She Doesn't Live Here Anymore...

This Imploding Heart has moved. Please find us from now on at

www.noematic.org/implode

promt your friends and relatives to do the same. We don't want anyone left wandering around lost now, do we? No. I don't think we do. (and if anyone knows how to do that autoforward thing, they should let me know.)

we have the facts

Thanks to Molly for this. And to J for the continual gentle political ass kicking. It's suprisingly easy to write an email that says "Hello, I oppose. Please think of me when you vote.". I just hope no one calls and wants to talk about how I feel, because I'll break down and start wailing "You're killing babies and moms and dads and carpenters and miners and shoe salesmen with money I gave you and now we're all going to go to hell! No killing people! Says God!"

Whew!

Okay now.

1: Big chunk of uncomfortable metal in my mouth until my new golden tooth is ready. Tastes funny and is painful.

2: Put a big check mark next to life goal number 761. Bailey Coy books puts the first line of a novel on their sandwich board every day, and if you guess the book, you get 20 percent off any one thing in the store. I have wanted to know the book of the day since I moved to this city, and on Saturday, I did. It was Running With Scissors ( I bought Brief Interviews With Hideous Men with my discount, and ended up getting The Danish Girl and J.D. Salinger's Nine Stories. I'm ripping through fiction these days.)

3: I accidently turned the brightness knob instead of the volume/power knob on my television, so I woke up to the sounds of Sesame Street this morning. It made my day.

with your nuclear boots and your drip dry gloves

oh dentisto, make my mouth all full of gold.

as all the cotton veined numb wears off it starts give off hints that its going to hurt like a son of a bitch pretty soon. it also makes me sleepy and irritable and itchy legged. See Also: i hate everything.

So can I be in your wedding or what? I'll be that weird thing where you stand by the guestbook and badger people into writing down their names. It'll be great. Please? I'll buy you a George Foreman Mini Grill.

It's the year to be hated

It happened like this.

I was in bed trying to finish the book I had suspected would be terrible, but was hoping would do something to convince me otherwise when I heard them.

"Faauuuuckkkkkk Maaan! Fauuuucckkkk!"

It's 1:30am. The parking lot under my first floor window is rented out to doctors and is frequently patrolled for unauthorized vehicles these days. It's unlikely that a late working MD is making this kind of noise. There is a huge car door slam and again with the...


"Faaauuuuaaauuuuaaaauuuuuuuucckkk!"

I pop out of bed and peek through the window. The fauck guy is blonde, short, greasy and pissed. He's beating the shit out of the cutlass cierra they arrived in. A guy I've decided to call Champ is trying to calm him down.

Guy number 3 is the most interesting. He's most certainly wearing a little leather skirt that's short enough to expose the bottoms of his ass cheeks, but he's not really in drag. He has long man hair and Mister T arms. Big Fucking Huge Arms. He's wearing a leather vest, unbuttoned with no shirt and he has something of a beer gut. He makes a grunting sound at random but doesnt say much else. Once Fauck stops beating up the car, they all retreat on foot onto the stairwell that leads between Terry Ave and lower Howell.

Things of this nature happen on a semi regular basis in my neighborhood. No big deal, but for some reason, these guys scared the living fuck out of me. I had run upstairs while Fauck was still beating up the Cutlass and tapped on my manager's door but there was no answer. I decided I was over-reacting and went back to bed.

Two hours later, I'm finishing up my uber disappointing book when I hear someone muttering in spanish in the parking lot. I turned out my light and moved to the window. It was Mister T, and he was saying 'Grando!' over and over again. I tried to peek through the curtains without being spotted by my leather skirted companion as he pulled a duffle bag out of the Cutlass and sat it on the trunk.

"Grando! Grando!" He unzipped the bag and pulled out:

The Biggest, Blackest, Rubber Cock I've Ever Seen In My Life.

Huge. Perhaps you are saying to yourself, 'Come on, Sonya. It was the middle of the night. It was dark. You were hallucinating.' and I will say to you, No. Remember how the lights never fucking go off in that parking lot, creating in my apartment a constant state of brightness? Mm Hm. Big Giant Black Rubber Cock. The thing was bigger around than my freaking forearm and just about as long. Tip of first finger to Elbow. It had some kind of loop on the end of it, so I wouldn't be suprised if it comes with some sort of tripod support system. Mister T picked it up like a rifle. I could see the skin ripples they put on them to make them more realistic, this was getting really fucking weird.

"Grando! Ha Ha! Grando!"

Mister T and Grando retreated to the stairwell and out of sight, ass cheeks bouncing all the way. Again, I don't know why, but this scared the hell out of me. I figure there's really nothing going on though, so I take down the plate numbers for good measure and go to bed.

6:30am. My first alarm has just gone off and I'm drifting back to sleep when I hear in the distance,

"Grando! Mucho Mucho Grando! HaHa!"

I roll out of bed yet again and look out the window. It's Mister T and his amazingly terrifying buddy Grando. He started up the Cutlass and drove off. I don't know what happened to the other guys.

the end.

testing test test

you can always be down or out

Here's the deal.

I will use your product for free, and you will get paid by marketing people to bombard me with advertisements. I expect this. This is reasonable. there is no free lunch.

However, if I pay for your service, I expect to be left alone. This, hotmail and yahoo, is why I will not be purchasing your fancyness. I will give you twenty dollars, you will continue to bombard me. I refuse.

(It looks like this imploding heart will be moving soon. Thank you, thank you, thank you to those who offered to be a foster parent. You're better than eating pancakes at three in the morning while sitting on the kitchen floor, and that's pretty damn good.)

the skies are black, the light can ride you, like having a motorcycle stuck inside you

So now that I've commited myself to cutting my own hair nine times in a row before I decide that I suck at it, I find that it wants cutting all of the time. Anyway, Kate fixed this one after we played trivial pursuit, so it's much, much better than the cut I gave myself in the alley. Don't worry though, the hole is still alive and kicking. (speaking of kicking, the internet is kicking my ass at solitaire. It's a totally different game when you can't cheat.)

Now for the great confession. You know how I took a year off theater? Yeah? Remember that? Well I only made it six and a half months. More details about the tiny little project I've braided into my hair to follow. It was inevitable. Either take on a project or take on anti depressants. I apologize to everyone who asked me to manage for them and was brutally shot down(bret, carys, whathisface from that party with the beautiful seventeen year old, richter, random bathhouse email lady, laura...) with my false cries of "year off!". We all knew I'd crack under the pressure. bring on the mockery. I'll make out with your boyfriend and push your cat down the stairs.*

*or not. probably not, actually. Unless you're the bitch who almost ran me over in the crosswalk yesterday. If so, prepare to have a shoe indention on your pretty little face, baby.

because sometimes we have nothing better to do than play online solitaire and take pictures of our knees.




My great new question is this. Why is it so freaking hard to get my hands on a cheap, sturdy, wooden CD rack? I'll tell you why... radio isotopes.

Radio Isotopes combined with my unwillingness to haul my ass down to the bus tunnel and take a metro out to the north end to trudge around a gigantic targetomartamania in search of aforementioned item. I did, however, walk down to the miniature fredmeyerama on broadway where I was once attacked by a woman buying cat food to purchase new bed sheets, a mattress pad and a new shower curtain. Watch my parents even TRY to call it 'artsy'.

In other news a woman just called my cell phone and in a kind of brooklyney accent started shouting "I kept getting calls! It was this! This number! the beeping, Oh, it was driving me crazy."

-sonya shifts down into customer service mode,even though this is a private line.-

"Ma'am, this is a cellular telephone number. There is no fax line attached to it, and no way whatsoever it would have been able to try and fax you yesterday evening. Do you understand?"

"Oh! the terrible beeping! Where is it coming from? are you doing this to me?"

I wanted to kill her, but I was extremely polite. It was just like the good ole days.