Ink

A friend of mine gave me a heads up a couple weeks ago that the Terrible Twos were looking for a good, fast drummer. I was going to look into it but then I realized it was a long time ago that I gave up true passions for fake ones.

It reminds me of when I got my tattoos. Why did I get tattoos when I already had scars? Both self-inflicted and accidental. Also I think that paying for scarification is a little useless, it seems more satisfactory if you do it yourself.

Ann Arbor is so redundant, I wish I was back in Montreal. You run into the same people all the time and everywhere, nothing is new or interesting, the most beautiful and interesting people who are here I know are here only temporarily. I don't know why I bother ever coming back sometimes, it seems like a creative purgatory.

I've been back in Ann Arbor for a little while now. Today was cold in that bitter way where it's all everyone talks about. Yesterday, it rained in a voilent downpour -- the kind of downpour that forces everyone to bond. Shared umbrellas, stomping in puddles, being carried across streams, saving each other from blind incoming traffic, getting drenched together... it was like a forced movie.

There should be an all smoking cafe somewhere in this shit town. If I have to sit at Rendezvous again with those stupid hookahs or wait til after 5 for Cafe Felix I think I'm going to take a frat boy and run him over with his Hummer.

I don't see Anna anymore, by the way, but it's also because I've been so busy and gone. She remains in the back of my mind, I forget to look for her.

I walked behind her for about a block. I usually look down when I walk, a lot of people don't clean up their dog shit. I also don't like looking people in the eye, or seeing them from the corner of my eye. I just happened to look up and she was there. I was too shy to run up to her. She disappeared around S. Divsion.

It's amazing what people will say in your presence just because they don't know you. I have sat by the most intimate of conversations in public places and have heard some of the weirdest shit just because the person telling the secret takes a quick look around, doesn't recognize me, and deems it safe to then continue on with their confessions. Scat sessions, infidelities, pedophilia, colitis, shoplifting, Klonopin induced threesomes, unwanted pregnancies, Rohypnol... The problem with this is that this is not Chicago. This is not New York. This is not fucking Tokyo. This is little incest ridden Ann Arbor where everyone is fucking everybody and if you fuck someone you are within one degree of having fucked the person next to you.

I will say that the girls who work at all the indie townie stores are really cute. I also know all their business. I even found one girl's livejournal because she forgot to clear the history of her browser before she left Espresso Royale on State Street. Which probably isn't uncommon and isn't a big deal if it weren't for the fact that she is on the other side of the counter from me on a daily basis.

Yes, I am a nosey little dipshit.

I do feel a pang of guilt, so I decided to start this to record my own embarrassing daily atrocities with relish and vigor and boredom.

I'm pretty anti-social, but I love the public arena. I enjoy going to cafes and reading and smoking a Camel, but not too often to become too noticed and to be considered a regular. I love observing people, learning about them. Unfortunately yet fortunately, I've caught the attention of this girl.

It's hard to explain. I tried writing about it privately, but then I realized I needed someone to read it. So here it is.

She vaguely reminds me of the Alphaville Anna Karina, her facial features are the same and so is her hair.

I guess it sounds pathetic to be so unnerved by having a girl be interested in me, but the problem is that my last serious relationship ended with my girlfriend slashing up her arms when she was abroad for a year... Then after that I was in such a state of absolute anger and grief that I was terrible to a couple of women, I was seriously emotionally abusive towards them. It was inexcusable and horrible. And I need to face up to the fact that I was a big torn asshole. So then I decided to just be solitary for awhile.

And so this girl, Anna (we'll call her), noticed that I was reading Celine's Journey to the End of the Night. But what she decided to comment on was that I was wearing a Kangol hat. She has terrible, terrible posture. So when she stands, her hair slips over her bangs and into her eyes.

I was sitting at Cafe Ambrosia, as far away from the window as I could get.