December 21st, 2008

2013, cyd, new

"the language is leaving me"

what the fuck. i don't know what day it is again. i wake up and don't know where i am. i get up and then fall down. i am at the mercy of these medications. and all i can do is bitch about it.

gods is it bright in this room.

taken care of. blinds closed, coffee, water and my music DVD playing in the drive.

this holiday should be over by now. and i don't even have obligations. doc fights me at every turn. like it's my fault it's bloody xmas. and i'd just as soon give it up.

i've tried to xmas it up. but no cookie baking and the general malais of doc makes it hard. i want to have a temper tantrum and put the tree away and wipe away every xmas thing and consider the 25th just another work holiday.

and another uplifting post by me. i'm tired of being the cheerful one. doc can just revel in his misery. and if he doesn't pick out an xmas present or two then we won't even have that little thing to do. i'm not wrapping my gifts until i know he's gotten something for himself.

did i mention i fucking hate the holidays? even with no family around to drive me nuts, i still hate the holiday.

Annie Lennox - No More "I Love Yous"
2013, cyd, new

make-up post

that last entry was really shitty. i had just gotten up and picked up the computer to make a post. and look what it was. don't talk to me or let me talk before my coffee.

now i've found the channel that plays xmas music constantly. that has cheered me up considerably. i may curse the holiday, but the trappings of it get right to the soft spot of my heart.

i know a lot of you have to spend the day in crowded stores, and i wish you the best. shopping for gifts can be a lot of fun. hell on the feet, but fun.

and i hope the snow storms aren't too rough on you.
2013, cyd, new

A Visit from Saint Vicious

A Visit From Saint Vicious

'Twas the night before New Year's, when everyone's drunk,
Not a rocker was stirring, not even a punk;
The baggies were hung by the phono with care
In hopes that Saint Vicious, yes Sid, would be there:

The Ramones were sold-out, so we stayed in our sheds,
While visions of slammers still danced in our heads;
Suzie with hash pipe and I, dressed in black,
Had just settled down for a long playing track

When out in the alley there arose such a clatter
I crawled from the couch to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I lurched with a crash,
Tearing a poster I'd had from the Clash.

The strobe light, the acid, the new-snorted snow
Gave a luster of Day-Glo to objects below;
When what to my unfocused eyes should appear
But a miniature stage, and a band I could hear,

With a singer who danced; by the pogo he did
I knew in a moment that it must be Saint Sid.
More rapid than Springsteen, their rhythm it came.
And he snarled, and he shouted, and called them by name:

"Now Strummer! Biafra! Now Joey Ramone!
On Bators! On Patti! On Cook and on Jones-
To the top of the amps, kick over the wall!
Now anarchy, anarchy, anarchy all!"

As punks that before a rock concert got high,
When they all started to pogo, mount to the sky,
So up to the window, the rockers, they flew
With powerful speakers, and Saint Vicious, too.

And then in a twinkling I heard on the trunk
The swearing and cursing of each famous punk.
As I drew on my pipe, and was turning around,
Down the vent shaft Saint Vicious, he came with a bound;

He was dressed all in black from his head to his toe,
And a chain ran from his shoulder to regions below.
A black leather jacket was flung on his back,
And he looked like a heretic freed from the rack.

His eyes, how they flashed! His smile, how merry!
He staggered right in, and his breath smelled of sherry;
His darkly blue hair was drawn up in a spike,
And the rest of the punks were attired alike.

A portable mike he held tight in his hand;
"Holiday in the Sun" issued forth from the band,
To be followed by "Anarchy in the U.K.",
"God Save the Queen", "EMI", and "My Way".

The band played so loud, albums fell from my shelf,
And I gasped when I saw him, in spite of myself.
A wink of his eye, and some dope for my head
Soon gave me to know, I should pogo instead.

He spoke but a word, and that was "Ramones",
And gave us all tickets, and hash for the day!
Then putting white powder inside of his nose
And spitting it out, he said: "Fuck all discos!"

He sprang to his stage, to the band gave a shout,
And away they all jammed, 'til Saint Vicious passed out;
But I heard him exclaim, with the last of his might,

i try to post this every year. if i had kids, i would tell them this on xmas.