So it’s been a while since I’ve written one of my laborious and socially offensive columns of hate.
One thing that springs to mind that has happened in my absence, perhaps more terrifying than any flood, earthquake or fire, is the rise of a demon.
A demon so wicked, so socially pungent that she has not only conquered the internet and radio, but her face also burnt a hole through my television screen last night.
Now this demon, at first glance may appear, well, (slightly) human. If I were to birth a demon, however, I would most likely not name it Rebecca.
Rebecca Black.
A fairly downplayed name for a demon, I believe something slightly more badass like lord deathscar would be fitting. If I were to birth a demon it would be one bad motherfucker, and would not ride in cars going 10 miles an hour against a badly blended greenscreen.
Her….well, ‘her’ parents were either admirably modest or unaware of the horror that the fruit of their loins would one day bring upon society.
Anyway
The interview, in the true style of modern prime-time current affairs shows, portrayed the demon as a sort of victim, referring to her as an ‘internet sensation’, at which point i choked on my own vomit, died, went to hell heaven, fought my way out of that shit and continued on with the program.
Rather than discussing the demon’s musical inspirations, well, actually I already know those anyway
1. Knowing what day of the week it is
2. Enjoying uttering the word fun, many many times.
3. Paying children to ride in your car with you (memories, memories)
4. Epitomizing death
5. Being happy with the idea of kissing your dignity goodbye and living a life of social seclusion and crippling loneliness.
Where was I, yes, rather than discussing the demons musical inspirations, the interviewer decided to steer it more in the direction of Rebecca being a victim of cyber bullying.
Uh oh! sozzzzzzzz
Apparently she has gotten comments such as
‘I hope you cut yourself’
‘I hope you go anorexic so you can be pretty’
‘I hope you die’
FUCKING LOL
The people who made these comments may as well have asked her out for fucking afternoon tea compared to what I’d say to her. Maybe even bought her some motherfucking pumpkin scones and some fucking english breakfast tea to wash those motherfuckers down, compared to the verbal hell I would like to unleash on this slimy hellish being.
That’s all for now, I’ve stopped taking my pills though so posts should become more frequent, furious and threatening.
The annual wank festival splendour in the grass is over and i decided to just get in a tiny bit more bitching before the hype dies down.
Unfortunately I could not be there, but I was called from a few friends, directly from the Strokes performance.
Whilst I was lying in bed crying listening to julian belt out a rousing rendition of ’ Take it or leave it’, I swear, I really do, that sometime after the chorus i heard him mutter ‘i love katie’ under his breath.
That cheeky man!
He shouldnt be doing that, in a public arena.
I guess sometimes love can overpower professionalism.
Anyway, to everyone reading this that was present at the festival i just have a quick message:
Hey fags guys. I hope you lost your valuables had a great time, and you’re stone broke it was worth the ticket price. I’ll kill you I’m happy for you and hopefully you’ll all miss out next year I’ll see you there next year.
and i WILL see you there next year, and I will make it my personal mission to reach past your ray bans and indie scarves and wipe those smug smiles off your faces.
On another completely irrelevant note, it was raining today.
I like rain because I am a depressed, melancholy person and the rain reminds me of my tears, falling from the sky, ruining children’s birthday parties and causing fatal car accidents on the highway.
Sun, however, reminds me of happiness and pretty people with tans.
If only I was cool and looked like this
But on really bad days it reminds me of cancer and melanomas.
Naturally I couldn’t be more ecstatic about this fact, as i fucking hate everyone love my peers with all my heart.
I would like to blame this for my lack of updates, but really I’ve just been people smuggling indonesian hookers really lazy.
On looking at my page again, though, I discovered that at the bottom of this page there is a link to another blog, entitled ‘penis’.
The managers at tumblr obviously sensed my lack of class and neglect of decency, and came to the flattering conclusion that me and the penis writer were on the same page. Which is correct.
Ma would be proud.
On a completely unrelated note, splendour in the grass is rapidly approaching, accompanied by a fiery burning sensation within my soul.
As previously mentioned on my recent splendour-related post, the fact that I haven’t got a ticket gets on my nerves more than people of different cultures finding hair in my food, or people that clap at the end of movies.
The injustice is almost palpable.
Or maybe that’s just the stench of the rotting corpses in my attic burnt toast im eating.
I do however have one musical event to look forward to.
30th October, the riverstage.
That is where and when I will cry tears of joy as my ears are blessed with the scrumptious sounds of Chicago, America and Peter Frampton.
You may laugh and dismiss these groups as simply being ‘gay’ or ‘old person music’, but I hear your grandpa is a cool guy and I look forward to seeing him there.
Though the crowd may reek of hospital, instead of alcohol the audience will be refreshed by pots of earl grey tea, and the afterparty will be at Yeronga RSL, the music will be amazing and varicose veins are sexy i’ve always been fond of old people anyways.
So all of you going to Splendour, enjoy your crowds of nonchalant hipsters, but while you are there think of me and how many grey haired friends I will be making at MY concert.
ha ha! Regretting your splendour tickets now aren’t you.
you sound like someone that hates small children, disabilities and puppies.”
I of course was flattered, and couldn’t agree more.
I am obviously doing a good job on the blog, because that is the exact message I want to send to judgemental strangers.
One thing I wasn’t pleased about however, was that this was an indicator as to how little she truly knows about me.
‘Sounds like’ someone that hates those things?
Taylor, Taylor, Taylor.
So, as this was going down I was listening to a bit of Biggie, and singing along to a song elegantly entitled ‘Big Booty Hoes’.
I did at one point experience a bit of a gangster phase, during which I indulged in some Biggie Smalls, Tupac, Run DMC, kind of stuff.
This thankfully came to an abrupt halt when it was brought to my attention just how ridiculous I looked rollerblading down Gladstone road, with a band-aid on my face and ghetto blaster precariously balanced on my shoulder.
Like american pop singer Clay Aiken, it just didn’t look quite right.
Here i am:
The bad old days.
That being left in the past though, I am now back to my old self, and about as badass as Hermione Granger at a Tupperware party.
I was without money, motivation , and all my sluts friends were busy.
As a result I ended up more bored than John Mayer in a convent.
So naturally I got to thinking about Julian, and how he is more beautiful than a bouquet of flowers made of diamonds floating in a sea of holy water.
I then read an article about a gig he did last night, with the strokes, at the John Peel Stage in Glastonbury.
Apparently it became so highly charged that he ended up jumping off of the fucking stage barrier into a sea of lucky little bitches.
Meanwhile, thousands of miles away,
Katie taylor sits at home, watching Dharma and Greg and wishing she had a chair and a rope something interesting to partake in.
And the most frustrating part is that, as far as I know, he hasn’t been kidnapped, which tells us that the fans that were privileged enough to experience this unfathomably orgasmic event were obviously either a pissweak bunch of pussies, or didn’t have access to a sack, smoke bomb and reel of masking tape.
The world we live in.
But whatever, you know. One day Justice will be done, and I’ll meet him, and we’ll be
but, until then I’ll be:
PS. PS. PS. PS. PS.!
strokes are recording a new album, to follow first impressions of earth ,supposed to have started in January, but you know how it is. musicians. pff
Apparently a realistic possibility for a release date is January 2011..and even then album releases are always put back, but fuck it. i can wait for something that will probably be the highlight of my pathetic little existence.
After a successful career spanning two decades, the release of seven studio albums and SIXTEEN fucking Aria awards, i just don’t understand. Like a three-eyed albino child in an oven, it just doesn’t make sense. They obviously never really became universally ‘cool’ or were a massive hit with hipsters (thank fuck), but i always really liked their stuff.
I do however hold the opinion that Bernard Fanning’s attempts at a solo career crashed and burned worse than that orphanage i torched a twenty car pileup at a petrol station.
Bands always seem to break up or musicians pass away before i get to go to a live show of theirs.
It has happened so frequently throughout my life that I am beginning to regard it as some kind of sick joke on gods part, presumably to punish me for my porn addiction atheism.
It is because of this that i have very rarely been able to meet the musicians i admire.
One of the only people i have actually successfully hunted down met is Michael Tomlinson, frontman of slightly wanky indie group Yves Klein Blue. And they’re not even that big. And that was years ago.
That meeting did however serve as a somewhat worrying wake up call for me, as it proved that the next time I meet someone remotely famous/notable I am going to temporarily morph into a Jekyll & Hyde type of character, adopt a maniacal grin and develop a tendancy to not seem very cool.
Figure A:
Picture something like this, except less asian, less male, and forty times as fucked.
I was sitting in my room today, consumed by my overwhelming feelings of loneliness and despair, and decided it was the perfect time to put on some Jeff Buckley.
Nothing screams crestfallen teenager like listening to his melancholy wail whilst one is sitting on ones bedroom floor, feeling sorry for oneself.
Don’t get me wrong,
I have one friend many friends and his name is cocaine people to talk to, today was just one of those days.
To better express my feelings, i decided to do this artistic representation of myself:
It would be so great if Jeff Buckley was still alive.
Even greater than if i hadn’t killed my neighbour had gotten a ticket to splendour.
The talent he posessed may never be equalled, but thanks to the recent influx of superior musical minds such as alleged hermaphrodite Lady Gaga and chanting foetus Justin Bieber, we are getting that much closer.
{For Jeff Buckley fans who may be reading this, check out Patrick Watson. Specifically his song ‘luscious life’. His voice gives me more pleasure than kicking sand in the eyes of puppies}
No I don’t actually hate puppies. I love them. They taste great.
Another thing I feel obligated to mention in this otherwise meaningless post is that everyone really needs to stop comparing Eugene (my aforementioned boyfriend, see post#1) to Julian Casablancas.
I have sent 764 items of hate mail informing Julian that for as long as he is married, I have no interest in seeing/communicating with him.
He has not yet replied, although this is understandable, as everyone deals with a broken heart differently.
Anyway I find these allegations utterly bizarre, and Eugene is very offended.
I took this photo of him (Eugene) the other day, before we went to a romantic dinner and movie.
He is much more of a gentleman than Julian Casablancas.
He, unlike Julian, would never marry some silly american before first flying to Australia and GETTING TO KNOW ME AND GIVING ME THE CHANCE I DESERVE.
I do not care for you Julian. First divorce that mistake you married and then we’ll talk.
For now, I am very content with Eugene, as is shown below. I had to cover my face because I blinked but it’s still obvious that it is me.
I was watching antiques roadshow television yesterday, and my mind had begun to wander, which happens very frequently as I have the attention span of a deranged gnat.
So as my subconscious drifted onto more pressing topics such as food, school and my gut wrenching sadness, the latter reminded me of a nightmarish reality:
I DID NOT FUCKING GET A FUCKING TICKET TO FUCKING SPLENDOUR IN THE FUCKING GRASS.
To those of you who got tickets though, I hope you die have a great time.
It’s not like i cried over it.
(Actually, missing out on a splendour ticket hit me like a cloud of pepper spray against the eyeball of my heart.)
To make things clearer, I have created a diagram illustrating the situation.
Here is a photo of my friend todd, a perfect specimen of the typical splendour-attending ticket-afforder:
And below that , both hierarchically and literally, is me:
So seeing as I shan’t be seeing him (Julian Casablancas) in person anytime soon, for now the closest I will come to licking him being in his presence will be through the watching of youtube and tv.
I also enjoy tv because the background noise makes me feel popular.
So, to begin, here is (the strokes) song juicebox.
Its just the kind of song that makes you want to ditch your pants, get drunk, and chase your granny with a taser.
Perhaps I enjoy this video because of the glorious suggestion of beastiality between the old woman cleaning the floor and her dog.
I’m not sure if its the drool, or maybe the foul stench that accompanies them as they enter a room, but there sure is something downright enchanting about dogs.
…………..
Eh fuck, alright, it won’t let me paste the video link.
Well I’m off to cut myself plant some flowers now, but
