I don't sleep, I dream

I know, I know, you were hoping I wouldn't update for like another 10 years so as to give you time to absorb the full flavor of my last post and maybe, I don't know, seek some therapy to help you deal with what you read, but sorry! I had to do it. I've made a potentially life altering decision. And no, it doesn't involve fewer clients, less money or starting my own Sports Management Firm. I've decided I would be a great astronaut. 

As you might have guessed the Space Program finally took to answering my incessant mails( some might call it stalking, but really it was just playful badgering) and offered me the opportunity to be an astronaut. They said I would be gone for 11 years though. I was like, wow, 11 years, everything will have changed. And they said well it's either this or a stint as Mayor of New York. So I said ok, space sounds like fun.

And then I woke up. Someone was pounding on my door. And it wasn't the damn Space Program. Although it could have been if by Space Program I meant Crazy Serial Killer Neighbor Guy.

I have got to stop watching horror movies before bed. 

So I'd like to thank whoever spray-painted it on my door.

Ok, so I lied, I'm never going to be 'little miss frequent updater'. Sorry about that. But listen, last night I dreamt that I was a HOOKER. Just for the record, I blame this entirely on Febreze

-- Have you seen those Febreze commercials with the people who keep going in and out of their house so they can smell that wonderful Febreze smell again and again and they look insanely and deliriously happy to be doing so? What the hell? I know what you're thinking, because I thought it, too. Is Febreze the poor man's crack? Allow me to answer this one. Yeah, it is. I can attest to this because I bought some (I couldn't resist! I wanted to experience the kind of happiness that occurs in people and, apparently, dogs when Febreze comes over to play, damn it!) and I'm not sure if it's because I got a wee bit carried away and sprayed the entire bottle in one small, enclosed room and maybe inhaled a little too much Febreziness, but I'm pretty positive Unicorns leaped out of the bottle at one point and frolicked with me in what was my torture chamber office, but what magically turned into a field of daisies. I'm telling you, this stuff is so good I'm stocking up now so I can hit the playgrounds first thing next week and sell it to some kids for their lunch money and a Twinkie --

Oh, and while I'm at it, I also blame the entire state of Utah. So yeah, dreaming you're a hooker? Not so bad. Dreaming you're a cheap hooker? Bad. Dreaming you're a cheap hooker who only caters to pharmacists who look alarmingly similar to Anthony Edwards? Really, really bad. Sure, there are worse ways to make $40 (yes, $40. But I'll have you know I talked him up from $20 because I am so worth it, baby), I just can't think of any right now. Thanks again, Utah.

Sex just isn't worth the annoyance of your company.

Have I got exciting news for you! Very exciting news indeed! I've given up my dream of my life being made into a Very Special VH1 Behind The Music episode. Since everyone hates me. Or, since no one wants to form a band with me. Same thing. I did take clarinet lessons in 6th grade, you know. Anyway. It's ok, really. I mean, no one even invited me to audition for them, and I may have cried a little in my nachos, but my therapist says I don't need a band to validate me, I just need to have sex with him on the couch in his office for $200 an hour. So yeah, I'm fine. Thanks for asking.

This post in my head was longer, but I got distracted thinking how funny it would have been if for an April Fool's joke today I had told my brother that my mother told me HE was really my biological father and that the secrets and lies MUST stop.
LOOK, IT'S THE POST THAT WOULDN'T END! KILL ME! NOW!

Repent and be born again out of Pepsi

It occurred to me last night, somewhere between shots 5 and 9 of Visine, that 

a.)Visine is good for the soul, and 

b.)No one is really interested in the truth, and when I say no one I mean me, and since I know everyone thinks the same way I do, and by everyone I mean you, let's just forget this Monday business and declare today Lie Day. Go ahead, lie. Lie to me. Lie to yourself. Lie to your imaginary friend. Lie to your pet monkey. You know you want to.

Like four different MTV specials in one.

Ok, the zoo was closed. Actually there is no zoo around here. There used to be a "Wild Animal Farm" where I never met an ostrich or llama I didn't like. But they tore that down, something about my parents smuggling illegal animals over the border. 

Whatever. 

Two words: Wrongly Accused. 

But it's a tough case when it's you against 17 angry monkeys (my parents didn't think monkeys really liked bananas, they refused to buy into "the government's way of controlling us" and instead fed them potatoes. The monkeys didn't like potatoes and so were prone to riots, and the case against my parents was their chance at redemption. And bananas).

Anyway, I think you can see where I'm going with this. If you're going to run a makeshift zoo out of your home, don't piss off the monkeys. Monkeys like bananas. 

The zoo is closed. My parents are in prison. I visit them often and out of spite for my lost childhood friends animals, I bring them bananas. The end.

Only not really, but why does my dad call me after I get home and ask if I got home ok? If I didn't get home ok would I be answering my phone? Wouldn't I be lying in a ditch somewhere unable to come to the phone? I think I will change my answering machine to say that. "Sorry I can't come to the phone right now; I'm lying unconscious in a ditch off the side of the road. What road? Good question, too bad I'm unconscious and unable to help you out there. Maybe if you watch CSI you can get ideas on how to discover where I am, like maybe I left behind a fiber untraceable to the human eye that will point you in the right direction. I guess that means you need to not have a human eye to find me.  

Anyway, leave a message at the beep and if I don't die of exposure or I'm not eaten alive by various wilderbeasts I'll call you back. Beeeeeep."

I like'em washed up and just a little fucked up

Ok, let's put this whole sordid Day Of Bitterness, Emotional Blackmail, And An Overload Of Hearts And Cherubs behind us, shall we? I would like to state for the record that I only heard the creepy music from Friday the 13th (ki, ki, ki...ma, ma, ma) a few hundred times instead of the constant loop it usually plays in my head when Valentines day gets too close. You may be wondering if Jason Voorhees is trying to telepathically tell me to continue his killing spree (well we do have a Crystal Lake here). I wonder that too, sometimes. But then I remember that it was just a movie so I take off my hockey mask, put down my butcher knife, remove unwanted hands from my thigh, and eat some pie. Mmm, pie

It's easy for the deaf to maintain friendships.

Between the very guilt-inducing (yet sweet) e-mail I received from Kat and a conversation with Goose in which I'm pretty sure he threatened my life, it seems like I haven't got much choice here.

Thanks for convincing me not to give up. I was really just having a couple of Those Months. You know the ones, where you wake up, fall out of bed and hit your head/accidentally brush your teeth with the toothbrush you use to clean the toilet/get toothpaste in your hair/trip walking out to your car/etc. Except, does anyone really clean their toilet with a toothbrush? Seems like it might take a while.

Anyway. The doctors here at the clinic say I'll be just fine as long as I keep taking my meds. Which I do. Religiously. Only now, I think I've become physically and emotionally dependent on my eye drops. Not crack, or crank, or meth, or whatever drug it is you're on that makes you read this nonsense. Visine. (you know how I was yearning for a drug addiction? You know how they say "Be careful what you wish for"? Yeah).

I started using (is it horribly wrong that I love that phrase almost as much as "free-basing"?) when I became worried that I would get hassled if people found out, I mean mistakenly thought, I was moonlighting as a stripper since I came in to class in my G-String my eyes were always so bloodshot in the morning. And now I've spiraled out of control. I'm using even when my eyes are not red or irritated. What's next, injecting it into my veins? That would give a whole new meaning to "Gets The Red Out", wouldn't it?

This is my cry for help.

And speaking of issues, did anyone else see School of Rock? When the other teachers ask Jack Black which test he prefers and he starts to quote lines from Whitney Houston's "The Greatest Love of All"? And they're all like "Isn't that a song?" and he says no, nope, not a song and it's just downright hilarious? Well it is if you had a few hundred eye drops before watching it.

Thoughtful AND creepy, that's me!

So I've been away for a while (sorry about that), but you'll be pleased to note that I'm back. 

For a while anyway.

But mainly because I've discovered a meteor that is heading straight for Earth. New Hampshire, specifically. Ok, not really. But I hàve discovered that while I used to like things, now I just like the idea of things. Take peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for example. Love the idea of them, would hate to actually eat them. Love the idea of oatmeal, hate its actual gloopiness. Cream of Wheat though, I'm all over that creamy, wheaty instant goodness. You just can't buy stuff like that. Well you can, but let's not get technical here, ok? Anyway, I would list more examples, but I only like the idea of examples and not actual examples. See?

According to sister Mary Bernice

I went to the mall yesterday. I realize the mall to some people is a sacred, holy place for buying sacred, holy things such as shoes and prom dresses and guns, or whatever you wacky people are buying. I am not one of these people. Driving home from the mall I started to think about how I wish I could medicate people at my own discretion. I mean how wonderful would it be to run around with a bunch of anti-psychotic drugs to inject or pass out as I feel necessary?

Then I thought about all the people I would medicate. Many, many people. Then I thought I could probably save on medication and just medicate myself so that I could better tolerate breathing the same air as all these people. Just a thought.

Anywho, guess, guess, guess where I am going in two days!!
I'll give you a hint. It's not Guam, and it doesn't involve a giant flying dog, some quicksand, or a horse. It does involve a big tree, lots of naps, and mittens. Isn't life grand?

Now all that’s left on my to-do-list is have dirty monkey sex with Steve Jobs in order to obtain a smooth, sleek new iPod of my very own. Oh wait! Cross that one off! I am now one of the cool kids, I have entered the world known (to me anyway) as Sticks And Stones May Break My Bones And Names May Make Me Cry For My Mommy, But I Have An iPod And You Don't So Stick It Where The Sun Doesn't Shine, and there is no turning back.

I tend to keep a lot on the Down Low

I want to start off by saying, because this just isn't said enough, I so wish I had thought of naming my band The Smashing Pumpkins before you know, they did. If I had a band, that is. And I really think having a band would help with my desire for a drug problem so maybe I'm on to something here. I could be the free-basing guitarist. Except I don't know how to play the guitar. So I guess that would make me the free-basing girl who's in a band but doesn't sing or play an instrument. Smells like a possibility to me!

And now for an example of why the world is going to hell. Listen closely so as not to miss anything. I was out having dinner the other night. No, that's not why the world is going to hell (well maybe it is, but that's between me and my therapist). Try to stay with me here. So I'm sitting there with my dinner companion (ok, mailman) and this little girl who is sitting at the next table starts talking to us. Her parents apparently forgot they had a child and so don't seem to care that she is telling us that her name is Madeline and she has 3 cars (one is blue, one is white, and one is silver!) and she's 7 years old and she wants some cake. Ever the conversationalist, I ask her if she wrote a letter to Santa for Christmas. Her reply? "Satan would kill me if I did that." Insert long, silent pause during which I, having been taking a drink at that exact moment, laughed, and having not yet mastered the art of laughing and drinking simultaneously, spit my drink out at mailman. She then says "And my friends. Satan would kill my friends, too. I have lots of friends". Ummmm, yeah.

Sure it's disturbing on many, many levels, but I'm so going to have to try that one out when I have kids. "Oh you want to go see Santa little Susie?" (except I wouldn't name my kid Susie, no offense to any Susies. I'm more looking forward to giving my kids porn star names) "Well you can, but remember Satan will kill you if you do. So it's up to you, honey." I'm going to be the best parent. Ever.

My editor just threw up a little

I (conveniently) forgot to mention in my previous post that when I was at the store yesterday I checked out some girl's ass. More than once. In fact, I couldn't stop staring at it. Her pants were so tight and it was oh so round and lovely. Good thing I'm comfortable with my sexuality and none of the following thoughts occurred to me: Does this mean I'm subconsciously attracted to women? Does this mean I have some sort of ass fetish? How did she get into those pants anyway and is there such a thing as the Ass Master, like there is for thighs?

Oatmeal is the devil's breakfast

I blow dry my hair while in the bathtub. Well it DOES save time. And what can I say, I like to live dangerously. It gives my otherwise bland day that added element of "Will I or won't I make it out of the tub alive?". And sometimes that's just what a girl needs to keep on keeping on. (Yeah, I don't know what I'm talking about anymore either, don't worry.)


Ok, here's the other thing. I buy things off eBay. No big deal, who doesn't, right? It's all fun and games until you end up with some dubious Eastern-European-looking adult movies (or as you may know it PORN) you have no recollection of bidding on them or buying them or setting them up on that special display case you apparently bought so you could show them off to all your friends who are, of course, not really  your friends, and what's worse, they don't even like you. In fact you're pretty sure they're poised to start a war against you, but you're too afraid to get close enough to find out since they seem to emit some sort of evil radioactivity glow, and frankly, you get enough of that from your microwave oven. 

I mean seriously, is the radiation that I feel leaking out of my microwave oven going to impede my giving birth to a one-headed baby one day? It's like a warm sunshiny nuclear breeze blowing when I stand within 50 feet of it, I swear. Not that I care! The more heads, the more to love is what I always say.

Anyways, do you see a pattern here? Neither do I, but still I must be stopped! Before I hurt someone! So call Dr Phil and get him to help me. Oh wait, he only helps the orphans, that's right. Well still, for the price of a cup of coffee a day you could be supporting my precarious mental state. Or something like that. And if you're wondering what any of this has to do with oatmeal, you're not alone.

I evolution is wrong, I don't WANT to be right

Dear California,


I used to want to live there. I used to want to bask in your sunlight and drink the sweet, sweet nectar of your oranges. Oh wait, that might have been Florida. Anyway. I used to want to walk along your sandy beaches and dream not of California Girls, but of California BOYS. I used to want to rollerblade along Venice Beach, even though I didn't (and still don't) know how to rollerblade and would probably end up breaking at least one bone, thus requiring a trip to the local hospital. I used to want to go to Disneyland, Universal Studios Hollywood, and Sea World, even though my mother said Disneyland was the devil's playground. I wanted to live in Palo Alto (ok, this may be due in part to that is where "Felicity" hailed from, and what do you mean she was a fictional character on a tv show??). In high school I applied to several California universities even though I knew I would never actually attend them. I simply wanted to hold an envelope in my hand with one of your lovely zip codes on it, to see that "CA" return address and know that should I want you to, you would welcome me with open arms. I covetted your 'Golden State'. (Why do I feel like breaking out into song right about now, particularly Madonna's "This Used to Be My Playground"?)


Alas, my feelings have changed. I no longer covet you. Now you give me no choice but to mock you. Oh California, why did you have to go and change? I was really hoping that things could work out between us. You had such potential. I would say "it's not you, it's me", but there's one problem with that. It's you.


Don't worry, I still want to drink the sweet, sweet nectar of your oranges. Maybe we can be friends with benefits?


Fondly,
-Your Ex

Buy me a pony and I'll throw in the windshield

What do pandas eat? Pandas are stronger than they look, you know. And much like me, they use their cuteness to distract you, probably while they gnaw off your left arm. "Not the left one, not again", you'll find yourself saying at the Emergency Room, "I only looked at the panda cuteness for a second, I swear." 

Yeah, you would be afraid if a Pet Shop Boy-loving Panda was living upstairs from you, too.

 

Hmmm, tell me if any of this is normal. I mean, I know it's not normal, I just want to know if I should put up a fight when the men come for me with my very own perfectly tailored white coat or if I should call and reserve a private, padded cell now. Because sometimes I hear voices. Or a voice. When I'm doing random things, like mopping my floor (I had a maid, but you know, she got freaked out when she saw all the blood stains, and, you know, I had to kill her), and the voice says "If you build it, they will come". Only I'm pretty sure it's the voice of Charlie Brown, and he's not referring to a Field Of Dreams, because he also says "If you don't build it, they won't come, and then you should just devote your life to a god, but not the God, because let's face it, that god doesn't like you and you devoting your life to a god that doesn't like you would just be stupid, and you're really a smart girl, no matter what the rest of the gang says".

Whatever, it's not like I've actually built something. Like an ark, or anything. I was just hoping to get one for my birthday so I could tell the voice I built it and get Charlie Brown to shut the hell up already. So do I get sane points for that?

Either way nobody got me an ark. Dammit. Second year in a row too…I thought I was pretty clear about this last year.

I dìd however, get a stuffed panda.

I'm going to sleep now. In precisely negative 3 hours if I want to get a full 6 hours of sleep. You know what that means, don't you? Me either, I sure hope the crucifix I hung over my bed wards off any escaped convicts and/or pandas.

Aaaaaaarrrrrrrrrggggggghhhhhhhhhhhh!
Seriously.

Hell begins when the buzz wears off.

Remember when I was worried about my life resembling an episode of "The Mole" gone awry? I think I was wrong (You won't hear that very often, so soak it up while you can). I think in reality it's much bigger than that. I think I am a pawn in a board game.

Bear with me here.

I'm not a pawn in just any old board game either. I am a pawn in “Candy Land”. Only this is the ghetto version (hey, they have it for monopoly, why not Candy Land?). So I'm the gingerbread pawn and someone out there in the "real" world is moving me around. It goes a little something like this: He/She picks the right card and I walk with out falling flat on my face/have a good hair day/find my Flaming Lips CD/etc. Then there's always the "Oops, landed on the wrong square, Mailman takes out a restraining order on you" move. Never a good thing.

Anyway. I can't remember if I was ever going somewhere with this. I think I have ADD. So feel free to call in with your 'I like my mom too much/I like to have sex with barnyard animals/I kill people and then steal their shoes/I can only speak if I'm reciting Austin Powers/I get turned on by lamps' questions and we’ll get help together. Unless you fall into the last category. Then there's just no help for you.

Followed by fro-yo.

I am trying to read your mind. Except I'm in the present which will be the past when you're reading this and you're in the present which is my future and that makes it hard. Hello, McFly??

Either way, I know exactly what you’ve been doing (uhuh) and I want you to go in the corner and think about what you've done right. I'd say think about what you've done wrong, but from what I can tell you're all going to HELL (see you there, save me a good seat) so you'd be sitting there forever. So just think about what you've done right. Don't move until I come back.

Monkey see, monkey do, I am going to kalamazoo

How does that saying go, "Ask me no questions and I'll tell you no whys"? Ok, maybe not, but let's pretend it does, you know you want to.


So...why does my car only make that noise when I am alone in it, and not when I bring it in to the mechanic, thus causing him to think I'm completely off my rocker and/or making a desperate plea for attention because I'm in love with him (one of these may be true, but that's besides the point)? Do cars have a sense of humor and if so is this my car's idea of a sick joke? I am so not amused, car.

So now, I’m stuck with this "I'm driving and the back of the car is on fire, I know it!" fear. I'm convinced that the back of my car is going to be on fire one day and I'll be driving along oblivious to it. Just to be sure I've taken to wearing a flame retardant suit while driving now in hopes to combat this (it's actually quite comfortable). And God forbid someone beeps at me for any reason, like say because I hit them, ran a red light, ran their dog/cat/wife over, whatever, I instantly assume they are trying to alert me to the fire at the rear of my car, pull over, grab that fire extinguisher I keep under my seat for just that reason and jump out of the car ready to go all Backdraft on it.


Also, I cried my way out of a speeding ticket today. Whoever said women were the weaker sex was an assclown.
I’m just sayin’...

How Ken maintains that orange tan.

Last night in a "What the hell am I doing, Everyone hates me, I suck worse than a Janet Jackson song" panic attack I ate half a bag of strawberry Twizzlers and even then only stopped because I felt like
a.)It might not be a good idea to be vomiting red licorice all over my new carpet, and
b.)This could be another brainwashing tactic and what if tomorrow I wake up liking Justin F#cking Timberlake who for all I know has a song titled "Gonna Have You Naked By The End Of This Package Of Twizzlers"?!

But the thing is I sorta, kinda like the new Janet Jackson song. I know, I know, it's sick and you should lock me up and throw away the key. I talked it over with my lawyer though and we're going to go with the whole "Brainwashing Via Boob At The Superbowl" defense. So I'm confident I can be out in say, 50-60 years with early release for good behavior, as long as I can manage to avoid getting into any brawls or knife fights over whose turn it is to do "special favors" for Bertha the prison guard and/or who peed in whose pee hole (which really isn't how it sounds. At all).

Oh and yes, I have been dodging your calls. By "your" I mean yours, and yours, and well, everyone else's. I know I no longer have the locked cell phone or the lost charger excuse, but unless you are calling to tell me that I won the lottery OR I am your baby's mommy OR I am your long lost twin sister OR your name is Barack Obama and you're calling to ask if I will become your First Lady (Let’s forget about Michelle for a minute, shall we? I SAID shall we! ). I just wasn’t in the mood for people, no offense (again, unless you're Michelle Obama, in which case, Yes, Offense! Offense!).

But I’m ok now though, as I have realized that if you drink a whole lot of Diet Coke combined with taking just the right sinus medication you will suddenly become somewhat like the Energizer Bunny, gain the ability to leap tall buildings in a single bound, beat a drum until your neighbors' ears bleed, memorize the periodic table just for fun, and realize that "Idaho" is a registered trademark of the Idaho Potato Commission. It has to be true! I read it somewhere. All I need to know now is how to get a job on the Potato Commission, because I can so see myself saying "Oh yes, I'm President of the Potato Commission, what do you do?". And with that all my troubles will be solved and I’ll finally have a real career.

That is, if the whole Mrs. Obama thing doesn’t work out.

I may also be kin to this cheeseburger right here.

I think I ate a rotten potato. But I can't be sure. I have no symptoms, and it looked like a normal potato, but if I was a rotten potato I would disguise myself as a normal potato, too. Or maybe even as a normal human being. Ok, now I'm going to spend the night wondering who among those I know is really a rotten potato disguised as a normal human being. And I'm starting to see visions of Mr. Potato Head dancing around, wearing nothing but a smile, and really, that can't be a good sign. Can it?


In other non-potato news, I hate everyone. Especially myself, because I am dumb, dumb, dumb. I have socks that act more intelligent than I have been acting lately. As I’ve just been informed that John Lennon is in fact NOT dead.

Imagine that! Dead? Nope. Alive. He has had extensive plastic and vocal cord surgery, in an attempt to throw off would-be assassins, assumed the name Chris Martin, and performs with his band, maybe you've heard of them, Coldplay? You're probably thinking, umm, huh? Well me, too. But let's just go with it. Ok. Everyone knows John must have his Yoko, and so he does. Only it's not the actual Yoko, well it is, but she's taken over Gwyneth Paltrow's body in what I can only describe as some sort of Freaky Friday experiment gone horribly awry, sort of like when Lindsey Lohan and that girl from Halloween switched bodies. I know this is a lot to swallow, so I'll let it sink in a bit, but I thought you would want to know so you could put on your John Lennon Is Alive t-shirt right away and tell all your friends.


Also (she says, as if this is related to anything), I'm half convinced there is a homeless mass murderer living in the empty apartment above me. It's either that or an escaped Panda from China that goes by the name "Dim Sum". And what's worse is I'm not sure which would be better. And what's worse than that is I can't stop listening to The Pet Shop Boys and their 80's hit "Always On My Mind". And what's even worse is I think I heard the homeless mass murderer/Panda named Dim Sum dancing around to it up there.

Which is why I have this black eye

I know it's been about a whole month since I last posted, I know because my peeps keep telling me so, and about a billion people have de-linked me (oh The Horror! Cry for me Argentina!), but you know what they say, when someone doesn't blog for a month it's because he/she found God, got hit by a bus, caught Lyme disease, and/or had a psychotic breakdown.

I have to tell you, for a while there I was certain all the forces of evil were working against me. I mean, how many spilled cups of coffee can I take and how many pages can a person write, before they go completely coocoo and move to Chechnya to make wooden dolls or learn the Mail Order Bride business? (I know what you are thinking, that is why I added the word “completely”, see?)

Either way, back to my point, (I knew someday I would get to it! After all, it was only a matter of time), Absence Makes the Heart Grow Fonder. Well. My heart is fonder anyway. And Bob. A fitting replacement for the Mailman, but also the man who has been "fixing" my dryer for over a month now and who for some reason can only come over to do it in the middle of the night when I am scantily clad and who says things like "That burning smell, it's ok". So, I'm pretty sure he's feeling fonder, too.

As for the other two of you who still read this, don't make me come to your house with a box of Rice-a-Roni, a plastic spatula, and a wooden spoon, because it won't be pretty.