Just those links that made me laugh or loiter or lament why I continue to live as I troll from the exile of my own personal Elba with my morning coffee.
I’m feeling snarky and mean this morning – haven’t had enough coffee and my gym schedule is being thrown off by having to do some driving and hair salon duty with the Mother-unit – which will be lovely, I’m sure, but before my brain is further addled by hairspray and perm solution fumes, I wanted to do my first morning zeitbite – which I’m thinking I’m going to do daily. But maybe not. What’s the difference. I live in a cave and the world is full of mean people and shitheads so … yeah, we need one more bad-attitude daily with pics of near naked men. My luck, this shitty attitude side of me will catch on – it usually does – it’s the Good Witch in me no one can stand. Well, Galinda this, my friends.
MACAULAY CULKIN IS NO LONGER HOME ALONE.
Because I live with people who have yet to discover that the holiday season is the most GUNderful time of the year; when more suicides than at any other period occur; that period during which family and personal traumas are accumulated until one is eventually despairing and defeated enough to either off one’s self or a group of deserving strangers; I was FORCED to watch parts of “Home Alone” starring Macauley when it was just his Mom and Dad fucking him, before he had done enough drugs and been butt-reamed by enough movie execs to turn addict. He’s been wandering around seedy New York nightspots and leaking cum out of his mouth in Terry Richardson photos(CLICK HERE FOR HIS PHOTO DIARY SITE) while shooting heroin for a long time, but now, he’s making a comeback in a pizza-themed rip-off of a Warhol Band and if BuzzFeed(CLICK HERE) and Vulture(CLICK HERE) are writing about it – IT MUST BE TRUE.
I don’t have a lot of time this morning – which is unusual since, here in Elba, I rarely do anything but scribble stories and ideas onto expensive French notepads, the contents of which eventually are transcribed and transformed into computer bytes on flashdrives where I keep all my stories and dreams that I might send them off to Literary Agents who might – in return – have the pleasurable masturbatory experience of reading the first five sentences and saying, “I think not, darling” and neglect to ever send me that rejection so I wait in a state of endless anticipation for the one who will recognize my beauty and worth and love me at last – oh wait – I’ve conflated and confused my failure to find a publisher with my inability to find and ineptitude at love – well, same fucking thing, except, when it comes to men, at least every once in a while I can find a desperate down-low married man with three children who is happy to get a bit on the side. WAIT – ARE THERE DOWN LOW LITERARY AGENTS WHO’LL REPRESENT ME AND THEN PRETEND THEY DON’T KNOW ME IN PUBLIC PLACES?
Fuck it. It’s the holiday season. Which I hate. Maybe if this was going to be waiting under my tree I could get into it. It’s from the Tumblr HEROBOIS (CLICK HERE) which is definitely not safe for work – unless your job is being in Macaulay Culkin’s new band – then go for for it.