Violence solved everything

To Whom It May Concern,

I can not come out to play today. I am too busy snorting my new shampoo (Yeah, most people just wash their hair with it. Not me. I like to snort it. And by snort I mean not just smell, I mean consume nasally.) Especially when I'm in a store and probably on camera and there are people around and they're all like "what the hell is wrong with that girl"

Really, I busy, what with trying to bring down Amazon.com/drinking mass quantities of Ecco Bella Botanicals Vanilla Bean shampoo/plotting and scheming to rule the world, or at least half of it/power washing my windows...

(ok, fine, I'm not really power washing my windows. I am closing them though so that the nice window power washing people don't power wash the inside of my house as well, does that count?)

.../asking my ouija board such life altering questions as "Is my next door neighbor a serial killer?" and "First they had tickle me Elmo, then Chicken Dance Elmo, then Limbo Elmo, now Hokey Pokey Elmo, when is Drunk One Night Stand Elmo coming out?"/dancing around to Outkast's "Happy Valentine's Day" until my neighbors call the police (any minute now, did I mention I'm naked and on my front lawn?)/praying to the God of all things cookie that I have the sense to not post this (but knowing even he can't help me now) and whatnot.

Seriously, Don't call me, I'll call you

(when my play clothes are clean and I'm ready to rumble).


Love,
Me

"No roofies necessary" is what mommy used to say

The good news is I don't have Monkey Pox. The bad news is I’m still not interested in anything unless it's something I can't have and if it becomes gettable I don't want it anymore.

For example (par exemple for those of you who are French-speaking, because I cater to all here), I would really like to have Michael Vartan & Olivier Martinez as my love slaves ánd a monkey (but not as a love slave, more like a laundry and foot rubbing slave), but if you were to say, give me those tomorrow (you're too kind!), I would no doubt lose interest. Is this some sort of psychotic disorder, or am I just being a 'typical woman' as y mailman likes to say (which I , of course, deeply resent, being the borderline feminist that I am) ? And if so, why do I still think this all relates back to that summer I ate nothing but peanut butter and jelly sandwiches?

Either way, this life-threatening case of Wanting What I Can't Have is worse than originally diagnosed. I'm like a walking, talking Enrique Iglesias song, that's how sad and pathetic I am.

Antibiotics won't help, Nyquil won't help, and I never thought I would say this, but even Vicks Vapo Rub won't help. The doctors are giving me 6-8 weeks to GET A GRIP, but I'm thinking they're just being optimistic. Now is not the time for optimism, however. Now is also not the time to read a whole mind numbing ("Find Out What Type Of Sexy You Are!" or "7 Strange Ideas Guys Have About Sex!") issue of Cosmopolitan (although I almost enjoyed "15 Times To Be A Bitch!") OR eat meals consisting entirely of gummi (gummi bears, gummi worms, gummi fish) OR try to teach my cats, (all 5 orphans are well alive & kicking & scratching & hissing…) how to attack on command (stupid cats, they're lucky I don't send them to a cat sweatshop in Cambodia with Minnie Driver) OR re-record my outgoing answering machine message because no one else will think singing a medley of The Strokes' "You Talk Way Too Much" and The White Stripes' "There's No Home For You Here" as the message is as funny or brilliant as I do.

I'm in such a sucktabulous mood that I can't even muster up the strength to tell you in detail (I'm all about details, you know) how I found the new best shampoo ever and how I almost orgasmed while washing, rinsing, and repeating (oh you know I repeated).

Maybe tomorrow... (Aha! Something to look forward to! Bet I just made your day)

Plimsoll and cookiedough

So.
Exciting news.
I have a crush and I can tell you're dying of curiosity, so I'll give you a hint...his name starts with an G and ends with an D.

Just kidding. That's not a crush. That's true lust. Or love.

No, I'm kidding again. It's a good thing he doesn't read this or I would be writing this from hell.

Anyway, back to my crush, So it's kind of a weird crush. Ok, ok, you twisted my arm, I'll tell you. It’s God. Yep. I haven't been posting because I found God. In an alley. Any more information would be a direct violation of the Confidentiality Agreement they made me sign. They? Yeah, they. And there's really nothing else I can say until God and his Apostles pack up their traveling alley circus and head for greener, holier pastures.


There is one thing though (and I'm pretty sure this won't violate any confidentiality), a love between God and I could never work. How do I know? Because God tends to whine about his weight, which is just beyond gay. Be a fat bastard - or don't be one - I don't care. Just don't tell everyone else what they should be eating as some of us want to eat things we like - rather than fucking lettuce. But there he is, omnipresent and allknowing as he tends to be , ready to whip the packet of cookies out of my hands and hide it - just so he, the pathetic male that he is, can eat the biscuits later and then beat himself up in a frenzy of weak-willed self-hatred. It’s beyond sad.

Yep.
Only not really.
But you know what is a smidge frightening and just a tad alarming? If you google the words “god”, “hot” and “action” the search yields many, many lesbian anime porn sites. Try it. You might like it.


In other exciting and possibly related, possibly not related news, I think I have Mono or Monkey Pox or ADD or ADHD or OCD or PB&J or SOS or SOL.
Symptoms include, but are not limited to, fatigue, sensitivity to light (when I say light I mean that Michael J. Fox movie Bright lights, Big city), benevolent feelings towards Donald Trump, overwhelming desire to listen to Bananarama, a pain in my right leg when I attempt to do Jumping Jacks on my way to A Newer, Happier Me, an inability to keep down any solid food other than Girl Scout cookies, and an unabashed fondness for perfume samples in magazines compounded with the need to Share The Scent, which, frankly, can only end badly. Imagine me being hauled off to the police station, my Coco Mademoiselle scented wrists in handcuffs, after trying to force innocent people to "SMELL MY WRISTS, GODDAMN IT!"

As you can see these symptoms are quite severe. So today I did what any other potentially disease ridden person would do, or at least what my mother would do when any of us kids were bleeding from the eye sockets or puking up Legos and she didn't want to take us to the doctor.
I got some Vicks Vapo Rub.

So now, all that’s left for me to do is I ask you to make sure that someone sings “Venus” at my funeral. Preferably Donald Trump. With choreography by Paula Abdul. Because, as we’ve ascertained earlier, praying is not going to work as God is busy gorging on my cookies.

Thank You.

Really, I must sleep now.