ short. whiplash short.

Riled and energetic.. ready and focused… I mean, now you cut me free?

and I’m not arguing conservation of energy as much as… what can I do with myself when set free? in the middle of primetime action? What can I do with the buzzing, where can I put the buzzing… I created the buzzing for you and now you cut me off, random holidays which I don’t even know what you are. boo!

I have to, like… leave… go.

…or something.


…anyway, I started a posterity pile.

I’m throwing most of everything away… but if I find a random stray piece of notebook paper all tattered and basically pulp

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lies, lies, lies v 2.0

I suppose the whole 2.0 thing renders lies, lies, lies the original. …the first.

Lies, Lies, Lies





or whatever.

And whereas in any medium other than tech-shit, the original is the best. Superlative, even…. pure. When entering this Brave New World of version-istic technology… of a product revealed with such melodramatic grandiose gravitas (bullshit)… innovation, as no one could have ever imagined, showered unto the masses… the original is just a test subject. The hype, like millions of smoke screens (à la a foggy carcinogenic smoke-filled bar in Manhattan in the late 1990’s), protects (hides) its status as ‘test subject’ saving its reputation as ‘so fuckin’ cool… so, like, right now… I’m dying… I totally just died because this thing is so fuckin’… I can’t even… I just… I can’t deal’ and the pseudo-communist (more dirty hippies in communes; less “we don’t need no education” meat grinder marching) idea of ‘everyone’s opinion will be heard’…

woah, I digress.

I’m done with all of that. right now.

I’m just sayin’, that whole original lies, lies, lies thing… it happened. The call-in. All that.

And maybe I want to cover all my bases (ass), but:

Things one may want to know (or not)…

I was drunk at the time.
It was approx 1 1/2 years ago.
Yes, I may sound like a child. …but I’m so fuckin’ not 12.
Adderall is a raging dirty crack whore mirage.


so… oh and these call-in shows where celebrity experts (regardless of experience and degrees attained)…. I mean they cater to-, strive on, rely on… the damaged, crack whore who may or may not find some comfort in listening to a ‘professional’ on the radio.

all like, “maybe they care… about me”.


…I mean, all intentions may, in fact, be pure. And this is all the stuff that I could have gone without learning.

… one rarely just falls into an open man-hole cover of “celebrity”- anything.

It happens.


…I need to take a shower.

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So, this second… this very second… and only this second…

I am completely focused.

In this second, my potential focus has been realized. It is fading quickly… so I really have only so much time before the dullness shades in and I pass out. So I have to work quickly…

oh, and I’m drunk. FYI.

..heh… yeah…

But in recognizing this fact…

It really is no different.

…I mean, as before.

I take prescription speed. Legally prescribed by a doctor.

do my thing… then, i need to calm the extra buzzing.

…Alcohol sounds wonderful in this capacity.

So again, as before, I drink the wine that will balance the speed.

a la “this took a bit more planning”

and I reach this, basically the same, (though comparatively mundane) superlative place.

It’s the same.

I mean, it’s not. But it is.

I’ve learned and stretched time as much as I have. In a manner that I can function. All due to the cessation of the illicit, illegal form of speed that one acquires shadily.

So, time has stretched… but whatever. the focus has been shaded-out… and I’m over it. Or it’s over me.

the end.


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25 Things About


[the director’s cut… but then again, everything on 23rd street is the director’s cut]

25 random idiosyncratic things about me “that you don’t know” but mostly never asked to know and therefore pretty much have no vested interest in knowing.

but… I want to play the game.

Games are fun. 😉


1. My hair is such a physically binding assurance in my existence. This doesn’t mean that I’m so dependent on having hair. Just anything that has to do with my hair at any given time, is a reflection of how I actually am… at said time.

2. I’m drunk.

3. I love needles and veins. I love that my blood is darker than most. It makes me feel more substantial. But I’m not into the whole vampire/cult/retarded fanboy thing… categorically. Goth, Emo… whatever… they can party with Christianity and Jesus because they are all the same. I mean, I’m all about people doing what they want, it’s just not my thing.

4. I am very selective about what transverses my brain, stomach, heart.

  • Not all drugs are drugs to me… not every high is one I want to partake in. I mean, I love drugs [but that’s another story].
  • I feel my brain atrophy as I read and/or view categorically brain-rotting material. So, I limit myself… almost a bit too much.
  • Oranges are safe. As is Diet Raspberry and/or Peach Snapple Iced Tea.

5. Oh, you Vegans. Rogue-ish cads, you. I like sushi… shucked oysters, sea urchin… I like Darwin and that whole survival of the fittest-thing that’s so popular with the kids. You know, science. As a child, shark fin had this rolly peculiar tough crunch on my teeth. Health is important, and my diet could be categorized as a seafaring vegetarian alcoholic… but I’m not ‘saving the animals’ by not eating them. And neither are you.

6. The lowest weight I’ve ever reached was 77 lbs., honestly. It doesn’t seem very low.  I weighed myself when I woke up. I’m sure, by the end of that day, I was 1 or 2 lbs lighter. But, for categorical purposes, I can only be sure of 77. Not very low.

7. I’m still drunk.

8. I don’t have 25 things… I’m not that interesting and/or self-absorbed. Wait, that’s a lie… I don’t have 25 things, but I am that interesting and self-absorbed… or maybe just that self-absorbed. Interesting is… your call.

9. Oh, knowledge is power. The more information you have, the more proficient you are at reading people, the better you can catch was is being thrown at you and digest it… the more power you yield. I love power!

10. I want meth. I’ll settle for dexedrine spanules… in all their time-released anti-glory. And it’s actually okay… if I never do meth again, I think. I just decided. The chemical makeup of dexedrine works. It does something that only meth could ever do… just… I don’t get ‘high’.  And, thus, I would, in a heartbeat, take any meth offered me. Make no mistake. I LOVE METHAMPHETAMINE and it’s brothers, sisters and first cousins… especially 4-methylaminorex.

11. I love arugula and grape tomatoes. and sour things… like lemon juice.

12. If I die… I’m dead. Whatever happens after that, is not my problem.

13. I don’t know… I mean, seriously, people have 25 things?


Oh here we go:

14. I don’t understand that I’m not invincible. I still haven’t gotten it.


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Lefties are hot.

This has nothing to do with anything.
But is does.
No offense to the people who have dominant right hands… but….

this was the type of thing that I was not going to do.

Oh, you know… be all drunk and pill-ish… and influenced by events/episodics that don’t matter.
But who knows what I’ll remember.

So, I’m a liar.

Sensory issues. I just want to remember.


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