Friday, August 29, 2003

It's The Girls Are Pretty "Why Don't You All Try To Make Your Own Fucking Choices For A Few Days Instead Of Relying On Some Website That Yammers On And On About Drinking And Fisting All The Time?" Weekend!

Dear Readers of Girls Are Pretty,

Prettygirl finds you all decidedly loathesome and is certain that every last one of you is living with AIDS. Additionally, Prettygirl is going on a little "trip." And by "trip," I do mean "busride to bang-bang town." Normally, when things of this nature occur, your daily personal regression assignments are posted in advance. This time however, you can all go fuck yourselves. For those of you who have not already fallen into a corner to rock back and forth with your knees pulled up to your chin, it's going to be an exciting time of personal discovery. Because you never learn more about yourself than when you make the sort of undeniably horrible decisions you'll all be making for yourselves without much-needed guidance. On Monday, you can come back and find out what you should have done, if you are still alive or have eyes still. For now, here's today and today only. Remember, you matter to no one.



Friday, August 29, 2003

Hug A Puppy And Love It Day!

Go to the pet store and find the bin full of puppies and just pick up every last adorable wittle wuvvy dovey puppydog and hug it to your neck and your chest and kiss it and tell it how much you wuv the wittle baby puppydoggy.

Happy Hug A Puppy And Love It Day!

Thursday, August 28, 2003

Chicago, IL Day!

You think you're attractive, yes you do. You think you are so irresistably pretty that all you have to do is take off your pants and there'll be a line around the block offering to paint your vestibule. You think that you can spend and spend and spend but don't worry because if you run out of money you can just shit some. You think that no matter what miserably boring thought you might have, if it's spawned in your head it's gotta be just the most brilliant idea since they decided to spell Froot Loops with two O's instead of a "UI" in the middle. You think that your the one who isn't going to have to die. You'll be the one who won't have to experience the heartbreak of watching someone you love walk out the door, waking up in the morning and finding out the one you love isn't going to be around anymore. You think that if you had two balls bouncing around inside your mouth you'd be able to just keep on winning at Boggle and making the best margarita your roommate's ever tasted because apparently when you were six you got touched the wrong way but just because you're you the wrong way turned out to be just right and so you can understand the plight of the black man and the frustration of being judged by your wardrobe and so what if there's a big brown growth under your armpit because you don't have the time to call your destitute sister and

Happy Chicago, IL Day!

Wednesday, August 27, 2003

Fuck Till You're Taller Day!

Three inches. It may seem impossible, and it probably is, but as long as you're going at it the way you have been this week, why not shoot for a goal.

Smarter seems way too out of reach and prettier is way too easy. Fatter, well, I just don't understand how that would work really. And richer implies whores.

So just keep it up for the next 18 to 96 hours, taking breaks to get up and put a line on the doorframe of course. If the line never moves, it's okay. You two are new to this and you both dig when one of you gets up and shows the other how you walk around and touch items around the room. Just tell her:

"Let's do this, you and me, till I'm six foot three."

"But I have to go back to work tomorrow."

"Let's do this, you and me, till I'm six foot three, or until one of us has to go back to work."

"Fine," she'll say. "That's fine," she'll say. She'll say, "Okay."

Happy Fuck Till You're Taller Day!

Tuesday, August 26, 2003

Jumper (Long Lunchbreak) Day!

Coming back from Subway today, you're going to find the street surrounding your building barricaded and a crowd of heads tilted back and eyes up high. Someone's on the ledge of your building, maybe 19 floors up. She's got her hand on one of the abutments just behind her. She looks like she's afraid if she lets go she'll fall.

Your department pays you for the time you're kept out of the building due to bomb threats and fire drills, and you're certain you'll get no argument when you submit your hours for this afternoon. So you're perfectly fine with this lady (you might have ridden the elevator with her once or twice, you can't tell) staying up there as long as she wants. Perhaps she has an ex-husband in Connecticut that's being driven in to talk her down. You might get to stay out in the sunshine for the rest of the--

Whoops there she goes.

Happy Jumper (Long Lunchbreak) Day! Back to work, baby.

Monday, August 25, 2003

Wish It Were Three Months From Now, But Only If The Next Three Months End Up Being Fucking Awesome Day!

Now sucks dick. Three months from now has got to be way fucking better than now. But if you've learned one thing, it's this: No matter how bad things get, not only can they always get worse, but while they get worse you'll probably get kicked out of your apartment or something. Which might just count as things getting worse, but when it happens, you'll see, you'll be thinking, "This is totally unrelated though! This is just a random kick to the nuts!"

So, it's okay to wish it was three months from now while ceremonially burying kittens alive, then stomping on the mound of dirt until the kittens stop their muffled shrieking, as Wicca dictates. But make sure you also wish that the next three months are way bitchin'. Because if you only wish it were three months from now and your wish comes true, you might find yourself in prison (you'll have finally wigged out and killed some hookers).

But what you're hoping for is that, if the next three months rule, you'll wake up and feel all better because you'll have just finished up three good months and you'll be on top of the world. Sounds good, but if you wish it were three months from now and that the next three months uniformly rule, there's nothing to say that those bitch-goddesses up in Wicca Heaven won't decide to let the three months you skip be the last three months of happiness you'll ever get to see and have you just wake up in a tub full o' pee with a rifle pointed at your head and some lady yellin' "Now splash around!"

I know you're just trying to get through something difficult, that you just wanna get it over with. But be careful when you make a wish. Wicca really works.

Happy Wish It Were Three Months From Now, But Only If The Next Three Months End Up Being Fucking Awesome Day!

Sunday, August 24, 2003

Brother Alcoholic Calls Sister Alcoholic Day!

It's been 18 months since Jenny called Dave, 18 months of really good drinking.

"I used to call my brother every night just crying and threatening to kill myself. Drinking really sucked for me back then, I think it started after our dad died. It was just that kind of drinking where you drink until you can't feel anything anymore. Then you drink some more to try and feel something."

What changed?

"Not sure. One day, drinking just turned real good again. I met a guy, and I was afraid it all hinged on him being around. But that fell through not soon after we met and I came out fine. Just kept drinking most nights, and feeling pretty okay most days. Have a lotta friends now too."

What about your brother?

"I keep meaning to call him. I should, you know. Because I only called him at my worst hour of the night and I know he got so sick of it. It'd be nice to talk to Dave when I'm feeling okay. I can't this afternoon though. I'm away on a canoeing weekend."

It's been 3 weeks since Dave slept more than four and a half hours in a night.



You don't look so good.

"I don't sleep lately. I'll drink enough to pass out right away, but then it's like after three and a half or four hours, my body's sober and my eyes just pop open."

Maybe you should take a break for a while.

"I need to. But the sleeplessness just leaves me feeling like I'm made of ashes. And I end up drinking at night just to end the day feeling a little different than I felt all day. But then I just feel like I'm made of wet ashes."

Any idea why it all started?

"No. Well, some friends, this couple that I was really close to. They split up and they're both moving out of town. So there's been a lot of goodbye things for them over the past few weeks, lotta staying out till 4. But I do that all the time. Just sometimes, I'll have a bad week for a while. It's like there's a switch that gets flicked and all of a sudden, drinking blows. And then one day, I accidentally flick the switch the other way and drinking's okay again."


"But a little lost sleep. This is nothing. My sister's the one who needs to quit. She used to call every night threatening to eat a bunch of pills. Haven't heard from her in a while though. I called her up the last few nights, just to see if she's doing okay, but there was no answer at her house. I was always there when she'd call me at 3 in the morning."

She's away on a conoeing weekend.

Happy Brother Alcoholic Calls Sister Alcoholic Day!

Saturday, August 23, 2003

Impatiently Partying Day!

Soon the party will end and we can all go home and be with our wives and husbands, you're thinking. There's no reason to look at my watch again. I looked at it five minutes ago, and I know we've only been partying for five minutes since then because I've been watching every single second pass like a turtle through a yellow light, you're thinking. As long as I have to stand here and party, I might as well try to make the most of it, you're thinking. Look on the bright side, I may have to party all night, but there is free alcohol everywhere. And I can shout and dance, which are activities I might not have been able to catch up on had I not ended up getting stuck partying tonight, you're thinking. Why can't I ever accept the limitless possibility of every new moment in time, every word spoken to an unfamiliar face? Tonight, I might meet a man who needs my assistance in the murder of his wife, or a woman who wishes for me to cheat on my wife, or a 26 year old who doesn't know how to avoid making his girlfriend his wife, or a 34 year old who's just decided to make his wife his ex-wife, you're thinking. God, I hate my wife, you're thinking.

You're thinking of looking at your watch again, but you know what time it is. You just want to lift your arm from your side and look down at your wrist so that you can have something to do besides trying to muddle through all of this endless, tedious partying.

Happy Impatiently Partying Day!

Friday, August 22, 2003

Wanna Hear Me Sing? Day!

Drunk? Bitchin'.

Sitting next to somebody who's known you for more than eleven weeks but less than three hundred and eight? Cool.

Upset about not feelin' nothin' no more (couple years running now)? Sorry to hear it, but let's get started.

Say to your neighbor now, "Wanna hear me sing?" When he says Motherfuck Yeah! get up from your chair, pick up the ketchup bottle and hold it up to your mouth like it's a microphone, open your mouth as if you were about to belt out Moon River, then let all the muscles in your face go limp and bug open your eyes in terror.

Everyone at the table will understand. Even though they were really hoping to hear you sing, you saw yourself in the 3'X6' promotional Harp mirror spread across the back wall of the bar. You saw yourself looking 30 years older than you are, dressed in clothing you find unappealing, your nose different than you remember it, your hands someone else's, clearly, anyone would say so.

Your chest hair, showing. The air surrounding you, gray-green. The retarded blind dwarf a few feet to your right, talking shit about you. Your shoes, stupid and boring. The way you would look holding a first place trophy, incorrect. What you ordered, not what you craved. Everything you settled for, causing more pain than trying to get what you longed for probably ever would have. Everything you've ever kissed in love, amounting to a total of three. Everything that smells, including you. Everything that fails, claiming you. Everything that swells with pride over the achievements of a relative on the road to greatness, avoiding your eye contact. All that you don't want, staring back at you baby.

They'll understand if you just wanna sit back down. Don't. It'll ruin the next five minutes and the next five minutes are as important as those five minutes that started five minutes ago were. Blink your eyes and wipe away the gray that's clouding up your vision and sing the first thirty nine words of that Billy and the Beaters song. Everyone will love you for it and you'll be allowed to clench your eyes shut tight while you sing.

Happy Wanna Hear Me Sing? Day!

Thursday, August 21, 2003

Know Anything For Certain, Anything At All Day!

Getting out of bed? Doubt it! Not unless you can say that you know a single thing to be true about your empirical universe. Get started!

"I see feet. I see them, right there at the end of those legs. Those legs that I am almost positively certain are mine. And the hips, the belly button, the big orange birthmark next to the nipple on the left. I can see it all. Those feet, they must be mine. But...but um..."

Good effort baby! Sadly, you still never once existed even for a second as far as you're concerned. So either get out of bed or don't. No matter what you choose, at the end of the day it didn't happen.

Happy Know Anything For Certain, Anything At All Day!

Wednesday, August 20, 2003

Fuck The Moon Day!

This evening, no matter how beautiful the moon may turn out to be, just keep fucking walking.

Whether your companion is a blind date going very very well or an ailing grandparent trying to get a last glimpse of things, when you hear the footsteps slow and the crimple of shoulder fabric bunching together as an arm is raised to point at the sky, just keep fucking walking.

Big, crescent, blue, white, bad and rising or lighting up a mile, tonight it's just a fucking moon. So when you hear someone say, "Check it out. Moon, ya'll," you are not only not obligated to stop, but you may actually sprint in your current direction of stride. If the little moon-freak shouts, "What up?" Slow yourself enough to say, "No time, Sagan. They ditch the reservations if we're fifteen minutes late."

Your companion will look at you as if you just said you're way into Hitler. Walk back and explain yourself.

"Look, motherFUCK the moon. It was there last night and it'll be there tomorrow. I'll look at it when I'm dead because when we die we all go to the moon." We do. That's where Jesus lives.

Happy Fuck The Moon Day!

Tuesday, August 19, 2003

Grandfather Clock Time Ya'll Day!

Pendulum swinging to and fro, just like your adoration. You know Leopold is the wrong boy for you. He's rich, angry, and gay.

But Wallingford, who always appears to be uncomfortable in his own skin, actually has a very contageous, irritable and incurable rash that covers his body from head to toe.

Why so fickle, little countess? You have only two to choose from. They are the only boys in town without syphillis (Wallingford hasn't had his stats updated, but he gives his word).

Countess, make it happen. Put on the blindfold, pick up the stick and hit one of the boys in the head. Him who is beaten will father your rich, angry, gay/lesioned, itchy, ill-at-ease babies.

Hit a boy, little girl.

Happy Grandfather Clock Time Ya'll Day!

Monday, August 18, 2003

I Am The Chief Of Police Day!

Today, if you are in an office, whenever you see someone with a blue tie, the first person who shouts "I am the Chief of Police!" gets to be the Chief of Police and he can walk around and demand that everyone give him a dollar pretending that he's getting a cut of their weekly take and he can also demand a little bit of everyone's cocaine. This will continue until someone jumps up and shouts "I am the wife of the Chief of Police!" and shoots herself because she can't take all the cheating anymore and she can't stop blaming herself for their son's suicide.

Happy I Am The Chief Of Police Day!

Sunday, August 17, 2003

The University Of Florida Volleyball Massacre Day!

At 5 PM this evening, a group of 8 University Of Florida students (3 boys, 5 girls) will be killed. Their names are Jeff Borden, Nundanee Saba, Michelle Crawford, Kim Watts, Terence McCormick, Ann Park, Ahmad Atiq, and Laura Padilla. These 8 are winding down a week and a half of doing nothing but getting high, watching DVDs in air conditioning, and drinking vodka, tequila and MGD bottles. These 8 are Resident Assistants who volunteered to stay through the summer term, which ended a week and a half ago. At 4:10 PM, Kim Watts will suggest that they pack bottles into a cooler of ice and everybody head out to one of the sand courts across from the arts complex and play a few games of volleyball. Though the heat outside is oppressive, everyone will immediately agree, unaware that they are each about to be hit in the head with a hammer.

Once across the highway, they will begin their trek through the great lawn surrounding the complex. A hill will be climbed, and a wooden fence will have to be ducked under, but before they get to either obstacle, Laura Padilla will run up behind Jeff Borden and jump atop his back, demanding an impromptu piggyback ride. Jeff Borden will attain a precarious grab underneath her thighs and run a few paces before she starts to slide off. When she does, Laura Padilla will move her grip from around Jeff Borden's neck to around his midsection, holding his back close against her front. The two will walk like that for twenty paces, in a negative embrace and surprised. Jeff Borden has never kissed Laura Padilla and he never knew she wanted to kiss him. But Laura Padilla has wanted to kiss Jeff Borden for a few days now, and she will kiss him just before she lets go of him. Laura Padilla will kiss Jeff Borden between his shoulder blades, through his tee shirt, twice. Two very aggressive pecks to the shallow of his back, and she'll let him go and run ahead. Jeff Borden will be very excited for later that evening after the volleyball game. He'll already be thinking about people calling them "Jeff and Laura."

The killer will hear the laughter and he'll crawl out from underneath the fire stairs where he slept last night. His name is Clarke Watson and he'll never be captured. He was hired (illegally, the college is of course very union) for two days work putting up drywall for the "Dragons Great And Small" exhibit in the Zoology wing of the Natural Science Center. The hammer is his, he didn't steal it.

The sand courts are fenced in and the gates are padlocked. Ahmad Atiq will have the key, and he'll drape the chain and padlock in the fence by the gate. Then they will all crowd in and immediately start hitting the ball over the net like a bunch of klutzes. The ball will stay on the ground for a bit as everybody opens another bottle and takes a few sips before stubbing them into the sand on the outskirts of the court. Nundanee Saba will suggest they come up with a drinking game where whoever drops the ball has to down his bottle. The other seven will agree that it is a good idea but it will be clear that the drinking game will be forgotten before it hits its stride.

After a few volleys the 8 will already be feeling too beaten down by the heat to go for much longer. It will be in the middle of a volley that Clarke Watson will approach the court. The ball will be headed straight for Terence McCormick when he catches sight of Clarke a few steps from the gate. Terence will catch the ball and just stare at Clarke without saying anything. The other seven will turn and watch Clarke step through the gate, put his hammer in his pocket so that he can shut and padlock the gate behind him, then pull his hammer from his pocket, take three steps onto the sand court and swing the hammer down into Kim Watts' right ear.

In the middle of the first chorus of screams, Clarke will swing down once to open the right side of Kim's head. Nundanee Saba will be just four steps away from Clarke and she won't have run yet. She'll just be staring at Kim and shouting out sobs without quite crying. She'll jolt upright and bend her knees to run backwards when she sees Clarke turn toward her, but she won't have lifted a foot before he lands the hammer in her stomach. She'll double over and Clarke will just keep swinging the hammer into that area, into her arms crossed over her midsection, he'll hit her in the right shoulder twice, and once in the right cheek. When she falls, he'll hit her in the back three times and twice in the top of her skull. There won't be any blood.

Terence McCormick at this point will have run up behind Clarke and bear hugged him. Clarke will hit him in the forehead with the pronged end of the hammer but Terence won't lose his grip. Clarke will then swing down into Terence's right thigh five times, and once in the right knee. Terence will fall and Clarke will leap towards him, swinging the hammer down into Terence's stomach, then his ribcage (two blows), and then over and over again into his throat. Terence will stop moving before Clarke finishes crushing his throat with the hammer.

The remaining five will be at the far end of the court. Laura Padilla, Ahmad Atiq, and Ann Park will be trying to begin the climb up the fence, but will keep slipping to the ground or just stopping to check where Clarke is at the moment. Michelle Crawford will be at the base of the fence, hiding behind Jeff Borden, who will be holding his arms out from his sides, facing Clarke.

Clarke will take quick steps towards Jeff, then when he's just a few paces away he'll run up and duck low, taking quick hard swings at Jeff's shins. Most of the blows will come off of the hammer's wooden handle. And Jeff will swing his clasped fists down into Clarke's back, trying to pummel him low into the sand.

Clarke will land one direct blow of the meat of the hammer into the upper plain of Jeff's bare foot. Jeff will retract the foot and fall backwards on top of Michelle. Clarke will throw himself on top of Jeff and pound the hammer into his face seven times, mostly in and around the eyes.

Some of the wild swings will bruise Michelle's face. She will do all she can to kick and shriek herself out from under Jeff's stilled frame. But Clarke will land several clumsy side-swipes of the hammer down into Michelle's left arm. Then he'll roll Jeff off of her and crack into her teeth with the pronged end of the hammer. And he'll keep hitting her in the face, below the eyes, like with Jeff.

Laura Padilla and Ann Park will by then be halfway up the fence and making progress. Ahmad Atiq will be near the top when Clarke grabs the base of the fence below the girls and begins to shake. The girls will stop where they are and just scream with all they've got. Ahmad will drop all the way down the length of the fence, hurting his ankle. But he'll pull himself up and fling himself at Clarke, who will have already begun a swing at Ahmad's cheek. The blow will send Ahmad to the ground with a twirl. But he'll immediately pull himself back up and launch at Clarke. His shoulders will take Clarke by the midsection into the sand. Ahmad will rise up in position to punch down into Clarke's face, but Clarke's hammer will land on Ahmad's temple before he gets the chance. Then Clarke will swing once into Ahmad's mouth. The hammer will get stuck inside there for a second. Clarke will have to wriggle the hammer out from Ahmad's broken teeth and torn gums.

The girls won't have moved from where they were on the fence, but their screams will have grown louder and more heartbreaking. Clarke will begin shaking the fence with a fury. There will be no one left to stop him, so he'll just put all his strength into trying to rip the fence from its posts. The girls will hold tight for two minutes. And Clarke will grow impatient and climb the fence, first toward Ann.

She'll see him coming and try to scurry fast to the top of the fence, but her footing will be too unconfident. Clarke will get close enough and he'll land one blow on Ann's left buttock. She won't have fallen yet, so he'll hit her in the center of her back. Laura will have dropped to the ground and run for the padlocked gate, but Ann still won't have fallen from under her blows. Not before Clarke slams a diatribe of swings into her back and shoulderblades as if he were Whacking-a-Mole.

When Ann finally falls, she'll just lay there with her arms up over her face. Clarke will drop next to her and swing three times into her face. The third will land directly on her forehead. It will leave a clean, wet red mark. Ann will shiver for a moment before dying.

With just Laura left, Clarke will not pause to savor the moment or march menacingly to her. Instead he'll sprint to where she is rattling the chained gate. He'll run across the sand and Laura will immediately recoil into the corner of the fence, bent into herself behind her forearms. When Clarke reaches her, the top of her head will be completely unguarded. Clarke will hit her once in the top of the head. In the center. Laura will grab the spot of the blow with her hands. Clarke will swing into the same spot, this time smashing into her clumped fingers. Her hands will drop and Clarke will hit the same spot, the top of her head, in the center, again. Laura will fall face forward and Clarke will open the back of her skull with five swings of his hammer.

After Laura is dead, Clarke will dip his hammer in the sand and pick some of the blood and tissue from the steel before slipping it back into his pocket. Then he'll try the gate and remember he'd padlocked it. So he'll climb the fence because he unfortunately will not have seen Ahmad unlock the gate, so he won't know to root through Ahmad's pockets for the key.

Happy The University Of Florida Volleyball Massacre Day!

Saturday, August 16, 2003

Record For You Day!

There's a boy in his little tiny bedroom burning two compact discs on Hugh Street in downtown Milwaukee.

There's a girl who hasn't given a moment of thought to the boy in the previous sentence in about twenty four weeks. She lives on Wendyl Rd in downtown Milwaukee.

There's a boy who's in love with the girl on Wendyl Rd who can't wait to finish burning those two compact discs that he's burning and give them to the girl on Wendyl Rd. with an explanation.

"I know you'll love these as much as I do," he'll say. "They were kind of recorded for you, in my opinion," he'll add.

The girl on Wendyl Rd will scan the handwriting on the Maxell card and say, "For me."

"For you," the boy will confirm, and his voice will crack, though he's 28.

"And have you ever given these same recordings to another girl?" she'll ask.

"Nineteen others," he'll say.

Spit on the CDs is what she does then.

The boy is fine, relax. He'll say, "I wanted to give them to you ever since I heard the first note. But you were gone. So I spent my time proving that everyone but you isn't you. I'd give each one CDs and watch her react incorrectly. Then I'd get real high for, like, days. And eventually she'd say, Why are you so constantly stoned? And I'd just be like what do you care? Go listen to music wrong. Then I'd imagine you lying awake in bed waiting for me to send you compact discs and wondering what was taking so long. Then I'd lock myself in the bathroom until whoever I was living with would have a breakdown and move back to live with her parents. Then I'd think about calling you, but would get real drunk and fuck shit then move in with someone else before I got the chance. But I'd always be thinking, shit, I never sent those CDs did I?

Then the boy on Hugh Street and the girl from Wendyl Rd love each other until Thanksgiving of this year.

Happy Record For You Day!

Friday, August 15, 2003

A Dress Lands On The Floor Day!

It might be lighter than air, he'll think. You might be wearing it not only to make him believe in Jesus Christ, but because if you didn't have your arms hooked into the little sleeves it would just float away like a page of newspaper in autumn. He'll not really be certain. He'll think it looks like it's made of nothing, and he'll be about ready to put five dollars down on that. Take the bet and step out of the dress.

When it lands on his floor, you will be five dollars in the black, little baby naked baby.

Happy A Dress Lands On The Floor Day!

Thursday, August 14, 2003

Give A Boy A Box Of Hearts Day!

You can make hearts out of anything. You can carve a heart out of soap, fat candles, apples, a sponge, a rubber ball, a block of wood, and a book. You can build a heart from paper, clay, lots of rubber, melted plastic if you're fast, cardboard, pills glued to a Chutes and Ladders playing board, human tissue, and human hair. You can steal a heart from a girl, a boy, a man or a woman. You can surgically remove a heart from pigs and kangaroos only. You can buy shirts with hearts on them in New York City. In February, you can buy hearts made out of chocolate. In January, you can draw a heart on the wall behind your pillow, lay down in bed below the heart pretending to sleep, and have a friend take a polaroid. In March, you cannot.

Take all the hearts you can build, buy, steal or lift from a chest cavity, put them all in a box and give them to the boy you think is cute. He'll think you're cute too.

Happy Give A Boy A Box Of Hearts Day!

Wednesday, August 13, 2003

Terrible Men Day!

Terrible men are outside, they're in love with you and they're outside. There's four of them. They're not dressed the same.

Terrible men hold letters promising their ashen hearts. Terrible men practiced all day in front of mirrors, practiced how far to drop their eyelids when the time is right to ask for your forgiveness. Terrible men are inebriated and they're sharing a bottle of liquor and they're swaying and yelling at your window. There's four of them.

Terrible men think most find them absolutely irresistable (many do). They are mean to female bartenders and they have secretaries (sometimes two). In a week of nights, terrible men will spend five alone, two with a woman, every week, without fail (it's true). Terrible men just threw a bottle of liquor at the wall next to your window (go to them).

When you open the door, terrible men, all four, they're fighting in the street. Then one of the four, he sees you (your nightshirt, your knees, the pee yellow light behind your hair) and he grabs at the others, tugging them into formation.

Terrible men brush the damp of the street from their suits and stand in a zig-zag. You look in their eyes and you know terrible men will die if you don't bring them in tonight. They say, four voices, in unison: Leigh. Please Leigh. I'm not gonna make it Leigh.

You wait just a moment, look away just a moment, just long enough to make terrible men boys. Then you lift your head to them. You warn them with your sigh that it can't turn out the way it will, not again. You step aside to allow the single file line of terrible men to climb the flights to your apartment. And you follow, shushing them when they raise their voices (the neighbors).

Happy Terrible Men Day!

Tuesday, August 12, 2003

Some Girls Are More Amenable To Committing Suicide Than Others Day!

You really really really want your girlfriend to kill herself. You've had the big day for your own suicide circled on your calendar for six months now. All that time, all you had to do is look up at that circle around September 20th, 2003, and think "Few more weeks and good bye to my heartache and misery and always having to pee at movies."

But then you went and fell in love and grew conflicted. You still want to die, no question. But this chick, she's way fucking hot and when she speaks it's like she's reading the story written on your soul and shit. When it comes down to it, you don't want to be without her. If you kill yourself and she keeps on living, she'll probably start seeing someone else and you can't handle that. But suicide is your lifelong dream. You can't stay alive just because someone else wants to. Follow. Your. Bliss.

What has to happen is you just have to come right out and ask her if she wants to kill herself with you. A lot of girls are into things you never would have guessed they'd be into. Approach the question with some caution, and if she says yes, don't act like she's some kind of a slut all of a sudden. But if she says no, take the circle off the calendar. No one who's in love ever kills himself unless he's in love with someone who doesn't love him back, or his parents are dicks about it. If she says no, you're just going to have to wait until you don't love her anymore 11 months from now.

Happy Some Girls Are More Amenable To Committing Suicide Than Others Day!

Monday, August 11, 2003

Zoo Date Day!

He's the boy with the wallet full of American currency, the one with a bottomless bucket of compliments to bestow upon your dresses, the kid with the sloppy lidded eyes and the smile that's always asking, "you still wanna hang out then?" He's the boy you've been waiting for, and today he's your clean pretty Zoo Date.

No boy before him has ever thought to invite you to the zoo before. Because no boy before him has ever been an absolute genius. At the zoo you will hold hands. He'll hold your right, you'll hold his left, and you'll each use your free hand to pet the snouts of ponies, zebras and perhaps even a rhinoceros. You'll pet the snouts and share a smile and move on down the path, never once letting your hands go free, except when you sit down to eat your six dollar personal pan pizzas.

This boy, this groundbreaking boy, this Zoo Date will appear to glow after a bit of time. His warmth, his sincere desire to keep you liking him, his magnificent ideas in the field of heterosexual courtship, so much good will all just billow up from his frame like an odor in a comic strip. You'll see the glow, it will be red and yellow.

Staring at the penguin pool, you'll wrap your arms around your Zoo Date's torso. You'll hold him tight and necessary to you, and he'll kiss the top of your head seventeen times.

Happy Zoo Date Day!

Sunday, August 10, 2003

Oh Dear God, The Pain, The Pain, I Am Doubled Over With Pain, What Did You Ask me Just Now? Day!

You are clearly about to die. Use that. When someone for whom you care deeply asks if you care deeply for them, grab your belly and double over shouting, "Oh dear God, the pain, the pain, I am doubled over with pain, what did you just ask me?" Then fall to the ground and writhe. Then die.

Happy Oh Dear God, The Pain, The Pain, I Am Doubled Over With Pain, What Did You Ask me Just Now? Day! I think you just got away scott free again, baby.

Saturday, August 09, 2003

Room For Rent Day!

Now that you've saved enough money, you can finally afford to move out of your Dad's apartment. It was fun for a while, him just recently freed from his marriage to your mom and coming up to the city to live the life he wished he'd lived. But then he just got really really depressed and didn't leave his room all that much. It sucks to have to pay rent again, but you just can't take it anymore.

Don't feel guilty. If you spend enough time around a Dad whose been broken, you're really gonna have problems erection-wise.

So go ahead and grab a number off one of the signs in the laundromat but don't call quite yet. Instead, go get drunk and just let your mind slow-dance with all the possibilities.

I wonder if my roommate will be a boy or a girl? Or a banker. An architect. A stripper whose trying to save enough money to fly her mother in from Caracas. What if my roommate dies and I get blamed for the murder. My, wouldn't that be an exciting turn of events! Or maybe my roommate will be the girl I fall in love with and marry! Or the girl who teaches me just how painful a broken heart can be! Or maybe my roommate will at least have sex with me for a while.

If my roommate offered me heroin, would I try it? I don't know. I've always been curious. And what if my roommate catches AIDS? Would it be my responsibility to care after him or would he understand when I decide to find another place. It was really depressing living with my broken father. I really don't wanna live with someone who has AIDS. I hope my roommate would sometimes ride bikes with me.

Roommate, roommate, roommate, what stories will we write together? What late night journeys will we embark upon just because we're feeling nutty. I hope my roommate gets broken up with so I can stay up and comfort him. And I hope my roommate likes late 80's industrial music just as much as me. Roommate, roommate, roommate. Roommates forever and ever, till the very, very end. Shower schedules and chore wheels and "Hey, who ate all my ice cream!" Hee hee.


Happy Room For Rent Day!

Friday, August 08, 2003

Claustrophobia Clint Day!

Today the building you work in will catch fire and many will be killed. You will be in an elevator when the fire reaches its peak, and the elevator will fail to drop directly to the lobby as it is supposed to do. Instead it will stop between the 22nd and 23rd floors. You will bang at the buttons and sound the alarm and try to pry the doors open with the bottle opener on your key ring, but to no avail. The car will fill with smoke and you will drop to the ground and think of pretty faces you're never going to see again. Then you will hear something.

A scratch of metal on metal. A pop and a racket. And then a shout.

"Take my hand!"

From the escape hatch in the roof of the car, an arm will wriggle down towards you. The arm of Claustrophobia Clint, a mythical urban hero who is overcome with a severe panic anytime he finds himself in small, enclosed spaces, but who for some annoying reason always seems to have to save people caught in small, enclosed spaces.

"I can't reach you!" You'll jump and fling your hand towards his but you'll never get closer than a foot below. "Come down and help me!"

"Fuck no! Jump higher!"

The smoke pouring in from the escape hatch will have completely filled your lungs. Your vision will grow faint and you'll fall to the corner with a cough that might never end.

"Oh fuck! I fucking hate this! Every fucking time!"

Claustrophobia Clint, who has tried behavioral therapy but never felt like he was making any progress, will shimmy through the hatch and drop to the ground. He'll grab your spastic frame from the floor of the elevator and sling you atop his shoulder, and then with one quick squat and a bounce the two of you will launch through the hatch and land on the roof of the car (he's a hero who can jump real high).

"Jesus that was terrible," Cluastrophobia Clint will say. "It really felt like the walls were closing in on me. God! Fuck! Fucking hell that was horrible."

Claustrophobia Clint will pry open the doors to the 23rd floor above you, and you will both climb out and find a stairwell to take you down to the ground. You will die on the 9th floor. Claustrophobia Clint will make it all the way to the ground and he'll live to keep on rescuing people from small, enclosed spaces. And every time he does, he'll wish he were dead.

Happy Claustrophobia Clint Day!

Thursday, August 07, 2003

You Can Do Anything You Set Your Mind To Day!

Today, whether you want to quit drinking, quit smoking, quit daydreaming about pee, quit washing your 13 year old sister's hair, quit biting your fingernails, quit drinking, or quit drinking, you can do it. No matter what your goal is, all you have to do is set your mind to it and it's as good as done. At midnight tonight, this goal will be as unattainable as it was yesterday so make sure you have some beer, some cigarettes, some time to daydream about pee, a 13 year old sister waiting in the tub, some fingernails, some beer, and some beer lying around because after midnight you'll see no reason to abstain since you know you're gonna give in eventually because you're weak and most things are impossible.

Happy You Can Do Anything You Set Your Mind To Day!

Wednesday, August 06, 2003

Hit Your Boy In The Face With The Shallow Bony Center Of The Palm Of Your Adorable Little Hand Day!

You must be naked from the waist down but clothed from the waist up. He can be inside you or not, your choice. There is one thing that is not your choice however.

You must make his nose bleed.

Again, your cunt must be absolutely free of anything remotely close to clothing. Even if it's mere decoration, such as a little elastic belt with a few swaths of gauze that might flutter up above your belly button should they be caught in the gust of the air conditioner. You can, and should, wear a top. Whatever you like. A windbreaker even. And once more, whether the boy is inside you or not is irrelevant.

But you must slap the dead center of the palm of your hand down onto the poke of his nose with all the force you would use to murder a fly. And if his nose does not immediately gush with blood, you are no woman.

Recommended: The boy underneath you, the two of you stretched across the length of a bed, yours, the boy inside you (still irrelevant, simply recommended).

Also recommended: The boy with his back against a wall, you up against him, attacking the fool like a chunk of his cheek in your belly might offer you the secret to how some humans manage to love each other, the boy shirtless, the boy with defined pectoral muscles and untoned belly, the boy unfuckingcertain.

Non-Negotiable: Whether he's inside you or not, you must both be at the point whereupon it doesn't even matter anymore. Whereupon no one would even notice. Whereupon orgasms are for faggots. Whereupon you both are wondering if the other thinks your face is funny looking, like you're acting or something, because you both feel like you're making that fake fuck face but it's real, you both swear it.

Ultimately: Your little tiny baby girl hand will free itself of whatever it was digging its nails underneath, and your arm like a catapult will flip above your scalp and slam down fast like a rubber band in class and slap crisp, clean and stunning, dead center on the dent at the foremost tip of prettyboy's cave full o'boogie-snot. You will flatten his face. You will make him bleed from his face. You will blacken his eyes and fatten his upper lip and you will smother that boy in a puddle of blood and ugly.

If he doesn't like it, you did something wrong. Skipped a step or something.

Happy Hit Your Boy In The Face With The Shallow Bony Center Of The Palm Of Your Adorable Little Hand Day!

Tuesday, August 05, 2003

Steve Day!

Our apologies. Today is a special day. One year ago today, a promise was made and in keeping with that promise, today will be devoted solely to Steve, a dear, dear friend of Girls Are Pretty.

Steve, two of your friends have given birth to babies. One a boy, the other, a boy also. Steve, Kim is back living with her parents now. She's been gone six months and in six months more she'll be off to someplace else, probably San Francisco. Kim has an invitation to live there with your and our friend John and his new wife Alma until she gets settled (we all met Alma at Christmas. She's fantastic). Guess you figured Kim wouldn't be staying on in the apartment you two shared in Park Slope, Steve. Steve, the three of your friends who suddenly feel like they can do anything because they don't care about anything anymore are Lem, Christina, and Josephine. Steve, the two of your friends who feel like they can't get out of bed because they don't care about anything anymore are Lisa and Maureen. Don't worry Steve, we're all looking after them. Steve, Mark got another cat. It's a pretty little long-hair named Hilda. Steve, too many nights end with everyone just shaking their heads so crazily amazed at what a great fucking summer this is turning out to be. Steve, Sam and Moo are fucking again. And Leo and Beverly broke up, Steve, and Leo's seeing someone none of us have met yet, and Beverly is just coasting and coming out a lot more. Steve, Martha has a lot of money now. A ton of money. She said it was an inheritance from when her Dad died (Martha's Dad died, Steve). It's weird, Steve, having a friend who's all of a sudden rich. Martha doesn't buy drinks though, Steve.

Everyone went and had dinner at an outdoor mexican place last night and everyone had margaritas in their hands but no one toasted you Steve. In June a few of us got in Ray's car to drive to Philadelphia and Carrie was rooting through Ray's glove compartment for some cigarettes and she pulled out a picture of you. She held it up, we all looked at it, then she put it back in the glove compartment and continued looking for some cigarettes. Your birthday passed, and the anniversary of the day you and Kim met, the day you always threw a party, both those days passed without anyone saying a word. In the past year, I don't remember anyone ever saying out loud, God I wish Steve was here to see this, Steve. Steve, Jeff got a letter from your sister in March. He wrote back saying only that he hadn't heard anything either.

In short, Steve, everyone, every single one of us is absolutely beautiful in every single way. Whether we're smiling, fucking, crying, screaming, fighting, loving or drunk as God, we're all just the most beautiful people you ever did see. And you're nothing. You're not mourned, missed or reminisced over. You're just gone. As promised, today's Steve Day. Happy Steve Day, Steve.

Monday, August 04, 2003

Be One Of The Final Three Day!

There will be twelve to nineteen at the start. By around eleven, there will remain seven (three unemployed). By around 1:30, just four (two unemployed). At 2:30 AM, the final three will remain (one unemployed, two irresponsible). You three, you heroic, fearless fools with livers composed of layer upon layer of most glorious solid gold. You, the final three will tell each other secrets about your childhoods, your past and present loves, what you think is going to be the thing that breaks you in the end. You'll share secrets not so deep and not very dark, but secrets you're good enough to share at the end of the evening to do justice to a slurred conversation at such a horribly late hour. You'll stay till closing, proudly. You'll leave feeling there's something between the three of you that you can lord over the rest of the twelve to nineteen who're as settled into their good night's sleep as they are in their sedentary (read: Happy) lives. And the three of you will stumble from the curb with arms raised and shout at cabs that sail past without breaking stride. One will stop and either two of you or all three of you will share the cab but only two of you will get out together and screw. Try to be one of those two, too.

Happy Be One Of The Final Three Day!

Sunday, August 03, 2003

Grandpa Misses Grandma Day!

Today, Grandpa feels like it can't get much worse, but he feels that way every day. Your Grandma died in her sleep a year and seven months ago and he's had no problem filling the hours. He's got money and he's been spending it (why leave it all for you?). But he just cannot stand not having Grandma with him. He keeps looking to his right. She's been dead almost two years but he keeps looking to his right to crack a joke.

And he sometimes gets really, really pissed off. That's why he got so wasted at your son's fifth birthday. He was literally angry at everyone in the family crowding together and running up to hug him and acting like they had a right to his attention. "Mona isn't here," the words kept running through his head. "Mona isn't here. I'm hers and I'll give nothing of myself to anyone but her." Then he stood up from the picnic table and fell down on the ground.

There's really no helping him out. When you're as old as he is, the cliche "time heals all wounds" only draws attention to the day you're gonna die. Just let him miss her, he wants to.

Happy Grandpa Misses Grandma Day!

Saturday, August 02, 2003

Things The Song Did Day!

Today the song was played on a jukebox at a bar at 4:33 PM. The boy who played it didn't think it was a good idea to be in a bar alone at such an early hour, but the boy often acts on such ideas. He knows the bar well and the jukebox even better, but the boy had never known the song was in there, and he'd never before thought to look for it on that or any other jukebox. He found the song before he'd selected any others, but he didn't choose it immediately. He went looking for two other songs to play before it so that he'd have enough time to get back to his table and stare out the window and sigh a bit before the song came on. (He hated when his songs were wasted on him scrambling to pick out other songs). So the song played third and the boy had his legs crossed when it came on. The song made him play with his hair a bit, then he shook his head and laughed at himself a bit. Then he made a phone call to someone he thought it a bad idea to make a phone call to. The boy often acts on such ideas, but this time it wasn't his fault. The song did it.

Today the song woke her up at 9:43 AM. He asked if the music was too loud, and she didn't say "of course it is, it just woke me up." She didn't ask, "why are you playing music so early when your guest is clearly still asleep in your bed?" And she didn't ask if he was glad he'd brought her home with him last night (she knew he wasn't, they had that in common at least). Instead she said no, and laid back and listened to the song and decided to not move out of New York City. She would have to get ahold of her roommate and tell her she wasn't leaving, and she would have to wait until he went to take a shower before she could reach the few feet off the bed and push the button on the stereo that made the song play again. She knows choosing not to move means a lot more pain to come, but if it ever gets too hard she can always blame the song.

Today he hunted for the song like there was a bounty on its head. He looked in the pile of shit in the storage space above the closet but the disc wasn't there. He looked in the pile of shit he keeps meaning to sort out from underneath his bed but the disc wasn't there. He looked in the pile of shit he calls his CD collection but the disc wasn't there. So he got dressed and got in his car and drove (high, he'd smoked a half hour before) to Virgin and bought it. On the drive home (the song wasn't playing yet, stereo stolen nineteen months prior) he remembered who he gave the disc to (Clara). The song played at exactly 9:20 PM. It made him sing along in the mirror for the first minute and a half, then he had to go to the bathroom (not the song's fault). When he got back to his bedroom, he started the disc at the beginning because he felt there was something criminal in putting on a disc and listening out of sequence or skipping songs you don't like (Clara did that). The song played again at around 9:45 PM. It didn't make him sing again, though. He didn't notice it playing in fact. He was thinking about something else by then (Clara).

Happy Things The Song Did Day!

Friday, August 01, 2003

Assume You Dreamt It Day!

Today, if you stumble upon a horrible memory, whether it be having said the word "forever" in bed, or a man you hit with a car and left for dead when you were 17 and drunk, or the time you farted and got caught, or the time you got pregnant and had an abortionist suck the living, pain-experiencing, shrieking baby from inside your (God's) womb, or that whole "going to live with your uncle after your parents died and being forced to fellate him" phase you went through, or yesterday, in its entirety, assume you dreamt it.

But stay in bed. And don't answer the phone or check email or ever leave your bed. You dreamt it, it wasn't real, you'll be fine. (Don't go outside)

Happy Assume You Dreamt It Day!