People se me as a person who's very uptight and controlled at daytime, but who always loses it when partying. You could say that, I guess, but the truth is I never lose control. When I lose it, it's according to plan. The plan is always there, erhm, kind of. When I pour a drink over your head or sleep with your girlfriend, it's beacuse you deserve it, one way or another.
Totally epic wekeend. Woke up this morning on the toilet floor with my face against the cold toilet seat. At the moment I was very happy that I'd managed to throw up in the toilet this time. Took a shower, kissed Claudia on the cheek on the way out and then went to school. Love my life.
So here I am swaying, already. Too early too be drunk really. Feeling kinda genereous towards myself though... Me and mommy had a little mother/daughter/cocktail- moment. Vodka tonic and Gin fizz. Just mummy and me. Too bad she suddenly felt like being honest.
– Your father doesn't love me... – Mummy, this is an entirely philosophical question. What is love, really? – But he doesn't love me, he never has. – The thing is...well, can he love anyone? – (...) – Do you want another drink, hun? I'll go get you one.
"(...) an 'incredulity towards meta-narratives'. These meta-narratives - sometimes 'grand narratives' - are grand, large-scale theories and philosophies of the world, such as the progress of history, the knowability of everything by science, and the possibility of absolute freedom. Lyotard argues that we have ceased to believe that narratives of this kind are adequate to represent and contain us all. We have become alert to difference, diversity, the incompatibility of our aspirations, beliefs and desires (...)"
Oh my, I should be in school now, shouldn't I? But here I am, on the coach, obsessing over Buster Keaton and his iconic stoneface. Claudia(mexican housemaid, substitute for mother) is making scrambled eggs for me. The only kind of breakfast I've had since I was 9. Scrambled eggs and herb tea. Blood on the sheets. Such a fabulous morning.
I was a child that smiled. I was the smiling daughter of two loving parents. I smiled and I smiled until my gums bled. That wasn't something my parents told me to do. I just knew that everyone expected it. And I knew that I'd gain from it.
Now I don't smile as much as I used to. Been there, done that-kinda thing. But when I do, it's with a purpose. Because I know, as I knew then, that a smile is a kind of currency. You smile- you get something back. Do I sound like a terrible person?
Come to think of it, my family must be the biggest cliché that's ever lived in a Silver Lake mansion. I've got a daddy who's almost never at home, since he's so busy doing business and fucking beautyful women in hotel rooms. I've got a mum who's almost always at home but never really there, often letting time pass by in bed with her best friends Xanax and Klonopin, and a cat with the intriguing name Mr Whiskers.
And I've got myself, premature teenager combining healthy grades with unhealthy leisure time.
We're really living it, we're living the american dream, right?
L gave me a fortune cookie today. He got it at some greasy chinese restaurant. Anyhow, he obviously thought it was a good idea to give it to me. Of course he understood I'd never eat it. (I don't eat sugar)but I kind of appreciated the gesture though. So I broke it and looked at the message inside. Your love will last forever. L looked at me. – Will it? – Nothing lasts forever. Hey, dont touch me.
God, this just might be the biggest lie of my life.
I keep thinking about David Lynch’s desciption of the L.A light.
I arrived in L.A. at night, so it wasn’t until the next morning, when I stepped out of a small apartment on San Vicente Boulevard, that I saw this light. And it thrilled my soul. I feel lucky to live with that light. . . .
Even with smog, there’s something about that light that’s not harsh, but bright and smooth. It fills me with the feeling that all possibilities are available. I don’t know why. It’s different from the light in other places.
Dear David, the light has nothing to do with the sun or the sky. It comes from the people on the streets, inside cars, on the bars, at partys. They radiate. They are blinded by their supposed bright future. That’s where that special L.A light comes from.
Woke up at someones floor in a house which I later found was located in the outskirts of Silver Lake. I was lying with my face right down on the black shag rug and I could see blonde hair and stains from unknown liquids on it. Sitting up I realized why my head felt like Dresen post 1945, on the table; a big pile of white powder.
Fuck, did it again, obviously. While searching for one of my Margiela glass slippers (oh, the irony) I heard sounds from a nearby room, on a round bed, a woman with huge silicons and long blonde hair was slowly fucking some guy. The only sound was her heavy breathing. I think the guy was asleep, or maybe passed out. Thought for a second about joining in but then realized, I'm not really into plastics.
Was this the remains of an afterparty? Must have been a good one, considering the bite marks on my neck and the empty bottles everywhere. I left witout my left shoe, and if some prince finds it, he can keep it.
Love this time of the year. Browsing through zillions pictures from the fashion weeks in NY, London and Paris(altough we'll have to wait for that one a couple of weeks more).
LA Fashion Week is in two weeks. Such a sad excuse for a fashion week. People here don't know how to dress, that's for sure. But they never say no to an opportunity to flash their new abs/surgeries/ lovers.
But nevermind the sarcastic tone, I'm probably going to be there. We all will, drowning in free drinks and white powder, la-di-da.
Pic: Burberry Prorsum ss2010. Gotta have this. Avy, what do you think?
Yesterday after school I met mom at the Intelligentsia at W Sunset Blvd– she obviously wanted to play the mother and daughter game again. And since I wanted to make her satisfied, and not turn to dad with her concerns regarding me and my night time habits, I thought; allright.
Sitting there, sipping our bitter organic morrocan mint, the silence was only broken by moms bizarre statements about the my appearance(she doesn’t like ripped jeans, although I tried to tell her that what I paid for them is equivalent of the price of a small car), or about Obama (she doesn’t like him either). Myself, looking around, hoping not to meet ‘anyone I know’, browsing google for different ways to commit suicide on my iphone.
Mom’s staring at the other customers, and in particular their lattes and cappuccinos, raising her eyebrows in chock of the thought of so many calories at one time.
– So, Wins, how’s school?
– It’s great! (instantly turning to lie mode) My teachers love me and…
As I continue telling her exactly what she wants to hear, I see her mind drifting off. She’s staring at the other guests again. And when I’m finished;
– I’m so glad that everything is going well for you
Then we leave, relieved and my mom assured that she’s a mother, a real mother, and that our relation is nice and, of course, normal.