Sasha Is a Monster

Have hired a weekend writer over on Evil Beet because it’s patently unhealthy for me to be working seven days a week with no vacation evereverever. I know this. I need to deal with my workaholism, and this is a first step.

She’s a talented writer. She has that rare (and unteachable) ability to tug at your heartstrings even (especially?) when the subject is nothing in particular. She’s raw without being sloppy. She’ll do well and I’m not at all concerned about her competence. I’m worried about me.

I’m sitting at home realizing that I have no fucking clue what one actually does with free time. I work every second of every day. I can’t not work. I own a TV, and I’m trying to watch it right now, and it’s going poorly. It’s muted, but it’s on. These are the humble beginnings of my slackerdom.

I have a visceral urge to write a business plan. For what? I don’t know. But I am internally itchy. I’m all buzzy. Something must be accomplished immediately or I’ll just implode.

Got about halfway through an episode of The Rachel Zoe Project. She’s fascinating, and not just in that everyone around her, including her husband, seems to tolerate her obvious bulimia without challenge. It happens to me three or four times a year: the realization that, stripped of its social-ladder bullshit and viewed as a visual art, couture fashion is stunning and hugely engaging. Then I promptly forget and sneer at all things fashion week for a good while.

Maybe I can go to weekend fashion design school.

Jesus, God, it’s starting. See? This is how I ended up with a completely unnecessary MBA. The total inability to sit quietly with free time.

I already gave my mother strict instructions to sabotage any attempts I make to apply to and/or enroll in law school, even if it involves the commission of a postal-service-related felony.

I need a new project.

Anna: know what i was really hoping for in the debate?
me: an assassination?
Anna: for Palin to call Gwen “Michelle”
me: ha

In my Facebook mail today, from Matthew Felker, regarding this:

Cute post.. very flattering…. we have guys at new wave ent production company for the show…. sifting through the web every day.. I got shit from my producing partners all day for it.. hahah.. say hello next time you see me. Im nice I promise. ;) I felt obligated to write you.. I find it so interesting how fast you can find someone and connect with them because of the internet. Good luck with your blog!!
Best
Matthew

We corresponded a bit after that, and he seems to be just about the most down-to-earth, unpretentious, kind-hearted drop-dead-gorgeous guy on the planet.

And all I can think is that, like, if he was made aware of my rantings and ravings about how amazing he is, then Sophie Monk was probably alerted to the same post, where I basically said her thighs were big, and, no matter how she tried to play it off, that probably hurt her feelings. I know it would have hurt mine.

These types of experiences, while fascinating, are an unfortunate reminder that the people I spend my life being mean to are not, in actuality, the caricatures to whom I am — in my mind — being mean. They’re real people, with real feelings, who are impacted by the words I write. In some sense, society has made them caricatures with their cooperation, and, usually, encouragement. Is that level of fame a lifestyle I would actively pursue? No. Do I get to be carelessly cruel to these people because they have made a different lifestyle choice? I don’t know the answer to that.

In some sense, they know what they’re getting into the instant they sign with an agent, or show up at an audition or shoot a pilot. And, in some sense, they don’t know. It’s impossible to know. Celebrity is an unknowable beast of a thing, caged and raging and well-fed.

Sophie, I’m genuinely sorry if I hurt your feelings.

Matthew, I’d genuinely like to marry you and have all of your babies. Just FYI.

The Bill Harris Holosync Intro file. From Heidi. It washes over me like the hand of Jesus Christ himself. It is the drug I have been craving. I have to go get wasted on it now. Oh, Billy. You’re probably completely insane, but you’re my heroin.

My dear friend Heidi took pity on me and offered to rip a new copy of Bill Harris’s Holosync CDs and FTP the files to me. I feel like an angel just showed up at my front door with a bucket full of heroin and a shiny new needle.

Our conversation as the files are coming in across the internets:

Me: Oh, great, I got the first one. Thank you! Now can you send me the one where he’s talking?
Heidi: The one where he’s talking? Sash, that’s not the one that’s supposed to help expand your mind. You’re supposed to listen to all the other ones. The one where he’s talking just explains how the other ones work to put you in a deep meditative state. You’ve totally missed the point.
Me: You don’t understand. The sound of his voice is my drug. I just love listening to him talk. It’s the most reliably comforting sound in the world to me.
Heidi: You are so weird.
Me: Just send the file, Heidi. Send the file now.
Heidi: But the CDs aren’t supposed to be about the talking parts, they’re about the …
Me: Are you sending the file or what?

So I’m currently waiting for the one where he’s talking to come across the YouSendIt.com server. Heidi’s uploading it right now, somewhere in the too-distant lands of Los Angeles, and I’m refreshing my email every twenty seconds like a fucking fiend waiting to be notified that I can download the file. I feel like I just paged my dealer and I’m waiting for him to show and I keep parting the shades and peering through the window hoping to catch a glimpse of his headlights coming up the street, convinced that if I linger too long the neighbors will call the cops.

Need. My. Drug.

I don’t know what to do about the guy leaving perverse sexual comments on a year-old Amanda Bynes thread using the name “raper.”

Like, how threatened can you be by an individual who thinks that the English language refers to someone who rapes as a “raper”?

I know I should ban him, but the whole thing’s just so funny.

raper
krj@aol.com | 205.188.116.203

stick your 12 inch cock down her throat while your buddies feel her up especially those sexy legs of hers

See?

Like, I’m sure Amanda Bynes is way less scared of your twelve-inch cock than she is of what your verbal skills are doing to your school’s standardized test scores.

I know I am.