Tuesday, November 30, 2004

Yea, yea, thank you and crap

I seem to be behind the curve on this Thanksgiving stuff. Neglecting to write a long and heartfelt post before the scheduled holiday, spilling adoration and gratitude for have's and shelving the have not's. Peeling off my crusty exterior to expose raw, pink flesh of tenderness and veneration. Oops, guess I fucked that one up.

This does not mean however that I am not eternally grateful for many things and more importantly, certain people in my life. Therefore, I will mention some of them now. Not everything, but a few that are at the forefront of my mind and warrant attention. But not before I spew a little venom about my travels last weekend because this shit builds up you know? So just hold your horses.

I had the pleasure of wonderful company in San Francisco over the Thanksgiving weekend and still have a perma-smile on my face for being the luckiest Princess on the planet. I spent some quality time with my best friend in the gayborhood and, not enough for my liking, stupendous snogging with the sexiest man in the hemisphere. (These are 2 different people by the way). Unfortunately, the best way to get to Northern Cal from my home in Southern Cal is to fly. Flying is bad. Bad flying, bad.

I hate, loath, detest with a burning passion to the bottom of my bitter little soul, airplanes. As far as I'm concerned, all airliners are flying tubes of death. Scares the living piss out of me. And please spare me your condescending lectures of how flying in a plane is safer then driving in a car, yada yada, blah blah, suck me. Being trapped in a germ-infested metal tomb hurtling at 500 blinding miles an hour, 40 thousand feet above the earth, is not my idea of a good time. I'd rather have a pap smear by Edward Scissorhands. And can pilots please spare me these fucking details so I can pretend to have a grip over my panic-attack ass? Just put that microphone down Slappy, I DON'T WANT TO KNOW.

And I was so ready to get frisked coming and going and not a boob bounced by anyone! I have the current terrorist-list warning of huge boobs and everything. I was so robbed.

If the entire airport experience these days isn't a bucket-o-fun enough, you have to share close, intimate space with a large percentage of the world's circus freaks. It's like a constant Ringling Brother's convention in these places. Mouth breathers, screaming babies, drooling perverts, snobs, and IQ challenged chatter boxes.

My baby mentioned recently that a certain vernacular is quite popular in his area south of Frisco and he's had to restrain himself from planting a well-worn shoe up many an ass as it drives him nuts. I was perplexed at this phenomenon since it hasn't infiltrated San Diego, or else it passed through years ago without notice. I could hardly believe that there were throngs of people still using the phrase "hella", but damn if he wasn't right.

While waiting for my flight home in Oakland, and after a gaggle of travelers hauled their tryptophan laden butts to our "new" gate assignment, I found myself sitting next to two young San Diego State students from the bay area returning to school. Both of them had spent the weekend being spoiled by their rich parents and I was forced to listen to, I shit you not, Katherine Mary Gallagher OMG-My-Name-Is-Almost-Exactly-Like-That-Saturday-Night -Live-Character, talk shop and dating with her big studly has-no-interest-in-ever-fucking-you-Katherine friend-boy Ashley, named after some character in Gone With The Wind but neither were very sure if it was true because they had no idea if there really was someone in that movie with that name but it was HELLA COOL ANYWAY.

And it would be HELLA cool to party back at school although people in San Diego aren't "real" and the bay area is HELLA better and the shopping over the weekend was HELLA cool and their parents bought them a HELLA lotta shit at the mall and the food was HELLA good and they ate HELLA too much sugar and his new girlfriend is HELLA alright and Katherine thought that was HELLA cool too. And they bragged incessantly about putting their luggage at the front of the HELLA lines while sitting their lazy asses in the chairs and it was a HELLA good idea and everyone else who didn't do that was HELLA stupid and that's when I almost told them to shut their fucking pieholes or I'd HELLA kick their illiterate HELLA self-important asses or at least smash my HELLA big swollen foot over the top of her bejeweled pedicured exposed-in-flip-flops-in-50-degree weather toes. Now that would be HELLA cool.

Just when I thought I could kick her and nail apathetic stud-boy in the head with my backpack, they called for our flight and I was absolved of their HELLA presence for ever more. It was a sad day when I realized I couldn't stomach teenagers, and now I apparently can't share personal space with those under 25. I'm not excluding entire generations, but jesus, some of these young people. And you kids get off my lawn!!

Despite my wayfaring woes, I had a fan-fucking-tastic weekend. It was, as they always are, too short, but I spent Turkey Day with new friends who fed me like the Princess I am and showered me with compliments. If I wasn't such a bitch I would have blushed. Instead it made me feel great, which is always nice. And I shared a bajillion laughs with my best friend who loves me and I love him and he calms my stormy soul just by being in my general vicinity.

But the best of the best was getting to see the man who blows my dress up, makes my naughty parts tingle, gives my brain the big "O", and is by far the best kisser to ever put their lips on mine. He made me laugh a million times, he earned a few smacks upside his freshly shaved velveteen noggin (that I couldn't keep my hands or cleavage off of) for that smart-ass wit of his, and made me feel loved and safe with every caress. For all of these things, and for surviving another trek in the skies, I am very thankful.

Tuesday, November 23, 2004

Pepto Bismol is my friend

Once again I have defied my own circular self-logic and perplexed the few people I've mentioned my latest brilliant brainstrom to. I've even been called an idiot, which was completely unnecessary since I've riddled myself with similar insults then took myself shopping to make it up to me.

Due to health issues that I will one-day put down into text, when the stories of my recent past don't make me scream primal on the inside and mentally tear at my own skin, I struggle on a daily basis to feel semi half way hopefully maybe let's not put a large bet on it adequate. I certainly don't have it as bad as lots and lots of people sharing this big floating bean, but deal with my own shite enough for 2 lifetimes.

In the event that I have a moment, or blessed be all living things, a whole day where I feel pretty darn good, I'm compelled to celebrate. This does not equate to a fucking parade, although every princess needs at least one, but can be a special purchase at a favorite retail establishment, a tasty treat, or best of all my worlds, both. And this is precisely what I decided to do last Sunday.

I'd been woken up early the morning before, at 4 fucking 48 to be exact, by what sounded like a jet-liner crashing into my roof. When I peeled myself off the ceiling and waited until the windows stopped shaking out of their frames, I put some clothes on and took a peek outside. Apparently southern Cal was getting a quick and violent lightning storm usually reserved for those square states in the middle. It was so amazingly loud it shook my house to the foundation and set off several car alarms in the neighborhood. Then the heavens opened up and poured forth the thickest, heaviest rain I can remember ever seeing. For a whole 4 minutes. Then stopped like God turned off the faucet. Weird.

After the rude awakening that soared my blood pressure to about 300 over 90, I was sure my energy reserves for the weekend would have been depleted without resurrection and with all the running around I usually do on a Saturday I'm usally a worthless sot the next day. But to my delight, I woke up on Sunday feeling refreshed and pretty damn good. I puttered around a bit then really got to work. Cleaning, cleaning and more cleaning. Laundry, puttering, cleaning. By noon I thought I was pushing the envelope but still felt good. I took a looooooong hot shower, which usually puts me into a soapy coma, but again, still felt good. I decided to take care of some chores at the mall, thinking for sure I'd lose my mojo by 3:00.

To my shopping surprise, 3 o'clock came and went and I was still going strong. I was a little energizer bunny with a Visa. As I wrote about previously, my best friend and I were making our way through the throngs of pre-Christmas assholes and we decided to hit the food court for a snack. I wasn't very hungry, another miracle of the day, but wanted something to munch on. And here's where my usual sketchy logic completely goes out the window. Not that I can't spin anything as deftly as politician, but even this was a bad move of epic proportions.

As I was scanning the plethora of choices, my eyes settled on an establishment that would offer my golden craving of cravings. Oh happy day! An edible treat not often found. One that must be sought out, battling strollers and beer bellied men seeking the greasy fried goodness of the food of the gods. I'm talking about cheese fries. And not crap fake cheese fries served by lesser grub stands. These are the thick cut soaked in peanut oil skins left on with the savory divine liquid cheese product steaming with hot fromage benevolence poured all over the top. The basket so drenched and heavy with taters and sauce that you need a fork to eat it.

And of course I paired this monstrosity with a diet coke. I'm not a total pig.

This was a mistake. A big, big mistake. Why couldn't I have enjoyed my good day by taking a nap? Buying those cute shoes I squealed over? Enjoying a decaf mocha over ice with 4 Equal? Noooooo, I had to ingest the equivalent of a motor-oil milkshake. And to make matters worse, later that night I piled a bowl of pasta on top of what was now the churning, boiling filth eating the entire lining of my intestines with fearless abandon. And I was none the wiser. Until last night...

Somewhere around 4:15 things were feeling slightly amiss. With the risk of pulling an over-share here, I warn you that some details are forthcoming, but I do this as a favor. I'm your warning. I'm you're example of what not to do. Heed this omen my friends, for I'm saving you and your digestive tract from a fate not wished on my darkest enemies. Well, maybe that one chick, but the rest shouldn't have to experience the panic in my pants I did last night.

I ducked out of work around the same time Mount Vesuvius was preparing to make her first appearance. Just as I was reaching the stop sign outside our buildings my stomach churned and what felt like a roller coaster plunging down a record-breaking height sped through my guts. Uh oh, back to work. This was a good decision. I thought all was well and proceeded to run some errands, get my neck cracked and head off to pick up a few sundries in preparation for the holiday this weekend.

While cruising the store with treasures in tow, another rumble hit me down to my core literally lurching me forward. Oh christ, this is not good. There was a battle brewing and I didn't have much time. Luckily I know this store inside and out and made a mad dash to the bathroom praying that all stalls would be empty and I wouldn't have to face anyone in person after what I can only predict will be a visit to el bano similar to that infamous scene in Dumb and Dumber.

I was not wrong. I was relieved, pun intended, to see all stall doors ajar confirming that I was indeed alone. I made a quick eyeballing sweep of potential feet just to make sure. I made a bee-line to the handicap stall, because I was feeling quite impaired at the moment and needed the pseudo-privacy. I even had time to secure an ass-gasket over the porcelain. Just when the cacophony of those cheese fries made their re-appearance I heard the restroom door creak open and footsteps patter towards my door. And that's when I realized not only could I not stop the inevitable, but I hadn't fully depressed the fucking locking mechanism on the fucking door!!

It was hanging by a virtual thread and it was a good 3 feet out of my reach. I immediately felt my face flush crimson and sweat formed over my brow. I was already holding my breath in anxiety riddled antipation and now my eyes were beggning to lose focus. Please oh please oh please oh please let this be over quickly, or may left-over lightning from the weekend find the top of my stupid grape and split it in two before I'm caught red-assed in the bathroom of a semi-discount retail store.

Thankfully the karma train took an alternate track and did not run my dumb ass over. A few loud coughs and timing my exit accordingly afforded me the least amount of added embarrassment. Although the woman washing her hands refused to look my direction, but I could be paranoid. My stomach gave a few extra warning rumbles but didn't act up much any further. And I enjoyed a refreshing dinner of 2 swigs directly out of the Pepto bottle.

When you're 37, have a history of a questionable to very bad stomach, have battled a serious health issue, and make poor food choices on a daily basis, please, I implore you, do not eat cheese fries from the mall. Ever. Again.

Monday, November 22, 2004

Eat me Hallmark

Normally I go into the Trifecta of Holiday Hell, which includes Christmas, New Year's and Valentine's Fucking Day, kicking and screaming. Halloween is my favorite for a reason. Give me some spooky stories and a truckload of chocolate any day over Santa and his bastard reindeer. There's too much pressure for all the rest of them. Unattainable perfection being the key. Have to find the perfect gift, the perfect outfit, the perfect date. Or any date at all. "Oh, Betty isn't bringing anyone home for the holiday's again?" Fuck right off. I'm fine by myself thankyouverymuch. I might want it, but I don't need it. And I certainly don't need it to define myself, as nice as it would be.

I know everyone is surprised every year when you've just recovered from the labor-day picnic's, putting the summer away into the back of the closet with that ab-roller you're gonna use again some day, and you run to the drug store for some condoms and beer, ah, I mean, to refill your prescription, and there's that isle. You know the one I'm talking about. It's usually stocked with cheap flip-flops and school supplies, and now it's teaming over with tinsel and an animatronic snowman who grabs its belly and loudly laughs when you pass by giving you a mild heart-attack in the process.

WTF people? It's SEPTEMBER. Please stop shoving Christmas down our throats. There's a lot of things I'd rather have down there and red foil wrapping paper is not one of them.

I decided to try and ignore it all this year. Avoiding that area of whatever store I was in, which is decidedly difficult since I'm an over-shopper and find myself cruising through stores on a regular basis. But I was doing O.K. I was able to mentally block out the bells hanging from the rafters and the Grinch slippers. But yesterday was just too much.

I was feeling pretty good and needed to go the mall. As it happens, my best friend was already there and we decided to meet up for some girl-time. Everything was going fine until we made our way to the center of the indoor mall. I'd been able to block out the musak, turned a blind eye to the ornament store, and didn't acknowledge the stockings hung with care in shop windows. Then, we saw it. There in all it's glory was an 80 foot fake Christmas tree and nestled under its huge boughs was none-other than fucking Santa fucking Claus himself. WTF I say! W? T? F? IT'S NOT EVEN THANKSGIVING YET!!

Isn't this some type of sacrilege or something? Are we going to see the Easter Bunny traipsing around with that naked New Year's baby? Should we present heart-shaped boxes of candy to our betrothed on the fourth of July?? Are there not enough calendar kiosks available to those that seem determined to ignore the pre-set-for-a-million-years days of the year and those holiday's that never, ever change? Preparation is one thing but come on! The limits are being pushed every year to ridiculous proportions. And there was a huge line! Huge!

I would throw these people a bone if they're trying to send out Christmas cards or something with their rugrats sitting on the fat man's lap, but with modern technology this can be done closer to the actual holiday and not bastardizing turkey day, which in my opinion is now superior to X-mas anyway since you don't have to do anything but show up at someone's house wearing pie-accomodating stretchy pants. Now Thanksgiving is being totally glossed over and are we going to lose sight of celebrating the raping, pillaging and ripping-off of our native forepeople? I can't even get started on how fucking over-PC everything is now. I must stay focused on these industries hosing with special days and turning them into nothing more than races to get the hershey kisses wrapped in brown foil 4 months before you sit down to dinner with all the trimmings.

And too top it off, it was so crowded it might as well have been X-mas eve. I'm a shopper of professional ilk, but there's no way in hell you'll catch me going back there until after Jan 1. Thank dog for the internet.

Santa, in the mall, before Thanksgiving. Stupid.

Wednesday, November 17, 2004


I want to entwine our legs in comfortable silence. I want to hold your hand and feel the warmth of your skin pressing into my flesh. I want to be protected and to protect with fierce abandon. I want to cradle your precious head in my lap when you are weary. I want to be held when the demons are lapping at my heals with their flames of fear and be assured they won't, can't, will ever pass through your guardian arms.

I want to laugh with you until tears are streaming down our faces. Until the muscles in our cheeks pain with bliss. I want to let apprehension and worry slip down my back like silk folding onto the floor. I want to be lifted to a higher place. I want to catch you when you fall and stand beside you when you triumph. Graceful pride emanating.

I want to be loved until my heart threatens to shatter. I want to make you feel like the most important person in the room. Every room. I want to drift to sleep with the sweet taste of you still on my lips. I want to feel you even when you're not there. I want to be accepted for who I am. I want to partner in struggle and joy. I want to gently caress your neck and breathe you deeply in.

I want contentment to wash over restless souls and pool at our feet. I want to catch your gaze across a crowded hall and feel my heart skip a beat in excited anticipation. I want to lay under the stars and hear your every wish. I want to be rescued from my dark dreams. I want to envelope you with tenderness. I want to finally take that long held breath. I want to embrace the rapture of you.

These are my desires.

Friday, November 12, 2004

Can we have another meeting please?

lids heavy
breathing deep

having trouble
fell asleep

wind blowing
caring not

much caffeine
hit the spot

mind wandering
can you tell

hate this job
trapped in hell

Tuesday, November 09, 2004

Shut up. I'm trying to take a shit.

I don't know why people think only the crazies hear voices. It's a lie. A fallacy. Total bollocks. We all have multiple personality disorder and good on us. I, for one, appreciate the 26 sided die. The many-dimensional person. Someone who isn't a pre-programmed automaton moving through life on a virtual cerebral escalator responding to any and all stimuli according to societal rules. Someone who doesn't allow themselves to be shoved into a cookie-cutter mold of what they're "supposed" to be. Someone who can recognize that life is not static and change is not an event. The kind of person who listens to their inner dialogue, takes notes and makes revisions. It takes guts to be this type of person and something most of us need a hefty dose of. Oh waiter, I'll take the heaping plate of spleen please, with a diet coke.

The problem too many fall victim to is the negative crap voices that steer you in the dangerous directions. The ones that say "jump off the cliff you worthless bag of retarded filth." "You're not worthy to scrape the shit stains off the toilets in hell". Don't get me wrong, a loud shout of warning inside our crowded skulls is a good thing. Reason and pondering, weighing options and outcome is a smart thing to do, should your next action be preceded by "hold my beer for a second, I'm gonna try sumthin". Perhaps not, idiot.

However, even those who can recognize and heed a persistent murmur of "that's not a good idea" are not immune to the diabolically cruel voices chipping away at our brains with ruthless hammers, although I think some learn how to play this internal chess game better than others. And I truly believe it's a boy vs. girl issue. There are basic fundamental premises of treating the sexes differently from the time the doctor proclaims the squirming mass of flesh to be either male or female. I'm not saying all differences in child rearing are wrong, but speaking as a chick, I think we need to do a hell of a lot more to equip the future women in our societies to serve up a lot more cups of shut the fuck up and a lot less mindless agreeing to complete crap and worse still, beating themselves up every minute of the day.

These hellish voices dictate so much of ourselves. Why do they have such power? And why is it so hard to get them to muzzle thier pie holes? If a random stranger got in my face and called me a fat ass, I'd have to count to about a billion in order to control myself from ripping out their throat and screaming "take that asshole" into the gaping cavity. If someone I considered a friend yelled from a loudspeaker that I was a stupid whore, I'd have to make them cry salty tears of regret, for about a year. If a family member treated me with disrespect and for the millionth fucking time while watching a monkey eat its ass on the Discovery Channel said "hey Bitter, look, you're on TV", well, this is family, you know we all reserve the most vicious and heinous revenge for those we are related too. Just picture something like jalapeƱo juice in someone's underwear. That's all I'm sayin.

My wish, especially for young girls, who's internal voices scream the loudest and are bigger bitches than any skank you came across in your junior high locker room, is that you grab hold of that frothing cunt telling you you're fat, ugly, not worthy, unlovable, stupid, crazy, lame, incapable, cheap, poor, etc., ad nauseum, and kick her with all your might right in the twat. Gotta teach that ho a lesson and that you're no match for her. Make an example for any other snide, self-righteous, turd breath voices who'd like to step in a take a swipe at you and your self worth. And that includes the haunting sounds of our mothers, ex-boyfriends, that brutal dyke of a gym teacher in 11th grade, or the soulless celebate-not-by-choice retail boss you had at the mall. Because you kick ass, and you'll make them bleed their own blood if they cross that line.

We are truly our own worst enemies and it's time we stop fighting with ourselves. I'm so tired of hearing all of my friends (and myself) deflect a compliment, brushed off like a gnat buzzing in their face. Yes, yes you are funny. Yes, yes you are a beautiful person. Yes, yes you are a pain in the ass but you're my pain in the ass and I love you for who you are, ya dumb bitch. I'm so tired of watching young girls balance their entire self-worth on what someone else thinks of them. Their lives can change in one small instant, with one well-placed barb. And most of these are happening in their own heads. They don't even need someone to say anything mean to them. It's boring, you bitches! Knock it off!

There are so many women practically paralyzed with insecurities. We have enough challenges to deal with; we don't need to be in a constant battle with the hag in our head tearing us down one layer at a time. Enough already. Be confident. It's sexy. We all have something to offer. We're all worthwhile. We're all awesome. And don't you forget it!!

Friday, November 05, 2004

You want me to do what?

O.K. Now that that's over, we can get back to behaving like a normal human being. Or at least the other 49% of the population. I've packed up the Red Tent, stashed the pons in the back of the cabinet, and donned my oh-so-pleasant demeanor. Ha, right. Like that will ever happen.

A question has gone blazing across my mind today after reading yet another funny story by Sundry. Not so much in the direction of having to pair up with a stranger, although I whole-heartedly agree. I can't stand the stranger hook-up. It immediately caused my stomach to lurch at the thought of every awkward horrible moment when I used to attend church, or am still cajoled by my parents to attend with them, and the minister calls out for the dreaded "greet your neighbor". Listen, that 150 year-old women sitting behind me with the nose whistle and the dead carcass around her frail shoulders is not my neighbor. I have no interest in grabbing her limp, cold, blue skeletor hand while feighing a counterfeit smile similar to the ones amateur porn stars exhibit when being rammed up the ass by Dirk Diggler and trying to act like it feels good. Noooooo thank you.

And this brings me to my question. Why do people make ludicrous suggestions whenever you have an issue, a need, a problem to solve? Whether you've asked for anyone's assistance or not? And why, for chrissakes, do we actually partake in some of these home-spun remedies and idiotic ideas when we know good god damn and well they are stupid as shit.

Take this morning for instance. I'm grubbin' on some almonds and whammo, one decides to jam itself between 2 of my molars, and that sucker was stuck. Fuck shit ouch. I scramble through the drawer I know I last threw some floss in, so I can unwedge the offending nut from my jaw and put my entire skull back into it's proper alignment, but it's not there. Fuck shit ouch. Now what am I going to do?

I call out to a couple of my co-workers, desperate for help, while trying to cram my fingernail between my teeth. Neither had floss but one comes skipping into my office with a sewing kit. Now what the fuck am I supposed to do with that? Sew myself a little pillow with a pack of dental floss appliqued on the front? Her proposed first choice for a floss substitute to fix to my dental dilemma was for me to actually pluck a strand of hair off of my head and...and...christ on a cracker, I can't even finish the sentence. The thought of actually winding a piece of hai...oh god, I think I'm going to puke. This might not seem like such a wildly disgusting idea that makes me want to crawl into my own ass just for a dark place to hide, but trust me, it is. I have a hair thing, which in itself is dumb since I have hair down to my waist, but I can't stand it once it detaches itself from my or anyone else's body. And we won't even go into free-floating watchsprings today, I'm nauseous enough.

I quickly quash that idea and cut her off mid-hair and grab the sewing kit with the dark blue string hanging out of it. Now, intellectually I know this is a crap idea. I know that string is not the same as dental floss. It has nowhere near the capacity to stretch or the strength as floss but what do I do? Yes, I separate it from the needle (I'm not that dumb) wind it around my fingers and jam it into my mouth and through the offending teeth and guess what? SNAP. Fucking string breaks, and now I don't just have the almond stuck between my teeth, causing my eyes to cross with the pain, but I have a piece of dirty blue string in there too. GAH!!

Thankfully, I went begging around the office and found some real floss and fixed myself right up. Still a bit queasy thinking about using a hai...EEEEEEEEEEEEEEE. Can't do it. Then I started thinking about all the fucked up koo-koo remedies my mother has come up with. I swear, if someone told her dog shit shakes would make you lose 4 pounds she'd be making the dog crap into a blender. Then there was the "a whole, raw clove of garlic" sore throat cure. Yea, uh huh, the reason why that works is because no one is gonna come near you for about a week since you stink like an Italian in Vegas.

That stupendous scheme was followed by the Aloe Vera juice cure. This was supposed to remedy all ills but mainly I think it just gave her the shits so bad she couldn't leave the house and everything seemed better since she had no contact with anyone or anything other than the week-old newspaper in the bathroom. There was also some sort of drink that poured out like pond scum and tasted about as good as a hair-permanent/grass smootie. And the really scary thing was if you shook the bottle it sounded like it was full of broken glass but no chunks of anything ever came out. Ick.

And don't ever tell anyone you're sick, broke, lonely, cold, bored, tired, constipated, etc., etc. It will soon be followed with "alls you gotta do is" and some asinine game plan that will undoubtedly involve a lethal concoction you'd only consume on a dare, while drunk, and high, and more importantly, could get laid over. Or worse yet, some hair-brained scheme that will find you so irreversibly fucked you'll have to change your name, dye your hair, get colored contacts, sell all your worldly possessions on E-bay under the login shitsandwich, and move into a cabin in the woods. I implore you, takers of bad advice. JUST. SAY. NO. S'what I shoulda done. String. What a dumbass.

Tuesday, November 02, 2004

PMS - you're my bitch now

The hormone fairy is a cunt. I hate her and her basket of bitch she carries. All tra-la-la-ing through the forest of my brain depositing her nasty gifts and fucking up my world, more than usual, for more than a few days. A few days that we will all pay for. Because of that whore. It's not my fault, it's hers.

I love being a woman. I wouldn't want to be a man. Dealing with huge boobs is akin to juggling 14 casaba melons on fire as it is, I could not cope with a twig and berries between my head crushing thighs either. And I love having an innie. I love make-up and shoes and flirting with men and sucking dick. Wait, now I think I'm a drag queen, but whatever. My point is, I like being of the female persuasion, most...of...the...time.

The nuclear dump that has become my mood is now at red alert. Even terrorists would run from me today. And bring it on Mufasa. Whatchoo got?? I'm having moments of such overwhelming, seething hatred I'm not looking anyone directly in the face since my deathray-eye could be considered a weapon of ass destruction, since it will hurt you and is usually followed by my nearly uncontrollable urge to kick your ass like the annoying red-headed step-child you are. You don't want to be on the receiving end of one of my puss faces. Seriously, I can make people cry and soil themselves. There are way too many people deserving of my dripping repugnance and way to many that I've encountered today, which is not the day people! So watch your step. Cuz I'm crazy. And I'll cut ya. Stupid bitch.

Excuse me? Does this lane belong to you? Is your name painted down the center spanning the entire 2,000 mile length of Interstate 15? Is there some type of mental disorder handed down through the generations of your inbred ancestry who's family tree resembles a straight line that does not allow anyone the ability to slightly glance to the left and see the car next to them is patiently and politely trying to merge over with a blinker furiously blinka blinka blinking or they're going to miss the exit and be even later since the fuckwits at the voting place hired 4 mouthbreathers to man the 50 people waiting in line at 7 fucking o'clock in the god damn morning. Yea, didn't think so. Stupid bitch.

And why do you insist on buying shoes that don't fit your fat fucking feet?? I don't want to see those dried out and cracked skanky heels hanging off the back of your 2 for 1 sandals from Payless. And who are you trying to be Miss I Brought My Tween To The Polls with your dowdy purple fugly dress paired with come-fuck-me shoes. I hope your feet hurt so bad by dinner time that your weeping blister gets stuck to the tiny leather strap and rips the skin right off of your pedicured toes. Get some fashion sense or I'll shove a Glamour up your ass. Stupid bitch.

Are you kidding me? Are you actually asking me the same dumb fucking question that I just answered in the e-mail I have now sent for the 4th time explaining how it all fucking works? Did you do that many drugs at the vocational high school you attended in Fuckass, Arkansas back in the 70's that what's left of your questionable intellect cannot compute the 3 short sentences I so painfully constructed in hopes that you'd be able to follow the basic principles of the written word and recognize the letters of the alphabet and that those letters when put together in certain combinations actually form words, and when those words are further joined together in a particular order that they actually create complete thoughts and valuable information is transmitted, received, accepted and understood. I thought you were at least that advanced beyond primordial soup. But apparently I was wrong. Stupid bitch.

Ooooo. Halloween candy.

Yes, yes, yes, you are the most important person I've ever spoken to. No, no, no, I have nothing else to do. I just sit here day after day after day waiting for you to call so I can only take care of you because I HAVE NOTHING ELSE TO DO. Listen fuckneck, we've gone over this a few millions times. You will be taken care of as quickly as I can get to it, which now means sometime in the next millennia and when I'm good god damn and ready to since your attitude is by far no match for mine today and your request will now be filed somewhere UP MY ASS. Stupid bitch.

Fucking hormone fairy. Stupid bitch.