Rachel's New and Improved Smoke-Free Blog For Dummies (Occasional Dylan content)
The Hysterical Bride
The last bastion of my bond to my humanity.
Time.
I was lost in depression, feeling cut off from the whole entire world,
feeling ostracized, like a blight on society, like the whore of
Babylon, and then I remembered where I was, I remembered my position
in time.
Today is Friday.
A reason to be happy.
I's the end of the work week, it's a time to celebrate, it's Shabbat
at sundown, it's T.G.I.F., it's the beginning of the weekend, I am
hanging onto the threads of my past, the world, my country, and my
religion.
I feel like have just been saved.
I am a new person.
I have been reborn.
I am still human.
Maybe I will even light the Shabbat candles tonight.
But I doubt it.
I still feel dirty. :(
A Poem for my Dog Dylan:
Oh where, oh where has my little dog gone
Oh where, oh where can he be
With his ears cut short and his tail cut long
Oh where, oh where can he be?
The Hysterical Bride
A blog for dummies.
Rule #1: Do not neglect to include a typo in your first entry! Don't
worry. Nobody bothering to read this will catch it!
Rule #2: I just make this sh*t up as I go along.
The Hysterical Bride
I am dedicating my blog to the Heavenly Father:
http://www.menziesera.com/people/images/dylan5.jpg
Let it not pass by unnoticed, that this is what we humans of rather
low intelligence such as myself do.
We attach ourselves onto Bob Dylan's backside, we cling to him for
validation and celebration of our measly little brains of crippled
speech with a paucity of vocabulary and verbal expression, we use him
to be a part of the true human race, the race of intellect and
understanding.
We understand not.
And yet, through Dylan, we are allowed to participate.
We, too, can belong to the great human race, through the use of Dylan.
God Bless Bob Dylan and all His people, for raising us up, for
reaching down from the heavens and opening up the sky, for
bobdylan.com, and RMD, and Google, and inviting us into his heavenly
kingdom of genius and mindblowing coincidences.
Let it also not pass by unnoticed that my one point above average
intelligence allows me to see the ultimate absurd stupidity of my
words, and laugh my butt off, to the point of tears, which as we
speak, are still moist on my lenses, and watering my eyes.
God Bless Bob Dylan.
And let us all bow our heads in unison, and we say, "Amen."
The Hysterical Bride
Word of the Day
May 7
beau geste
\boh-ZHEST\
noun
Meaning
*1 : a graceful or magnanimous gesture
2 : an ingratiating conciliatory gesture
Example of a beau geste on the part of Bob Dylan
Modern Times
***
And yet this reminds me of the warnings of my astrological destiny:
Aquarius:
They are great humanitarians (insert: I guess that means I am Satan),
dedicate themselves to good causes, and become
missionaries. They are gentle, diplomatic, original in thought,
conceited and
independent. An Aquarian will seek many friends and mingle with
crowds. They
like solitude for concentration (insert: like quitting smoking), and
making of important decisions and
accomplish more when they're by themselves (insert: I guess I should
kick out my Kato Kaelin). The Uranius influence makes him a
rebel (insert: I am ReBeL) and revolutionary change is what's needed
in today's world. They control
their temper (insert: unless asked for identification for entry into a
San Diego theatre) and have mild dispositions (insert: they don't
throw temper tantrums). He has many friends but few intimate
ones, because he's ready to go on to the next fascinating creature and
take up
with him, before he really got to know the previous one too well.
(insert: does this mean I will abandon Dylan?)
The Aquarian nature is such they tend to live in the future, rather
than the
present so they tarry little (insert: I am writing to you from my
laptop on the beach at Point Dume lol). They are fifty years advanced
in thought and
through the Aquarian's eyes one can get a peek into the future
(insert: Dylan is God? haha, i doubt that.). There are more
geniuses born under the sign of Uranius (insert: sic?) than any other
sign.
Once the Aquarian discovers his objective and his ambitions are known,
he'll
achieve great success (Insert: Oh, baloney). They have unsurmoutable
confidence, self-reliance and an
inner knowledge that they're correct in their findings (insert: this
is complete hogwash). In scientific careers,
a humanitarian urge is noted, as well as in the reformers, musicians,
poets or
explorers born under the sign. The Aquarian knows no prejudice, and
considers
everyone his brother. He doesn't like to impose his ideas on you and
expects
each person's individualistic needs to be respected, as he wants his
to be.
Aquarians want change, but not by violence.
They are suspicious people and scrutinize underlying motives. Once you
meet
with his approval, he'll prove to be a loyal friend.
The Uranian nature has a tendency to forget things like the absent-
minded
professor. Their minds sometimes work like radar antenna, picking up
bits and
pieces of information out of thin air which prove useful to their
needs (insert: exactly, like a brand new wife, and wringing my neck,
and threatening to kill me, and he hates me etc.. etc...). They
seem to possess psychic precognition; they plunge into problems and
come up
with answers that are mystical like a sixth sense. They have E.S.P.
working
with them on their many projects.
Gemini:
The governing planet, Mercury, dominates the Gemini actions to act
before they
think. Their minds are so quick they adapt themselves to whatever
situation
they find themselves in. Their keen imagination is active all the
time, which
keeps them flitting from one project to another. The more intruiging a
project,
the more apt they are to drop the one thing they are working on for a
newer
experience. They like constant change, just like quicksilver (insert:
interesting little sidenote, on my way to Dylan, lost in a parallel
universe, traveling around the midwest, I kept seeing "quicksilver"
everywhere. I didn't know what it meant, but certain items were making
a deep impression on my consciousness, as if in a dream). He's caught
up in a constant conflict with his inner self, changing his love, his
job, or his
residence on a moment's whim.
Gemini people drive hard bargains and constantly look out for their
own
well-being. They consider other people surrounding them with cast offs
of items
that he doesn't use. He likes to go on to new ventures, and if he has
an idea
he doesn't wish to pursue, he will gladly give it away to anyone who
could use
it to his advantage. If they set their sights for one goal, and do not
deviate
from attaining it, they could be successful persons in their own
right. They
have a secret charm about them that can melt any stoic person. They
dislike
rountine, and their restless nature demands excitement and change;
otherwise
they become morbid.
Their knowledge of how to manuever people makes them excellent
politicians.
They are deceptive in their motives and cunning in getting what they
want. They
can talk anyone into anything or out of anything. They make excellent
sales
people, promoters, or swindlers, according to the pursuit they intend
to
follow.
The Gemini personality is well suited for teaching and writing, as
well as
advertising. This era of change is suitable for the Gemini, because
his mind
can come up with astute answers to the ever-changing scene in industry
and
economics. They're constantly looking for the end of the rainbow, and
when they
achieve that, they're out to find how they can manufacture their own.
Their
personality fits every need, and they are the most enchanting persons
to know,
even for a fleeting moment, if they give you a chance.
And in conclusion, we would like to add, we wish we'd never met you
either.
The Hysterical Bride
Their minds sometimes work like radar antenna, picking up
> bits and
> pieces of information out of thin air which prove useful to their
> needs (insert: exactly, like a brand new wife, and wringing my neck,
> and threatening to kill me, and he hates me etc.. etc...).
This was my point.
I ignore or wash off or forget or rationalize away things that are
contrary to my mission, and plunge ahead into the darkness, clinging
to the delusion that Bob Dylan likes me, and possibly reads this.
Who cares?
Really now.
Let's get real.
Who really cares?
THE FOLLOWING IS COMPLETE AND UTTER HOGWASH. I AM JUST RAMBLING.
I SERIOUSLY DON'T KNOW WHAT TO DO WITH THIS SH*T, I WANT TO DELETE IT,
I KEPT CHANGING IT, I DON'T REALLY WANT TO POST IT, BUT THEN I THINK,
WHAT A WASTE, SO NOW I AM SHARING MY WASTE WITH YOU.
IGNORE ALL OF IT.
It's just that otherwise, it gets so darn lonely. (or maybe I just
find it inspiring, although, today I was inspired by the day of the
week.)(the inspiration shall not last. I am feeling doomed to write
nonsese for the rest of my life. my hope for salvation: losing weight,
my next goal after quitting smoking, then that leading up to working
out to get strong again, and then going to play tennis!)(sounds
pathetic, don't it.)(fortunately, my salvation for the interim, is I
don't really give a darn.)
P.S. I also saw that I was typing rather quickly, and rereading rather
quickly, and left out a word in my first post, along with a letter.
I don't even wanna be with Dylan.
What do I want him for?
Can't think of a good reason.
Sorry, Dildo, you're on your own.
You always were.
In a land of wolves and theives.
I just had to go look that up (after I wrote it)
Bobdylan.com is still down, unreachable, out of reach, just like
Dildo.
But I found another way in.
It was from Trust Yourself.
Man, I don't like that SONG.
I never liked it.
Well, maybe a couple times.
Well, you're on your own, you always were,
In a land of wolves and thieves.
Don't put your hope in ungodly man
Or be a slave to what somebody else believes.
Don't put your hope in ungodly man (Dylan)
Or be a slave to what somebody else believes (keep writing on the
Internet, getting phone calls from the people of bobdylan.com, or
whoever they are, knowing when you connect, and when you log out, or
however you say it, not to mentioning unbelievable coincidental timing
of mysterious phone calls surrounding other meaningful factors, that
can't be anything other than coincidence. which leads me to believe
the calls from bobdylan.com were none other than Satan, and not real.)
Why do I write on the Internet?
Am I in pursuit of Dylan?
I don't think so.
Honestly.
I just do it because it's here, and it's the most interesting thing to
do.
The Kabbalists had something to say about this.
About why do you climb a mountain, and people say, because it's there.
I forget what the whole lesson was about that, and the whole lesson
about WHY.
I do not believe I am here to give Bob Dylan children.
I don't know what the f*ck he meant by the Hysterical Bride, and I
don't trust him, I don't like him, and he means nothing to me as a
person.
Following this logic, I mean nothing to myself either (before I call
him dirty names I better think twice.)
BOB DYLAN NEVER WROTE A SONG ABOUT AJ, and he never wrote a song about
me.
I have slipped into a world of coincidence.
There is no Bob Dylan in my world.
And sadly, this is untrue, he's here, he's out there, and yet, I shall
not pursue him, that would be wrong.
You know how they say, be careful what you wish for.
I wished to meet Bob Dylan.
And I did.
Give me an inch, and I take a mile.
What, just because I met Bob Dylan, I am allowed to start what I call
a blog in RMD, and just because I call it a blog, it's ok?
I am allowed to use many e-mail addresses to post as much as I want?
Well, apparently so, but that is not very kind.
That's pretty obnoxious.
Ouch, I am having chest pains.
They just went away.
It was on the right side, in the front.
I am going to chalk this up to being under incredible stress and
pressure because this is like the changing room with a view.
Here I come in every few minutes or so with a new change of clothes,
and then I undress, and you get to see me almost naked, and then I
look at myself in the mirror in my new outfit, and then I go away for
a few minutes, then come back with another one to put on.
Where is the real me?
What do I look like naked?
The answer my friend, is blowin' in the wind.
It ain't in here.
I don't want Dylan back.
I don't want to try and go crawling out there into the world trying to
meet people who know him.
FORGET IT.
FORGET DYLAN.
I wanted to meet him, and I did, and now that should be the end of it,
right?
I never wanted to REALLY meet him.
THAT is the honest to goodness truth.
I worshipped him, and knew he wouldn't like me back, it would be
totally unbalanced, he knows who he is, he already knows how I feel,
there is no way he could feel the same way about me, there was no way
he could REALLY like me, it was just a fleeting fantasy that
accidentally came true.
DID IT COME TRUE?
He didn't even see me.
I don't believe in love at first sight.
I had love at first sight with my boyfriend in Israel, and he broke my
heart, which I deserved.
I don't believe in love at all.
I don't know what I believe in.
I believe in fantasy and psychosis and delusions of grandeur.
I believe that this world is run by Satan, and I am his Queen. haha.
I believe in goofing around.
I believe in making up words and things to say which have no meaning,
and posting them on the Internet in a Bob Dylan newsgroup because I
don't know what else to do with my life.
Tonight is Shabbat, and I wish my father were here. (sniffle)
I wish I could celebrate Shabbat, and be with my father.
Why can't I just do it on my own?
I don't feel good enough.
I feel utterly pathetic.
I resent my family.
Why wasn't I born orthodox?
Why did my mother give birth to me?
What was it all about for her?
Maybe I should ask her.
But our relationship is completely on the rocks, and I have to be very
careful.
I can't do or say anything to cause tension.
The best thing I can do is to stay away,
Nobody wants to be around me, or to see me, and I just can't act
right, because I am morbidly obese.
It's totally humiliating.
Maybe I need to be the one to recognize that I'm the one carrying the
shame.
Wow, do I really feel like a friggen piece of meat.
G-d bless Dylan, and his MYSTERY.
I don't understand him, and yet he comes to me.
I can't forget him.
I can't be in love with him.
Not according to the experts or my family.
This is my "problem."
So there is no such thing as being in love?
This can't be being in love.
I think they are right.
But I don't think I believe in falling in love.
I guess I'm just a fat old ugly golddigger, trying to find validation
and status, because of the shame of my station in life.
Why am I so ashamed?
Is it because I am fat?
No, it's because I am as crazy as a loon.
I am not worthy of Dylan.
Well, at least I'm not smoking.
I gave up smoking.
Hip hip hurray for me.
Ok, I have been reading this over and over and changing things and
changing things, it is pure rambling savage rose nonsense, and I just
needed to add that I ain't no golddigger, I just say that because that
is what other people believe, and Mr. Boll Weevil can come live with
me, but I don't have room for his grand piano, so that ain't going to
happen.
I need another cup of coffee, and to get back in a good mood.
I don't like this at all.
I sense a desire for change within myself, and it makes me
ANGRY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
IT PISSES ME OFF!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
It's like a desire to start being good again, and I RESENT IT, because
I don't want to think if I change, Bob Dylan will call me.
THIS IS SO F'D UP (there, you see my new desire to stop cursing, which
is something I did before going to the Kabbalah Centre) there is no
way Bob Dylan could love me, and I hate this world of coincidence, I
resent the fact that I think it's about me.
I really do.
I mean it.
If the Great Bob Dylan who dines and intermingles with Presidents is
singing about me, I SHOULD SUE THAT G-D-M-F FOR ALL HE'S WORTH.
He should be CRIMINALLY PROSECUTED.
Darn, I hate feeling like a victim.
I want to not care.
I want so bad to not care about Dylan.
He is the ultimate weasel.
And I am the ultimate c-u-n-t.
If we had intercourse, I would crush him to death.
BOB DYLAN IS NOT SINGING ABOUT ME.
IT NEVER HAPPENED.
I NEED A CUP OF COFFEE.
G-D BLESS INSANITY.
I AM SCHIZOPHRENIC, and there is no Bob Dylan.
You may stop looking at yourself in the mirror, this outfit is
ridiculous, you absurd piece of meat, and go away until you find some
new clothes to put on.
The Hysterical Bride
I wish I could blow my brains out for you, Mr. Dylan.
Believe me, I really do. :(
The Hysterical Bride
is there, I will think it is Bob Dylan calling me from Heaven.
The Hysterical Bride
mock me.
The Hysterical Bride
I don't like you.
I know you aren't reading this.
I don't know how you did it, but I resent you for it, I know you don't
mean it, I know very well that you know who I am, and you are singing
about me, even though you are totally ignoring me, and I just need you
to know, that I don't care about you either.
Sincerely,
Rachel "Can't get no thrill" Ben-Levi
BOB DYLAN, I AM SO MAD AT YOU.
The Hysterical Bride
I can't escape.
I am trying to find a way out.
I am so pissed off it's unbelievable.
I hate myself.
I really really do.
The Hysterical Bride
I am too scared.
The louder they come, the harder they fall, right?
Holy Jesus.
Please protect me.
Seriously, I am so freaked out.
On every level.
I apologize to everyone and everything.
I mean it, never mind.
I believe in Hell. (on earth)
I could be in Hell.
Seriously, never mind everything.
Forget everything.
I almost wish I were dead. :/
The Hysterical Bride
newsserver that someone put on my computer, I have no idea how.
When I asked if it was legal, I got an "iffy" response. :/
I am so hot for Bob Dylan, it's unreal.
I really want him to f*ck my f*cking brains out.
(I'm trying to stop cursing. I wish I could be good and beautiful
again like when I was going to the Kabbalah Center, but then I went
crazy.)
P.S. I just read that over. I *AGREE* with you. It's *TERRIBLE*. It's
unholy, and uncouth, I can not believe I have pictures of a rock star
all over my closet, this is the uncoolest thing in the whole world. :(
The Hysterical Bride
mother.
For 53 minutes and 53 seconds.
The whole conversation went well, but I don't feel like going into it.
I called her. (She never calls me)
It was all about her, and her life, and her friends, etc...
Nothing about me.
Although she did mention somebody named Lola, so I managed to slip in
Bob Dylan once, saying I was listening to his radio show, and he
played that song Lola by the Kinks.
She said she didn't know it, but she was going to look it up on the
Internet.
Minor success.
One point for me.
Big sigh.
My life is so hard.
i didn't sleep last night.
I am worried.
That's not good.
I don't like my life without Bob Dylan. :(
I miss him so bad. :(
And I recognize that there is no truth to my words, or whatever it is,
it's probably f*cked up, it's probably some sick psychiatric disease.
Robert
Go away.
Robert
Robert
The Hysterical Bride
>
> - Show quoted text -
Can't you just put me in a killfile?
Why do you have to bum my high?
it's 9:04.
The Hysterical Bride
CHIQUITA BANANA STICKERS HAVE DISAPPEARED OFF THE FACE OF THE EARTH.
They can not be found at 7-11, Pavillions, or Ralph's.
What am I going to do? :(
I need to anoint Bob Dylan on my refridgerator!
The Hysterical Bride
taking a shower.
I think it will help relax me, and keep me calm.
I guess I'm just sad.
I am sad without Bob Dylan.
He is the most beautiful man in the whole world.
He's God.
The Hysterical Bride
wrote:
> I don't know why, I am not dirty, I don't smell, but I feel like
> taking a shower.
>
> I think it will help relax me, and keep me calm.
>
I feel like a new person.
It takes a lot of effort to take a shower, you know.
I didn't sleep all night, and I haven't had any coffee yet. (It's
waiting for me.)
There is a good movie on, so I am going to go watch it.
A Few Good Men.
You want the truth?
YOU CAN'T HANDLE THE TRUTH!
The Hysterical Bride
I just sit here.
I just sit here at the computer.
Ok, maybe I should get a laptop, and hang out with it in the living
room, with the TV.
That's an idea.
But then I wont have my magic closet anymore. :( :( :( :(
The Hysterical Bride
i saw a movie last night called Swimming With Sharks, and the worker
tortures the boss, well, I'm not exactly sure, I tuned in late, it was
a little bit of fantasy mixed with reality, anyway,
OU!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
OUCH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
In the movie, the worker gives the boss (Keven Spacey) papercuts on
his face, and that is really painful, and I just went and got my movie
from Netflix out of the box, and I got a papercut on my finger from
it.
THAT IS THE FIRST PAPER CUT I HAVE HAD SINCE I CAN'T EVEN *REMEMBER*
WHEN.
Wow,
What a fricken coincidence.
And ouch, alsotoo, btw. (kibologists say that, alsotoo.)
I can't believe I got a papercut. :(
The Hysterical Bride
going well.
I am cold and shivery and feel like I am slightly on the verge of a
heart attack, so i took a Xanax.
Maybe I am cold and shivery because my hair is wet, I dunno.
Anyway, as i said, it's not going well.
I have a humongous pain in my right side hip, it's like a back type
pain, but on the side.
And on top of that, I am watching and, like Bob Dylan says, feeling
manipulated.
It's true.
I am finding myself on the verge of tears, watery eyes, and I am
saying, NO, NO, THIS ISN'T REAL, THIS IS DRAMA, THIS IS DRAMA, NOBODY
CARES, NOBODY CARES...
and then I get the sinking feeling that I am talking about myself. :(
The Hysterical Bride
no d.
Ok, back to the West Wing.
I think Linda is trying to tell me to commit suicide, because I looked
up paltalk, and read about it in wikipedia.
The Hysterical Bride
not that this matters, but i realized i am saying the pain on the
wrong side.
it's my left side.
it's really quite painful.
I sincerely doubt I am imagining this, considering that many years ago
I was diagnosed with two bulging disks back there, and minor
arthritis, and I have gained a lot of weight, and I'm sure time has
ravaged me up back there and down there even more.
Who knew hypochondria was so painful?
The Hysterical Bride
night.
Omg, it's 5:24.
Well, the thing was, I don't think it was with Bob Dylan.
It was like this dream that I was free, and I could have sex with men.
It was wonderful.
lol.
Omg, sadly, it was only a dream.
Omg, I am a prude.
Oh well. :(
I predicted this would happen.
I guess Bob Dylan hates me though, because he just can't be this shy,
or that far away, or that intimidated by me.
He must not like me.
What should I do?
I wanna get laid. :( :( :( :(
(and believe me, I could, I could just go down to barney's, i'm a
little shy, but most men will fuck anything, and I'm not picky.)
The Hysterical Bride
My first cousin on my mother's side had a baby this morning, I cried
when I saw the picture, and my other cousin, her sister, told me I can
still be an Aunt.
Happy Mother's Day to Bob Dylan as well.
Yeah, Happy Mother's Day, M-F! (just kidding)
I am never going to be a mother.
That's ok.
I don't believe in mothers.
I believe in Tony Soprano, who said that mothers are like bus drivers,
they just drop you off, and keep going.
Thanks Mom!
I am sitting here thinking, how can I be a good Aunt?
If I ever catch her smoking, I am going to throw a fit.
That's the first thing that comes to mind.
The Hysterical Bride
Didn't I wish Bob Dylan a happy mother's day another year as well?
It just came to me, I think I've done that once before. haha.
It must be true.
Bob Dylan is a M-F!
Alright, sorry, nevermind, I'm just kidding around.
Hey Bob, wanna get married?
I'm sure you would say yes, if you only read this.
But you had severe memory failure, and you don't even remember me.
Girls run up on your stage all the time.
I'm not special.
I'll bet you even let them backstage to give you blowjobs.
Forget it.
BIG MISTAKE!
I don't wanna marry you. :(
The Hysterical Bride
something about it on 60 minutes tonight.
Well, anyway, yesterday, Robert Zimmerman:
http://dylanstubs.com/pictures/ALT_POOL_15/me2.html
incurred water damage, I don't know how, I decided not to pursue an
investigation, and simply threw him away. lol.
Anyway, I decided to put up on my fridge the smaller version of the
Great (and most beautiful) Bob Dylan,
http://dylanstubs.com/pictures/ALT_POOL/DVC00079.html
from my living room, (I put up another one there, I told you about
that, same pic, but filling the whole paper, it's gorgeous) and there
is also one on my old cute little Mac that just sits there on the desk
behind me as a decoration, like a historical monument from my
collegiate past.
I feel bad though.
I feel as though there is a Bob Dylan who is missing from my house.
There was once a Bob Dylan Mr. Chiquita Banana, he came back, but
without his crowned hat, and now he's all crumpled up and in my
kitchen garbage can.
You know what?
I really miss him (seriously).
I think I am going to print him out again, and put him up here in the
closet.
And something weird is going on with the Chiquita Banana company, so I
am not sure I want him to be a Mr. Chiquita Banana again, and I am too
lazy and chemically depressed to try and focus enough to read about
it. And I really don't want to take dexedrine. I know what you are
thinking, my doctor won't give it to me anymore anyway, now that I am
obese and he treats me like dirt, it's so insulting, but I could just
drop him and go to another doctor, but I really don't want to take any
kind of medication unless it is absolutely necessary.)
So now the question looms large.
WHAT THE F*CK AM I GOING TO PUT ON HIS WHITE HAT??????
HE NEEDS A DECORATION!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
I know.
I have stickers of Jewish stars.
I am going to put a Jewish star on his hat.
Yes, Boob, I figured this all out from doing drugs and reading the
Bible, something about an Egyptian cult, I have totally forgotten, I
don't know what I am talking about anymore. I probably never did.
Ok, Mr. Zimmerman.
Prepare to make entrance into my closet, through the printer.
Brace yourself, Rachel Ben-Levi!
BOB DYLAN IS ON HIS WAY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! lol.
***
Ok, I just read this over, and I have a better idea.
I think I still have some stickers of challahs.
I think if I have one I am going to put a challah on his hat.
A challah is supposed to represent a higher consciousness. (the
leavened bread)
The Hysterical Bride
It's too complicated.
I have never used this printer before, myself, and I don't understand
the options or whatever.
I can't even find the options for best quality.
I don't understand it.
I need to wait for my Bob Dylan friend. :(
The Hysterical Bride
The Hysterical Bride
wrote:
> THERE'S A NEW HYSTERICAL BRIDE! (I like him!)(This is very dirty.)
>
And yet, in thinking about this further, it's very sad.
Condoms.
I am not fit to have children.
But then I think, was my MOTHER?
I mean, she WAS, but look at how I turned out. :(
Life is not easy.
And yet, I have hope about it, so I don't commit suicide. I am also
too chicken, but more than that, it's because I have hope, having
nothing to do with Bob Dylan.
But I feel so GUILTY! (about having children)
I DON'T WANT TO BE RESPONSIBLE FOR ANOTHER PERSON'S HEARTHACHE AND
MISERY!!!!!!! I DON'T WANT TO *DO* THAT TO ANOTHER PERSON.
(following this logic, there is no way out. i am totally doomed, i am
totally guilty no matter who i am, or what i do. there are lines. this
is terribly confusing and onerous. :( )
I even have fears sometimes that my children would hate me so much,
they would kill me.
Look, all I know is, I liked Bob Dylan.
Whoopdee doo.
You're not the first one, Rachel.
WELL THAT JUST AIN'T FAIR!
I REALLY THOUGHT I WAS.
I THOUGHT I WAS THE ONLY ONE.
He's *MY* BOB DYLAN!!!!!!!
(ok, that's not nice. you can have him, too)
I still don't think he is a real person.
I don't know what to think.
This is so depressing.
I am shaking my head.
THAT MAN HATES ME.
I JUST KNOW IT.
BOB DYLAN TOTALLY HATES ME.
It's not even real.
I think i am schizophrenic, like John Nash.
I am so confused you have no idea.
This is completely insane.
Take Bob Dylan out of the equation.
It's still insane.
I feel like the last person on the face of the earth.
I feel like the ONLY person on the face of the earth.
Everything else is G-d.
The Hysterical Bride
I THINK HE'S OUT THERE, AND I WANT HIM!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
WHAT'S HIS *PROBLEM*?????????????????
(ok, haha, lol, yada yada yada, WHAT'S WRONG WITH ME?)
Bob Dylan lives in another world. :(
He's in Heaven.
Well, good for him.
He's driving me bananas.
The Hysterical Bride
notes.
I was trying to look up something, and went to AJs sight, and it
caught my eyes.
Oh Bob Dylan, please, I want your body.
I don't care if you aren't wearing polka dotes.
Ok, you know what I want?
I WANT YOUR NAME.
I guess what I am saying is I want you to marry me, and be Mrs. Bob
Dylan. giggle.
Oh come ON!
I DON'T WANT YOU TO BLOW MY MIND WITH YOUR SH*T.
COME *ON*!
I WANT A PHYSICAL RELATIONSHIP WITH YOU.
YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN.
I suppose you are too superior and advanced for me.
The Hysterical Bride
wrote:
I swear to G-d, I totally mean it, when I was writing Screamer from
the Closet, and everything having to do with that, the closet, the
only thing I remembered about Closet was from reading the Gospels on
speed.
This is blowing my mind, but I don't care, all I am thinking about is
Robert Allen Zimmerman out there (AND HIS GIRLFRIEND) and I LOVE HIM,
I DON'T KNOW WHY, I LOVE HIM SO MUCH, I WANT HIM BACK, I DON'T CARE
ABOUT HIS BRAIN. lol.
is this the disease of conceit?
he's mad at me.
he hates me. :(
he's punishing me. :(
he's perfect, and i don't belong in his world, except as the
hysterical bride. :(
The Hysterical Bride
>
> - Show quoted text -
ok, you know what?
it's NOT blowing my mind, because it meant something totally different
to him, it has nothing to do with me, he is a 64 year old traveling
musician (i know what i am writing) and his brain comes from a
parallel universe that I live in. He doesn't know me, he wasn't at the
concert where i touched his butt on 4/9/94, I am part of Satan. :(
LONG LIVE BOB DYLAN THE *TRAVELING* MUSICIAN!!!!!!!!! (what a joke)
Bob Dylan should definitely join the circus.
And so should I, as the bearded woman, Mrs. Henry.
A musician like you should be at home
That's where you belong
Taking care of somebody nice
Who respects your nose and your shlong
Snap out of it Bobby
People are jealous of you
They buy tickets to your concerts
But behind your back, they don't exist
What's a musician like you
Doing in a world like this?
The Hysterical Bride
wrote:
>
> I swear to G-d, I totally mean it, when I was writing Screamer from
> the Closet, and everything having to do with that, the closet, the
> only thing I remembered about Closet was from reading the Gospels on
> speed.
The reason I called myself Screamer was because Bob Dylan had two
german shepherds to whom I was introduced, Hero and Screamer, and in
Hard to Handle, he says Jesus was his hero, so I said it like he was
Hero (Jesus) and I was Screamer, and naturally I added the [sic]
because I was thinking that he is never coming back, I tried looking
this up recently, my recolletion was that the Gospels that I read
said, "Go into your closet and Jesus will come back to you" but I
can't find that on the Internet, it's a little different, I suppose I
could look it up in the Xian Bible that I have, I keep thinking, right
now, about what Bob Dylan said, that both religions are equally valid,
and I am also having sneaky thoughts about how it never happened in
his world, he's never heard of me, he's never seen me, and I get to
try again, to start over, to live out my flickering fleeting little
occasional fantasy of being perfect (thin and pretty) and meeting him,
(but I thought he was just a washed up old has been who lived at home,
a home that was as old and washed up as he is, lol) and being pretty
and flirting with him, and getting him to like me, and then I could be
with him "forever."
The Hysterical Bride
Obviously, everybody knows that as Bob Dylan hit the doorway frame, I
screamed (cried out, from my inner gut, or diaphragm, or something
like that). (Then immediately clamped my mouth shut, because I thought
I had made a mistake.)
I looked it up, Matthew 6:6, and it is the same as on the Internet.
Oh well.
My recollection was wrong.
This adds to my sneaky thinking that this is all in secret, Bob Dylan
has no idea who I am, there are different worlds, or at least two,
like the physical and the metaphysical, this is all going to get
buried in google, or it was like it all never happened, and I can
start over, I can meet in him in the physical world, it would be like
Just Like A Woman, please don't let on that you knew me when I was
hungry and it was your world, pretend like it never happened,
something like this, but I don't want to DO that, why should I have to
have any secrets from anybody, I HATE secrets, I come from a family of
communists, it was like it rubbed off on my mother, we weren't in the
phone book, we weren't normal, it was like there was the family, and
then the outer world, this is so confusing, I want more than anything
in the whole world that Bob Dylan reads RMD, but I am so afraid google
is going to drop the group, and bobdylan.com is going to drop the
link, etc... and this is all going to be buried, like it never
happened, and I have to try and get back to Bob Dylan PHYSICALLY.
THERE IS NO WAY.
YOU DON'T UNDERSTAND.
First of all, this is like from I and I, I DON'T WANT TO, IT'S NOT
*FAIR*.
And secondly, I made a mistake.
I don't want him to be attracted to me from the outside.
I feel like I am damned if I do, and damned if I don't.
This is impossible.
He is the greatest man on the face of the earth, and he is not going
to call me, no matter what I look like or what I do, I have no idea
what is going to happen, I just want to be happy.
Anybody can be happy?
That's nonsense.
The Hysterical Bride
I mean, I want to be HUMAN with him.
There is no way, that I could ever possibly accept, that when he wrote
"Go back to San Bernadino, talk in monotone, everyone will understand"
that this was about what happened with my father.
UNLESS, for example, he says he has visions or something.
I could totally accept that.
I don't know.
This is getting totally insane again.
I don't like this.
I want the real world back. :(
Fl*ck bob dylan and his rudeness!
The Hysterical Bride
I really can't imagine Bob Dylan calling me.
I used to have these fantasies, after we met, like desperate
fantasies, about meeting his many many years in the future, example,
at the beach in Santa Monica, and none of the songs were about me, and
he was sad and depressed,(looking like the yellow trembling wilbury
from the times I have mentioned) but he remembered me from Kansas, and
he said, "I thought you didn't like me."
Man, I really think Bob Dylan hates me.
I had no idea who he was when I went running out to Kansas (because
voices were shouting at me, have I mentioned that when all this was
happening after he knocked and before I left that I thought the
Kabbalists were after me, and wanted to kill me?)
Well, anyway, I love Bob Dylan, but it's just never going to happen.
I mean, I am already 37.
Well, I guess this is better than having children who end up suffering
and having terrible lives, like mine where I never get to be with Bob
Dylan, or so pathetic, because that's what it's all about, hope that I
will get to be with him.
This really really sucks.
It's like he exists, and yet he doesn't.
The Hysterical Bride
p.s. i have no idea what's going on.
*****
bobdylan.com is down, and has been for a long time, this is all going
to be buried, i don't want bob dylan's mind.
i think he hates me.
he thinks i am just using him for his money and his looks.
or maybe his name.
or something like that.
i was going to do this following.
http://www.popmatters.com/music/features/images/020814-dylan-bob.jpg
No, you are ugly, and I don't want to marry you!
***
But then I realized, that's not nice, and remembered, he's bob
DYLan...
i don't CARE what he looks like.
i love him.
he hates me. :(
he doesn't want me.
i'm certain of it.
i don't know what else to do.
i don't know how to let go.
i don't know how to move on.
i don't know how to get him to like me.
i don't know how to make a connection.
i don't think it ever happened, kansas.
i think i am schizophrenic.
they are going to take bob dylan away from me.
his body.
it's not really out there.
or i am going to have to try and try and try and try, and then he is
going to die.
he is not reading this.
he is not in love with me.
he totally used me.
i don't know what to do.
i used to like to play tennis.
i just honestly don't think i can get married and have children.
but that is what i want.
but only with bob dylan.
i give up.
The Hysterical Bride
I can get to it through other people's links, but not my bookmarked
place or address bar.
I wonder if they are just doing that to me, or what?
The Hysterical Bride
Dylan's body, to be with him, and all that totally unoriginal crap,
let me just say, that I don't really want him, I just want to rest and
relax and have a good time, that's all I really want, and I hope Bob
Dylan is happy, and I just have this wish that he would like me and
want to be with me.
It's just a wish.
The Hysterical Bride
headline news, that this is BOB DYLAN'S BIRTHDAY MONTH!!!!
Bob Dylan is going to be 67 years old.
I wonder what he is going to do for his birthday?
Ok, hold on, I have to go check Boblinks.
Wow.
He's WORKING on his birthday.
He puts more effort into his two hours on stage than most people do in
their 8 hour a day job.
Wow.
We should really feel for Bob Dylan.
His life is so hard.
Poor, hard working Bob Dylan.
The Hysterical Bride
Now there are TWO Bob Dylan Hysterical Brides!
The Hysterical Bride
I thought you *LOVED* crazy exotic women who write in their journals
(blogs etc...).
That's what Sally Kirkland said on Howard Stern on E!.
She also said she read to you from her journals, then you ate her out
for three hours.
Were you just putting her on?
Somebody else said he thought you were wanting to distance yourself
from her.
Do you think I am insulting?
I can't help it if you make me horny!
Love,
Rachel
P.S. Are you having a good time? What do you do all day? Do you wanna
come over? I guess not. :(
All I want is you.
Is that so wrong?
I don't want to be introduced to you through another person.
I never wanted to meet you through another person, because then I
would want to abandon the other person and be with you.
I recognized that rather quickly a long long time ago, and was trying
to figure out how I could just meet you with nobody in between. (in
very brief tiny little fantasies that lasted less than a minute each,
I have said every single time here in RMD!)
(insert: Well, I didn't describe for example, what it was like at each
concert, I don't think, it was too hard to figure out how to describe
it, like in Wisconsin in 1990, when I got there, I was like an animal,
staring at the door, like, where is he?, where is he? omg, where is he
coming from? i just wanted to get to you, it was really intense. Then
I took my companion, and ran down the aisle from the front and saw
Tracy Chapman there but then got kicked out back to my seat before you
(he) came on. All I remember is what happened with the binocluars. I
think I remember saying this before, but it's just that I waited on
describing it because it was so intense, and so hard to find the right
words, that's all. What it was like being there and waiting, and
looking around.)
too cont...
Well, I guess it happened, unless I am schizophrenic, and it never
happened.
I wonder what you look like?
If you call me on the phone, I promise I won't hang up on you.
THIS SUCKS, I DON'T WANT TO BE INTRODUCED TO HIM THROUGH ANOTHER
PERSON, I WANT HIM TO COME BACK TO ME.
COME BACK TO ME, BOB DYLAN!
COME BACK!
COME BACK!
The Hysterical Bride
wrote:
I was just reading this over, I ran down the aisle from the middle of
the back.
I don't know why I wrote that, what I was thinking, from the front, I
think maybe I was thinking, towards the front, towards him, towards
you, towards the messiah who is human and divine and can be in two
places at once, and knows everything, and doesn't read this. :(
The Hysterical Bride
I guess it's going to take a lot of time
He sings about it, sixteen years
But then I will be too old, I fear
He doesn't want my children, no
I think he had an affair with Sheryl Crow
He sleep around, he's homer the slut
He likes women who are sexy and can strut
He likes women who are strong and who can hold their own
He doesn't want to have to call someone on the phone
He wants them to be the best there is
How he comes to him, that ain't his biz
It's up to them to figure it out
He doesn't call them, he doesn't shout
He doesn't want to make a move
He's the ultimate man, the coolest dude
On his radio show, he acts all coy
He pretends he's nice, it's just a ploy
He thinks he's the greatest man who ever lived
I'm totally screwed, I'm totally miffed
I'm in love with his polka dotted shirt
He thinks I'm rude, he thinks I'm curt
I want him to fuck out my brains
Oh it's such a hard hard rain
I ain't good enough to have his babies
He ain't going to call me, I don't mean maybe
I wish he would, I wish it so much
I think I am the young lazy slut
It's just a sham, it's just a game
I want him back, I want his name
He wants me to crawl to him through the dirt
He wants me to wear a wig and a skirt
There ain't no way, there ain't no how
I think I'll end this miserable poem right about now.
The Hysterical Bride
> I want Bob Dylan to be all mine
> I guess it's going to take a lot of time
> He sings about it, sixteen years
> But then I will be too old, I fear
> He doesn't want my children, no
> I think he had an affair with Sheryl Crow
> He sleep around, he's homer the slut
sleeps
> He likes women who are sexy and can strut
> He likes women who are strong and who can hold their own
> He doesn't want to have to call someone on the phone
> He wants them to be the best there is
> How he comes to him, that ain't his biz
how they come to him
The Hysterical Bride
No, I don't want to marry you right now.
I think you have been smoking crystal meth.
The Hysterical Bride
or
BE A ROCK STAR JUNKIE WHORE
CHOOSE!
The Hysterical Bride
The Hysterical Bride
Were you out riding your motorcycle yesterday?
Love,
Rachel :P
The Hysterical Bride
I was outside and I saw you go by.
lol.
No, just kidding.
I just received word that someone thought he saw you on your bike in
Malibu, at this particular corner.
It probably wasn't you.
You don't even live in California.
The Hysterical Bride
I am absolutely certain, I can SWEAR TO THIS, I HAVE NEVER THOUGHT
THIS BEFORE, I AM ABSOLUTELY SURE. BELIEVE ME, THIS, I WOULD
KNOW!!!!!!!
It JUST OCCURED TO ME, for the first time *EVER*, that girls who run
up on stage and then get dragged off by security, they probably come
out from stage right (how do you say it, if you are FACING the stage,
then from the left) and WHEN BOB DYLAN IS LOOKING OVER TO HIS RIGHT
LIKE THAT ALL THE TIME, IT'S ABOUT *ALL* THE F*CKING GIRLS WHO RUN UP
ON STAGE AND GET TAKEN OFF.
I AM SO MAD.
I AM SO *HURT*.
How can he ENJOY this?
Seriously, I DO NOT LIKE THIS ABOUT BOB DYLAN.
I DO NOT RESPECT HIS ROCK STAR CAREER.
I thought he lived at home like a respectable person.
He's a slut.
He's a whore.
I meant NOTHING to him.
There are probably girls all over the Internet writing to Bob Dylan,
thinking they are the young lazy sluts who charmed away his brains,
this SUCKS *SO* *BAD*, this SUCKS SUCKS SUCKS, I want to marry Bob
Dylan, and he doesn't want me, he is just out there having fun being a
rock star, he doesn't want to get married and live at home, THAT'S
WHAT I WANT, I can't *BELIEVE* he thought I would want to just hang
around with him for a little while, for a couple of months, what, did
he think I would get sick of him or something, NO, HE THINKS I WOULD
START TO *BORE* HIM TO DEATH, JUST LIKE EVERYBODY HERE, I don't care
HOW BORING Bob Dylan is, I want to be with him, now I am really
sticking my foot in my mouth, that means I have to listen to all my
bootlegs from Mark (dylanstubs), and listen to all his radio shows,
BUT I DON'T REALLY WANT TO *BE WITH HIM* LIKE *THAT*.
I WANT TO BE WITH HIM IN PERSON, and he has TOO MUCH PRIDE, TOO BIG OF
AN EGO, I AM JUST A COMMONER, I AM JUST STUPID KID WHO THOUGHT HE WAS
COOL, I'M JUST A HYSTERICAL FAN WHO THINKS HE IS SINGING ABOUT HER (at
least since TOoM) I AM JUST A GROUPIE WHO WANTS TO GET LAID, I AM JUST
A DESPERATE HOUSEWIFE WHO WANTS TO MARRY HIM, etc... etc...
I can't believe this.
He is talking to ALL the girls who have run up on stage and have been
taken off, from his right.
I mean, I EVEN THOUGHT I WAS THE VERY VERY *VERY* FIRST PERSON ON THE
FACE OF THE EARTH WHO HAD EVER BEEN ON STAGE WITH THE GREAT BOB DYLAN.
(and I thought he commanded me to come)
I mean, I can't BELIEVE ANYBODY EVER WOULD HAVE THE BALLS TO GO ON
STAGE WITH THE GREAT BOB DYLAN.
NOBODY BELONGS ON THAT STAGE BUT HIM.
Turns out he's just a f*cking whore with no self-respect who likes to
f*ck lots of his groupie fans, f*ck him, unless he changes, I don't
even want to marry him, I hate him, I don't respect what he is doing
to himself, I think he has no dignity or self-respect.
Truly.
Bob Dylan has a very low self-esteem.
Seriously.
He doesn't realize how great he is.
The Hysterical Bride
Btw, when I think of him looking to his right in all the pictures, and
like at the end of M&A, it's me heading further and further over to
his right, and then ending up at the speaker, not about being pulled
off of him from the middle of stage (that followed the speaker, after
I fainted, and security egged me on to get back up and go back over to
him).
This just occured to me.
What if he is looking over to his right and being happy because he is
saying, I hate you and I am so glad they came out and got you and took
you off my butt.
Why did Bob Dylan do this to me?
I am suffering so much right now, physically, my body really hurts, it
feels like it's fried, like elecricity is going through my hands and
my legs, I am in a lot of pain, why can't Bob Dylan just call me, I
really think he exists, I KNOW (in so far as anything can be known)
that he exists, if he called me, I wouldn't be shocked, I wouldn't be
confused, I wouldn't wonder, how is this possible, but eventually, I
would like to know what I don't understand that he could explain to
me, why won't he just be nice and call me?
I am so mad that he is singing about me, if he came to the conclusion
after thinking about me for three years that he wanted me back,
instead of writing TOoM, he should have hired a private investigator
to come find me, and come and knocked on my door.
He is stealing me.
He is stealing away my chances at letting go and moving on, and
because of this, I have great suffering.
I think what he is doing is wrong, and I don't appreciate it, in these
times when I am suffering, like right now.
The Hysterical Bride
right?
I hadn't looked at Lyrics like that (liner notes) essentially since
1995. (and I was always on speed.)
I looked at it somewhat here, but not that part. No way.
I mean, seriously, I would know.
If I had seen it, it would have blown my mind.
I am well aware that this is my closet.
The first time it had any meaning that I could recall was because of
seeing it mentioned in the Gospels.
The Hysterical Bride
This is very disappointing.
I think I wrote Screamer in the Closet more than once, and the first
time I followed it with a [sic], and it's not there in the archives,
google isn't pulling it up, but it's done that to me before, where I
type in exactly what was there, and it doesn't come up. I know this to
be true, because then I find it, and I had been typing what I was
looking for absolutely correctly, and it just didn't find it, for some
reason.
The Hysterical Bride
now, of course, I am watching Borat, for the first time by myself
surrounded by peace, just sitting there, with no mind on the computer,
(RMD), and I am either crazy, or there is a SH*TLOAD of Hebrew mixed
in with the language they are speaking (supposedly from Kasakhstan).
The Hysterical Bride
Just to describe it accurately, I am reading the subtitles, and then
words and phrases catch my ear, WHICH I KNOW, and it matches up with
the English subtitles, and it's Hebrew.
Go figure.
The Hysterical Bride
Ok, I am not crazy. I just typed in Borat and Hebrew and looked it up,
and apparently I am right.
I have never really seen this movie from beginning to end except once
with Keith, and I was cracking up so hard, I only caught a little bit
of Hebrew.
Then I just saw and heard bits and pieces, and I thought I heard a
little more.
And tonight even more.
I want to try again.
I want to catch this movie from beginning to end, and merely be
focusing on the language, and see how much I can get. (I haven't
thought about Hebrew since I was 17, I am rather rusty, as you can
well imagine.)
Well, I am going to be up all night, so hopefully I will think of
things to say, and you can all entertain yourselves with my writing
when you get up in the morning.
The Hysterical Bride
Well, I can see how that would totally change my personalty, my
affect, my disposition, everything.
It might even start to help me change what I do. I'm certain of it.
Because I was just out there trying to watch television, and I am
stark raving mad.
I am thinking of Bob Dylan up in Malibu riding his motorcylce, and I
am so pissed off.
I think of that line, gonna travel the world, that's what I'm gonna
do, then come back and see you.
SO WTF DOES HE THINK HE IS DOING RIGHT NOW?
This is reminding me of when I wrote "he's not at home, he's out of
reach" and that's how I feel when he is not on tour, I don't think of
him as being up the road in Malibu, it's like he only exists through
the computer, and when he's not out there touring, I forget where he
is sometimes, it's like, he's GONE.
BUT SOMEBODY JUST PASSED ON SOME NEWS ABOUT A BOB DYLAN SIGHTING AT
THIS CORNER NEAR HIS HOUSE, and that brings the reality back home to
me, he is just hanging around nearby, having a good time, and what
about me?
I am so mad I just want to yell and scream at him, tell him what he
can go do to himself, I think you catch my drift.
Well, I've already done enough of that, and I think i could really
benefit from some change, like stopping cursing, that would force me,
maybe, to stop being so angry.
OMG, it's very hard.
You don't know how bad I want to curse at him right now.
The Hysterical Bride
scary and any other s words that fit the bill.
I have seen the movie "Fargo" numerous times, as you know about my
viewing habits, not from beginning to end.
I remember once watching it and feeling fragile, I guess, and I
thought to myself, it's not a true story, they're totally making this
up, things like this don't really happen, I tried to console myself
with these words, these thoughts.
So now it's the only thing on, and I started watching, and the very
beginning start out and it says, "This is a true story," etc...
Again, why did my mother give BIRTH to me?
I RESENT HER.
I totally resent this.
I am not living in a safe and secure world, she doesn't love me, this
is complete bullsh*t, she just used me.
Ok, I know, I just cursed.
I am trying.
It's going to take some time.
BUT I'M REALLY MAD.
I AM REALLY HURT, THIS IS NOT A GOOD PLACE, AND I RESENT MY MOTHER.
This world is DANGEROUS.
I don't want children, it's so unfair to them.
The Hysterical Bride
I have a suicide thing, too, Mr. Dylan. lol.
Where did that come from? My laughter.
That makes me wanna do drugs and have a good time, but it's so bad so
often, it's just not worth it.
I would take Xanax to try and sleep, but it lasts so long, I'm afraid
I won't be able to wake up to go to the doctor.
I'm in such a bad mood.
This movie is so awful, it's a true story, I can't stand it, I don't
know where to turn for comfort.
I want to knock myself out or something.
The Hysterical Bride
heading over to Maine.
Was he in San Francisco?
Good.
I hope whoever it was who thought he saw Bob Dylan at the corner near
his house on a motorcycle was WRONG, and that Bob Dylan is way up
north in San Francisco, all I know is, I am glad he is going back out
on tour, not so I will know (through a reminder on the computer) about
where he is, but so that he will get the %^& AWAY FROM ME.
I AM GLAD HE IS SAILING AWAY.
DON'T EVER COME BACK, BOB DYLAN.
I HOPE YOU GET LOST. lol.
The Hysterical Bride
to my stomach.
Everything there, Dylan's "secret" daughter, fans on stage, I didn't
even know where to look first, and the whole thing is making me sick.
I just can't handle that Bob Dylan has a life with other people.
This is so unfair.
I thought he was just a cute little old man who lived by himself who
used to be great because he wrote Blowin' in the Wind and he made
these little tapes that I had, that nobody else liked or bought, and
he felt just like I did, and when I lost enough weight, (so he would
like me), I was going to go find him, and move in with him. lol. just
kidding. Not that. YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN. I loved him and thought
nobody else did. I mean, if other people knew about him, why wasn't he
on the radio? Why hadn't I heard of all his music before? Why wasn't
he popular? I thought nobody liked his music but me. :(
The Hysterical Bride
omg, she kissed him on the mouth.
i'm going to be sick.
bob, please, get into your bus and drive immediately to the nearest
rape crisis center!
you might have aids!
ok, but seriously, and i was serious, that made me sick to watch that.
how can you stand your job?
you LIKE this?
i guess i am a misanthrope.
i don't like sharing myself with people.
well, at least, not my body.
you can all have my brain.
The Hysterical Bride
OmyGAWD!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
HOW CAN WOMEN JUST GET ON STAGE WITH BOB DYLAN LIKE THAT, AND DANCE,
AND KISS HIM, I AM SO EMBARRASSED FOR THEM.
Bob, you are TOO GOOD for anybody else.
I guess you are just doing it for money.
I was SO EMBARRASSED when I realized, (wfw) "OMG, I'm on stage at a
Bob Dylan concert", as I looked out past the microphone.
It was the craziest thing in the whole world.
I wanted to disappear.
That is exactly what I tried to do.
I wouldn't be caught dead with Bob Dylan.
I'm not good enough.
Nobody is, unless he chooses them himself.
I am never going to another concert.
What am I doing in RMD?
I have no self-respect.
I have no dignity.
I have no honor.
I have become morbidly obese.
I don't care.
I don't love anyone or anything.
I hate my life.
I am ashamed of myself.
I don't belong anywhere.
The Hysterical Bride
I am searching through expecting rain for the first time since surely
the last time I mentioned it, and I see this thread, "Bob Dildo."
And I made that up for the first time in my mind recently, calling him
"Dildo."
And it was so much fun to call him that, it felt so new and unique and
original.
I mean, I don't remember ever calling him that before.
I guess there really truly are no original ideas.
Especially when it comes to Dildo.
I saw something in expecting rain that I really liked.
Well, it made sense to me.
Something about how Bob Dylan is the most interesting thing on the
face of the earth, and "no wonder people hate Bob Dylan fans."
Because that's how I feel.
That everybody around me really hates me, because I have abandoned
them, and found something better, Boob Dylan.
It's like I have something they can't relate to, or connect with, for
some reason, almost like it's something beyond the realm of being
human, outside family and friends, it's like a black hole that sucks
you in, from their perspective, you are gone, you are sick, you are
obsessed, you need help, you are deluded, etc.. etc...
They don't understand.
Well, so G-d bless the Internet, and the delusion that there is a
community of Boob Dylan psychos who can support each other, the BDA 12
step group, only it's not so anonymous, at least, not for me.
But it kind of is, in the sense that it's only in the computer.
In the real world out there, beyond this closet, there is no more Bob
Dylan.
Why is the whole world putting me on?
Why does Bob Dylan hate me?
Why do we all hate each other so much?
Because he's our Bob Dylan.
It's a good thing we are all separated by this Internet, because if we
all came together, we would all probably kill each other over whose
Bob Dylan he really is.
I don't think there would be a winner.
We'd all die, and then Bob Dylan would be happy.
The Hysterical Bride
I am reading expecting rain a little, and I can seriously see how
other women could think that the lyrics are about them.
I need a life.
The Hysterical Bride
The Hysterical Bride
Who am I going to marry?
hahaha that was so funny, crack up, lyao, blah blah blah, nobody
cares.
I got back from the doctor, and he is ruling out anything serious
through an EKG (I already had one from chest pains before and it was
fine), blood work, (I had that too, last time, everything was fine),
but also a CAT scan and a stress test. The receptionist is calling me
tomorrow with the appointment times at Cedars.
I feel so lonely, so alone in the world, even though I went with
Albert, and going to the doctor, being so overweight and ugly (my face
is all broken out, I am not well groomed, my eyes are messed up, I
look like a great big fat freak with a tiny little head, lol)(well, at
least I can not care about it in the privacy of my own home/apt/condo
whatever.)
He said maybe it was fibromyalgia (sp?).
I want to believe that it's stress.
And I think my nervous system is messed up (I am censoring the
inclination to say f'ed up, I am going to really try and stop
cursing.) because of taking all that speed. I think it was dirty, and
messed up my system. I don't know.
Whatever it is, I just wish it would go away, the thing is, I am so
lonely, I am so alone, I am obsessed with Bob Dylan, he's the only
person I want to be with in the whole world, I don't know why, I
really really REALLY don't know why.
I mean, it's not logical.
What is it about?
It's completely irrational and insane.
I mean, if he was literally perfect, like a Godly man, maybe it would
be understandable, but he's just a little twerp, so there must be
something wrong with me to want him.
Uh oh.
I'm thinking about it.
The first thing that comes to mind is, "he's sexy."
That's lust.
Oh great.
I am in lust with Bob Dylan.
Maybe I should get a vibrator and shut up.
But I even just like looking at his pictures.
He's beautiful.
Now, I know, I have confessed to not liking certain pictures, like
that picture with the white hat, blue eyes, and black mustache, I
thought it was too much of a contrast, and was not pleasing to the
eye.
But it's just a picture.
Is the truth really in pictures?
No, I disagree.
Where is the truth?
What is the truth?
I don't know.
I am very concerned about bobdylan.com.
I think maybe it's gone forever.
I told you this was going to happen.
Actually, my mother said it was going to happen (I don't think she is
aware of the details of what I am doing.)
But when I told her, freaking out, I have put everything up on the
Internet, she said, "It'll all be buried in google."
The truth is I am bored and fat and ugly and lazy and nobody cares,
and why should they, I wouldn't care about somebody else who was bored
and fat and ugly and lazy why should anyone care about me?
I just feel like repeating for the millionth time, I didn't know
anybody liked Bob Dylan, I didn't know he was rich, I didn't know he
toured, I thought he just was at home lonely and depressed and I
wanted to go and keep him company, because I loved him.
I don't even understand his songs.
I don't know him.
But I am totally stuck on him, is there any hope for me, no, I don't
think so.
I'm just not good enough.
And here's the thing.
I don't respect his job.
Traveling around the worlds giving concerts that people go to because
of his name and they can't understand a single word, and they go home
disappointed.
I mean, if people could really hear and understand all the words, and
they were as great as the best bootlegs I have been given as gifts,
then maybe people would stop what they were doing, and everybody in
the world would want to follow him around, and go to all his concerts
or something.
Don't you ever totally just get sick of Bob Dylan?
I do.
But I also get totally sick of myself.
I get so sick of myself I want to blow myself away.
I am happy for Bob Dylan.
He enjoys his life, he likes what he does, he is happy, he likes being
worshipped and adored by people all over the world, he lives in
Bobbyland, and I am totally screwed because I want to be with him,
just like a thousand other crazy young women who probably have his
pictures up all over their walls and masturbate and think of him,
etc..etc...
This is the uncoolest thing on the face of the earth, I hate being
cool, I hated losing weight and being hot and everybody drooling at my
feet, it was mean, I didn't like it, I just wanted to be left alone.
See, the thing is, if you aren't a loser, then who is good enough for
you?
Who are you going to hang out with?
Who are you going to marry?
Who makes all these decisions?
I seriously don't know where I belong, where I fit in, I guess I am
just going to be a loner for the rest of my life.
I acknowledge that I have a problem, but I like my problem, it's a Bob
Dylan problem, it's very selfish, and it makes me a loser, but it's
interesting, and full of passion, and it gives me something to do.
The Hysterical Bride
You know what the problem is?
HE MAKES ME FEEL LIKE A LOSER.
I FEEL LIKE A TOTAL %^$&#*% LOSER BECAUSE BOB DYLAN IS SO COOL.
THAT'S WHAT MY PROBLEM IS RIGHT NOW.
The Hysterical Bride
I am sitting here thinking, how can I make fun of Bob Dylan?
Because that's what I feel like doing, making fun of Bob Dylan to feel
better about myself.
But I don't mean Bob Dylan, the man.
That's not nice.
Ok, all your marriages have failed.
I don't know.
That's not working for me.
It's not making me laugh.
And I think the thing is, the reason I liked it, and it made me laugh,
is because I want to marry him, myself, and never ever EVER get
divorced.
So it's like it didn't really matter.
But I don't think he is singing about me, I don't know what's going
on, he is Bob Dylan, undoubtedly the most influential and prominent
man alive, G-d this s*cks, maybe I should make fun of myself, instead.
But the thing is, if I start putting myself down, I am realizing,
again, for the umpteenth time, I am insulting parts of other people as
well.
I am in a bad mood.
How can I make it go away?
Well, let's just focus on the positive.
I can breathe.
Yes, wow, I quit smoking.
Yeah, let's see how long this is going to last.
I should change my name to loser.
Great big fat freak loser.
Maybe I should marry another great big fat freak loser.
LOL!
Why am I laughing?
I am thinking of how in the world we could manage to have sex.
oh G-d.
That is morbid.
I have to lose weight.
This isn't funny.
Oh, forget getting married.
I don't believe in love and marriage.
I just don't fit.
Have I managed to make that sufficiently clear yet?
I hate my stupid pathetic life, and it's all about because I have a
Bob Dylan obsession.
It's weird.
I'm looking at the pictures of him on my closet wall, and I'm
thinking, "That's not Bob Dylan. That's Robert Zimmerman."
It's just weird that there is a body, a man, who holds the key to Bob
Dylan.
Where is the real Bob Dylan?
WHAT is the real Bob Dylan?
DEFINE BOB DYLAN!
Oh forget all of this.
I'm just prattling away, and being all oogie. lol.
Ok, I should go watch TV.
I like being entertained.
(Misery was on again the other night, possibly last night, I forget)
The Hysterical Bride
It's all the same.
It's all equal.
But you know, I don't really believe that.
The Hysterical Bride
what can i say, that hasn't already been said?
i'm really really really bored
i have to tell you i'm leaning toward
swallowing a whole bottle of pills
that will take away all my ills
i'll go to heaven and be with jesus
my lord and savior, he died to save us
what a bunch of ignorant crap
there's no such thing, i'll take the rap
i'm an ignorant, conceited haughty jew
i consider myself amongst the few
and why is that, you ask me now
look at you, you're just a big fat cow
well it just so happened that i met my friend
i touched his butt, and that was the end
that was the purpose of my entire life
you don't have to ask, i don't have to think twice
i met bob dylan, hip hip hurray
now what am i going to do for the rest of my days?
my wish came true, i know i'm saved
i work for G-d, i am a slave
oh fuck bob dylan and this stupid poem
i think i should check myself into a home
my life has no meaning, there is no goal
i'm a useless cunt, a bleeding hole
sorry i don't mean to curse
i can't tell you how it could get much worse
now i'm stuck, i've run out of words
i'm feeling utterly crazy and absurd
i need to stop, on the very next line
thanks for reading, thanks for your time
the-end lol
The Hysterical Bride
May I play with your testicles?
Sincerely,
Rachel Ben-Levi
The Hysterical Bride
I'm a failure.
Sincerely,
Rachel
Dear Mr. Dylan,
I want to marry you more than anything else in the whole world, but I
think I am too lazy, and also, I don't even know what I am talking
about.
Sincerely,
Rachel
Dear Mr. Dylan,
I'm just really confused, and lonely, and bored, and all I know is I
want to be with you.
Love,
Rachel
Dear Mr. Dylan,
I've always wanted to be with someone, one person, but I didn't really
know who, for sure, until I fell in love with you.
Love,
Rachel
Dear Mr. Dylan,
I was alright, until I fell in love with you.
Love,
Rachel
Dear Mr. Dylan,
I was never alright. I am a freak of nature.
Love,
Rachel
Dear Mr. Dylan,
If you call me, I promise not to start barking.
Love,
Rachel
Dear Mr. Dylan,
How can I have sex with you if I have to call you Mr. Dylan?
Love,
Rachel
Dear Mr. Dylan,
How can we be friends when you make me want to jump your bones?
Love,
Rachel
Dear Mr. Dylan,
Please make my dream come true.
Love,
Rachel
Dear Mr. Dylan,
You should settle down and get married. (with me).
Love,
Rachel
Dear Mr. Dylan,
Forget about Chronicles. Forget about Bob Dylan. Change your name back
to Robert Zimmerman, and come live with me here, and be my love slave.
Love,
Rachel
Dear Mr. Dylan,
Oh forget it. I'm just really bored and I don't know what to do.
Love,
Rachel
Dear Mr. Dylan,
I am going to make a point here.
Send me a million dollars.
Oh forget it.
I wouldn't even know what to do with it.
I have everything I want in life but you.
Except for my body.
I want my body back.
And I suppose if I got my body back, I would start to want other
things.
Just forget it.
I'm just having a delusional fantasy.
It's all baloney.
Love forever my dear friend,
Love,
Rachel Ben-Levi
The Hysterical Bride
numerical value for the name Robert Allen Zimmerman (RaZ), and I sent
it to Mr. Dylan at his expecting rain address, which was a big
mistake.
I should have sent it to Mark (Dylanstubs).
I should have kept everything I made and created etcetra, that I sent
to Bob.
He doesn't even look at it.
I should have kept it all for myself. (except that ticket, I should
have sent it to Mark).
Hey Bob, guess what?
I am a big fat old boring piece of meat.
I'm just another one of the teeming masses.
I live in the gutter, I populate Usenet with my senseless material
that you don't even read, I can't ask to meet you, through other
people, it makes me want to barf up tons of vomit from my stomach.
I just wish I could rid myself of this notion that you are singing
about me.
It's all wrong.
The Hysterical Bride
As someone in RMD pointed out to me once, a word I didn't know, RaZ in
Hebrew means "mystery."
I think I told this story before.
I guess that means I am not lovely.
As Bob Dylan has explained, a lovely woman doesn't repeat herself.
Oh, but it's ok for Bob Dylan to go on and on and on about tomorrow
and tomorrow and tomorrow over and over, he probably never even read
Shakespeare, he probably had to learn it in his English class, and
that's all he knows, just like me.
The Hysterical Bride
Jeez, there's so much Hebrew, and now that I am watching quietly with
all my mind on it, I am sure there are other languages as well (I read
on the Internet Russian and Polish I think?) Well, anyway, there is so
much Hebrew I really should almost be embarrassed,but I'm just not
that smart, I can't multi-task, I can't take in a lot of things at one
time, I was cracking up so hard the first time I saw it, I couldn't
really hear the language, except for a little bit of Hebrew, like two
words. Now I am hearing tons of it, all over the place, but I'm too
rusty to get enough of a grasp to report back, it didn't really sink
in. I could say a couple things, but it's not worth it. I wish I knew
Hebrew well enough to get all of it, and get all the jokes.
You know what watching this made me think of? It made me miss my
boyfriend from israel, I wonder what he is doing, what happened to
him. He's probably married. Oh well.
I feel a million miles away from Bob Dylan.
I wish I could just totally forget him.
The Hysterical Bride
I thought I'd check them out again, and they are back to just one
hysterical bride.
The Hysterical Bride
comedian said, "I just got back from the midwest, the heartland. You
know why they call it the heartland? Because the brain isn't there."
And to this, I would just like to add, "He moved to Malibu."
Ba dum bum CH!
The Hysterical Bride
My mom just sent it to me.
Try reading this.
fi yuo cna raed tihs,
yuo hvae a sgtrane mnid too.
Cna yuo raed tihs?
Olny 55 plepoe out of 100 can.
I find that hard to believe.
i cdnuolt blveiee taht I cluod
aulaclty uesdnatnrd waht I was rdanieg.
The phaonmneal pweor of the hmuan mnid,
aoccdrnig to a rscheearch at Cmabrigde Uinervtisy,
it dseno't mtaetr in waht oerdr
the ltteres in a wrod are,
the olny iproamtnt tihng is taht
the frsit and lsat ltteer be
in the rghit pclae.
The rset can be a taotl mses
and you can sitll raed it whotuit a pboerlm.
Tihs is bcuseae the huamn mnid deos not raed ervey lteter by istlef,
but the wrod as a wlohe.
Azanmig huh? yaeh and I awlyas
tghuhot slpeli! ng was ipmorantt!
if you can raed tihs forwrad it.
ONLY FORWARD IF YOU CAN READ THIS
The Hysterical Bride
I have a serious problem.
I lie on my bed and start to masturbate, (for example, like just now)
and think of you, and the whole thing is over in 10 seconds. lol.
Please help me.
Love,
Rachel
The Hysterical Bride
Hebrew in it.
I just didn't catch it the first several times because I was just
reading the subtitles. I caught a couple words, but that's it.
Now I am just listening to the language, and it's all over the place,
my Hebrew is very rusty, but I recongize it all (and understand some
of it.)
You know how I said I was glad Bob was going back out on tour so he
would get away from me?
Well, now I am depressed, and want him to come back. :(
I don't even care that he played Can't Wait, Rollin' And Tumblin',
Tryin' To Get To Heaven and Spirit On The Water which I used to think
were about me.
I have no desire to be with Bob Dylan anymore.
I don't even care that his name is Bob Dylan.
I don't care what he looks like.
Anybody can wear polka dots.
I don't want him back.
I have lost all interest in him.
I am morbidly depressed.
I have no life, and I don't even want one.
The Hysterical Bride
I feel so stupid.
The whole thing is practically in Hebrew.
It's just that my brain is not large enough to take it all in at once,
I was watching the movie, and reading the subtitles, and not listening
to the language.
Now I'm just listening, and laughing, because practically every other
word is Hebrew.
I understand most of it, but I'm not really sitting still and
watching, because I can not relax because I am going crazy because I
have nothing to live for, because Bob Dylan doesn't want to marry me,
and why should he, I wouldn't want to marry myself either.
I am also bumming cigarettes.
I should change the name of my blog.
Oh well.
Who cares.
Bob Dylan doesn't want to be with me, so I don't really care about
anything, as long as I am not in great pain.
The Hysterical Bride
I was flipping through the channels, and it was on some tv magazine
about celebrities, and they were quoting some person, some girl, I
forget who, nobody who interests me, but she is doing something, I
don't know what, and the quote is, she wants to be really really
famous.
I was dumbfounded.
I don't get that at all.
Why would anyone want to be famous?
I'm dead serious.
I don't relate to it.
Maybe it's because I come from a family of communists or something.
I really don't see that as something as which to aspire, or however
you say it.
On another note, I'm totally Bob Dylaned out.
I have nothing left to say to him.
I'm burned out.
It's not exciting anymore.
Beware of enthusiasm.
I think he's boring.
And I'm totally bored.
There's nothing left on the face of the earth to do or want.
The seconds tick out the clock like hours.
It's hot and dreary.
And it's only going to get worse.
I'm dying of boredom.
The Hysterical Bride
I think we should call off the wedding. I am smoking again, and I am
too fat to have children, let alone intercourse.
I have nothing to give you.
You have a wonderful life, and you don't need me, or read any of this
shit anyway.
You didn't read my letters.
You just let me use you like a two bit whore.
When we did the double shuffle, you were just trying to get away from
me.
I mean nothing to you.
If you really cared about people, you would invest the money to have
security who would stop crazy people from coming on your stage, and
help secure their mental health. You wouldn't give them little gifts.
I fucking hate you.
Like the way Billy Joel wouldn't make eye contact with me.
That was very nice of him.
You have no honor, Bob Dylan.
You have no dignity.
You are just a two bit whore.
I hate your fucking guts.
Love,
Rachel
The Hysterical Bride
he's not my boyfriend, he's not my mate
i can't think of any words to write
i have no inspiration, i have no light
i'm going out of my mind with nothing to do
i could order a pizza, then barf it up in the loo
but i'm not even hungry, even though i am so fat
i want to hit bob dylan in the head with a baseball bat
i want to stick his head in a guillotine
his absence is making me really mean
i want his body, i'm going insane
this poem totally sucks, it's going down the drain
i hate bob dylan, that's all i know
he's back out on the road with the bob dylan show
if he really cared about me, he'd call me on the phone
and then i could quit this god awful drone
i just keep going on and on, it's nothing but shit
if i saw bob dylan, i think i'd throw a fit
i'd punch him in the face, and make him black and blue
all i was for him was some meat, to fill up his shoe
he is totally lame, all he has to do his call
but that would be the end, bob dylan would fall
this is the lamest poem that's ever been wrote
but it passes the time, it keeps me afloat
fuck bob dylan and all of his songs
he's singing about me, and that's totally wrong
but i'm not even sure that this is true
i met bob dylan, which i totally rue
i ran down the aisle like an hysterical bride
i lost my mind, i abondoned my pride
it doesn't bother me to scream and cry
you don't have to wonder, you don't have to ask why
because he's bob dylan, and that's his name
to worship him, that ain't no shame
but he's such a goddamned fucking prick
if he were here, i'd chop off his dick
i hope he bleeds, i hope he dies
his songs about me are nothing but lies
he doesn't like me, i'm not his friend
oh how i wish this poem would end
but there's something that i'm trying to say
i wish i knew what it was, that would make my day
i mourn for bob dylan, he makes me crazy
but if he didn't exist, i would be entirely lazy
i wouldn't be writing, i'd be sitting on my ass
in front of the tv, to help the time pass
but now there is something out there i really want
and it's making me feel like a bitch and a cunt
i want bob dylan and nobody else
everybody can just go to hell
i would live with bob dylan inside an igloo
just him and me, just us two
i would live with bob dylan inside of a hole
i've found a theme, maybe i'm on a roll
i would live with bob dylan inside of a house
just him and me, and maybe a mouse
i would live with bob dylan on the moon
just him and me, but he thinks that's jejune
he wants to live in a great big castle
but to me that seems like too much of a hassle
bob dylan is rich, and he has people all around
he sent back my ring, his love for me is growing more profound
how could he write about me before i was born
it was a crazy dream, and now i'm forlorn
i had bob dylan in the palm of my hands
and now i've been exiled to a foreign land
he looked at me with anger and hate
now this is my destiny, this is my fate
to chase after him until the end of time
he's never coming back, i guess he's not mine
i thought he belonged to me, and me alone
i want him to call me on the phone
but he just can't do it, he never will
it's making me sick, it's making me ill
there is no way to get on with my life
i am not good enough to be bob dylan's wife
fuck you bob dylan, fuck you again and again
these are the words which to you i am trying to send
go fuck yourself until you are dead
i saw your face, i saw your head
your eyes are blue, your hair is black
and now i'm mad, i want you back
i hate you more than life itself
i wish i could stick you on a shelf
with all your songs and all your words
your radio show is stupid, you act like a nerd
you don't care, you're laughing all the way to the bank
but your shit still stinks, you are totally rank
i don't care about your Malibu dome
i have my own house, i have a home
i everything in life except for you
you make me feel like doggy doo
i have no talent, i am not smart
i want to shred you to pieces, i want to tear you apart
i want to knock you out and beat you up
and i won't even let you wear a cup
i'll kick you hard between your legs
and watch you shriek and grab your eggs
i want to watch you moan and groan and be in pain
i'm sure you want for me nothing but the same
you hate my guts, i really don't care
i hope you lose all of your hair
i hate you more, i hate you so hard
i hate your job, you're a traveling bard
i hate everything about you, because you're out there
i thought you were with me, and that we would share
you used me like a dirty dish rag
you made me cry, you gave me a tea bag
go fuck yourself, you fucking bastard
your head looked like it was made out of plaster
you are the best looking man i've ever seen
who cares what you are wearing, so your shirt was green
who gives a fuck about your clothes
or what you sing, or where you roam
nobody likes you, nobody cares
all you do is have affairs
of yourself you should be ashamed
everybody hates you and your name
your concert didn't even sell all out
you have to go to far off places, so you don't have to pout
all you like is rock and roll
you're a complete disgrace, and you're getting old
your concerts suck, you can't even sing
i would never ever wear your ring
i am totally ashamed of you now that i know
that you live for your circus, your bob dylan show
you're just a little boy, you have no pride
you just wanted me to jump on you, and give me a ride
you do lots of drugs, you shove them up your nose
you probably like to shove up your anus a hose
you shoot heroin, you do lots of dope
i wish you would hang yourself on a rope
i'm running out of things to say
i just want you to know that i hate you in every kind of way
i'm bored.
go fuck yourself.
love,
rachel
The Hysterical Bride
I was bored and depressed, so I wrote a poem.
It didn't help.
I'm still bored and depressed.
What should I do now?
Love you, need you, miss you, kiss kiss, come home soon,
Rachel
The Hysterical Bride
I HATE HIM.
I FEEL LIKE SHIT.
I AM HOT, AND I HAVE BEEN SMOKING.
BOB DYLAN IS SINGING ABOUT ME, AND I HATE HIM.
IF HE WEREN'T SINGING ABOUT ME, I COULD GET ON WITH MY LIFE.
FUCK YOU BOB DYLAN.
I HATE YOU BECAUSE YOU ARE OUT THERE AND I AM NOT HAPPY.
IT'S ALL YOUR FAULT.
YOU AREN'T A REAL MAN.
FUCK YOU.
IF I KNEW THAT YOU DIDN'T LIKE ME, I SWEAR TO G-D, I WOULD WANT TO
TAKE A GUN AND BLOW YOU AWAY.
The Hysterical Bride
i don't know what to do.
i can't smoke anymore, it's making me feel worse.
i'm hot.
my body hurts a little.
bob dylan is out there having a good time without me.
he is happy.
i would just bring him down.
if i really loved him, i would be nice to him.
i want to possess him.
i want to own him.
i want him to worship me.
ok, no i don't.
i just said that.
i just want to be in a good mood.
but i'm in a very FOUL mood.
i don't know WHY.
i don't even know if bob dylan called me if i would be happy.
maybe i would, because i'm BORED.
i mean, there are movies on tv, and SNL, but i'm just not INTERESTED.
I AM ONLY INTERESTED IN BOB DYLAN.
That is part of my mental illness.
Ok, I am going to pretend that Bob Dylan calls me, and see how it
goes.
Ring ring
Bob Dylan: Hello, Rachel. Bob Dylan here, at your command!
Rachel: COME OVER RIGHT AWAY! (slams down phone.)
some time passes
Ding dong (lol). Rachel opens door.
Bob Dylan takes off his cowboy hat and with a sweeping gesture says,
"Bob Dylan here, at your command!"
Rachel: YOU ARE NOT WEARING YOUR POLKA DOTTED SHIRT. I DON'T REALLY
RECOGNIZE YOU. GO HOME AND PUT ON YOUR POLKA DOTS FROM UNPLUGGED, AND
COME BACK.
Bob Dylan goes home and puts on his polka dotted shirt and comes back.
Ding dong (haha). Rachel opens door.
"Bob Dylan he...."
Rachel: "SHUT UP! I KNOW WHO YOU ARE. COME IN."
Rachel slams door.
"I'M IN A BAD MOOD, MR. DYLAN! MAKE IT GO AWAY! I JUST HAD AN IDEA."
Rachel goes into the bedroom and brings out her guitar, and shoves it
into Bob Dylan's hands.
"PLAY A SONG FOR ME, DILDO! AND MAKE IT FAST!"
"With which song shall I pleasure you?"
"DIRGE!"
"Wait. Take off your polka dotted shirt!"
"Wait. I made a mistake. Go away. I want to be all alone and listen to
dirge and then kill myself."
"As a matter of fact, I know what I want now. GO GET A GUN AND COME
BACK AND BLOW MY BRAINS OUT. HURRY UP! I AM SO FUCKING BORED IT'S
UNBELIEVABLE."
Bob Dylan blows Rachel away, may she rest in peace.
Peace at last, peace at last, thank G-d almighty, she's at peace at
last.
And she just saved the world, too.
The Hysterical Bride
I am never going to be happy again.
And it's all your fault.
Love,
Rachel
The Hysterical Bride
I didn't want to, but I was so sad, I was going so mad, so I took
three Xanax.
I chewed 'em up real good, and washed 'em down.
I think I would be a happy, balanced person if I had the right drugs.
It's all about drugs.
Just like your songs.
They're all about drugs.
And so are you.
Sex, drugs, and rock and roll.
I'm so proud of you.
It was an honor to just to meet you and fondle your buns.
You have a lot of class.
Respectfully yours,
Rachel
The Hysterical Bride
with Bob Dylan, and then he was maturbating me with his hand, and I
could feel it while I was sleeping, and he aroused me to orgasm, for
real, and then I woke up.
DAMN!
I WANT TO GO BACK TO SLEEP AND HAVE ANOTHER DREAM LIKE THAT!
I guess I can only be with Bob Dylan in my dreams.
DAMN!
I AM SO MAD THAT THAT WASN'T FOR REAL AND IT WAS ONLY A DREAM.
I REALLY WAS WITH BOB DYLAN.
DAMN DAMN DAMN!
Red Strange
> i'm going out of my mind.
>
> i don't know what to do.
>
> i can't smoke anymore, it's making me feel worse.
>
that you give up by insisting on taking toxic fumes into your lungs so
that you can make rich anti-Semitic southern landowners and right wing
tobacco company executives even richer while poisoning yourself to
death for a fee. That's how I convinced myself to quit. You smoke:
Your enemies win.
Did you know that the tobacco companies supported Hitler before WWII?
The Hysterical Bride
wrote:
No, I don't know anything. (seriously)
The Hysterical Bride
I'm sorry. I really don't want your baby.
Thank you for understanding.
I wish I were dead.
Love,
Rachel
The Hysterical Bride
want to remind everyone that i am a complete hypocrite, that i took
tons of drugs, i cheated on my boyfriend, and that i never took school
seriously, and i just liked to goof around, and have fun with my
friends.
a lot of people hated me, and they still do, well, they should just
know, that i hate myself, too.
they are right.
including bob dylan.
bob dylan looked at me like he hated me.
i wish i could draw a picture of that look, the whole face, Bob
Dylan's face.
black hair, slightly receding, blue eyes, black eyeliner, and a flesh
colored make up all over his big face.
it's like that's the face of G-d or something.
i feel so stupid.
i didn't know bob dylan was anybody.
he wrote blowin' in the wind.
it was just a pretty song.
i thought he was a nice person.
i have to forget about him.
i don't want him anymore.
i just want to be healthy and happy.
i don't deserve bob dylan.
he's great.