Well...THAT Was Embarrassing

THIS is why I can't get out of bed in the morning...

Trent and I were on our way home from work last night, taking our usual route of 14th street to Crowchild Trail. I was blasting an audiobook by Jennfer Weiner, a collection of short stories titled The Guy Not Taken, which by the way doesn’t make any sense to me at all. There hasn’t yet been a single story about a guy not taken, let alone a whole collection of them. But then, who the fuck am I?

Anyway, as Trent and I were chugging along the busy road, I felt a curious tweak of intuition, one that I had felt while driving to work that morning, that told me something was wrong with Trent. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it; something just felt weird. I turned down my audiobook and then flicked off the A/C so I could listen for a second, and that’s when I heard it.

Trent had a flat tire.

What the fuck? I wondered, as I pulled off the busy road and into a Safeway parking lot. These tires were brand spanking new, as of a couple of months ago. I would be so pissed if one of them was already useless.

I parked Trent and got out to take a look. But every single tire looked fine to me; I even kicked them to appear like I had some idea of what I was doing, but they were all full of air and firm. I did not have a flat tire.

What should I do? I wondered. I decided I should just get Trent home and ask Dad to have a look at him and tell me what’s up. Trent had just been in the shop a week ago to get his A/C fixed, but I couldn’t imagine how that could in any way be related to the sound of a flat tire.

I pulled back into traffic and stopped at a red light. When the light changed to green I accelerated and went through the intersection, and suddenly Trent woobled dangerously in my hands and BAM! The back of the truck dropped out from underneath me.

“FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK!” I screamed as Trent and I slammed to a violent halt. I put the car in park, then put my shaking hand to my pounding heart. “What the fucking fuck just fucking happened?” I cried.

“My father raised his head, and his look hardened. ‘Is that all you’ve got for your old man?’ he demanded harshly...”

I punched the power on the CD player with my free hand. “Shut up, Jessica! I’m busy,” I moaned, and reached for the door handle.

I could feel all the eyes of rush hour traffic upon me as I stepped out of my car and looked back towards the intersection. A yellow truck had stopped a few car lengths behind me, and a guy about my age was just getting out of the driver’s side door. He leaned down to the ground and picked up a big black tire from the meridian, and started walking towards Trent and I.

I looked back at my Trent. The rear driver’s side tire had somehow morphed into a bright orange, ugly piece of rusted steel that sat directly on the pavement. I wasn’t 100% certain, but I suspected there had been a tire there when I left the tattoo parlour ten minutes earlier.

“Lose something?” the guy from the yellow truck asked with a grin as he dumped my tire onto the road beside Trent.

I felt a bit of relief; he wouldn’t be smiling if my tire had actually gone through his windscreen and decapitated his children. Well.  One would assume.

“I don’t think so...” I twirled my hair and stuck out my hip. He laughed, then reached into hie pocket and pulled out a cell phone.

“Need to call anyone?” he asked.

“No, I’m good,” I said, and gestured to Trent. “I’ve got my phone with me.”

He nodded and walked back to his truck, pulling out into traffic again with a wave and driving off. I reached into the car for my cell phone, then called Roadside Assistance and my dad. I started packing up as much stuff as I could possibly cram into my purse and my gym bag, dumping the bags onto the meridian and stuffing them full of books and costumes and stripper shoes from my car.

“You okay there?” I heard a voice say to my butt as I was stretched across the backseat, trying to dislodge my makeup bag from underneath the seat. I pulled back out of the truck and saw a man standing in front of me, laying his bicycle to rest on the pavement beside my tire.

Allen, as it turned out, knew a lot about cars. “You lost your fleeber flabber and your gazoobadunk,” he explained a few minutes later, pointing to various bits and pieces of my vehicle.

“Mmmmm, yes, of course,” I nodded thoughtfully as he spoke. “Yes, the gazoobadunk. That’s what I thought, too.”

He came up with a plan to get my tire back on temporarily and to get Trent off to the side of the road to wait for the tow truck. He set to work, lying on the ground underneath my truck, beside his abandoned bicycle.

And that’s when the ambulance pulled up.

Two paramedics jumped out and came running towards us. I looked up in surprise. “I’m okay,” I called out to them. “No worries, I’m fine.”

Such a lot of fuss over lil’ old me, I thought gleefully to myself, patting my hair down and blushing prettily.

Allen slid out from underneath Trent, and assessed the situation and what was actually going on.

“She didn’t hit me,” he called out to the paramedics as he stood up, and they immediately pulled up short.

“Oh thank god,” one of the said, slapping Allen cheerfully on the back. “We saw the bike beside the car and you underneath it and thought...”

They all had a good laugh. I sniffed haughtily and turned away. Oh I’m FINE, thanks! I wanted to yell.

Allen went back to work on Trent’s tire and the paramedics started directing traffic. I continued to "Mmm-Hmm" my support for Allen as he took a “lug nut” from each of Trent’s other tires and reattached my fourth wheel.

Suddenly there was another young man with us, chatting with Allen and the paramedics about what had happened. I figured he was just another looky-lou, and I thought, how rude to come all the way over here just to be nosy. What a douche.

“So, can I just get your name and number?” he finally said to me.

My mouth dropped open. You’re hitting on me NOW? I thought wildly. WTF?!

“And just who are YOU?” I demanded of him, hands on my hips.

“Uh...your tire flew off and hit my car?” the young guy said.

“...oh,” I said. “Right. Of course.”

We exchanged names, numbers and insurance info, then Allen suggested I go and take a picture of the kid’s car and the damage. I left Allen and Trent and the paramedics and walked across the street to the other car.

“So, could I just get you to sign something, saying that the accident was your fault?” the kid asked as we waited at the lights to cross the street.

I laughed and clapped my hands with delight. “Yeah, right,” I grinned at him.

He didn’t see the humor. “Why not?” he demanded.

I laughed again, thinking, what am I, a fucking idiot? I stuck my nose up in the air and said as regally as I could, “I will not be signing anything without my solicitor present.”

He rolled his eyes, but he didn’t press the matter, so I assumed I had done a good impression of a person with a solicitor. Or who could spell solicitor.

Eventually all was solved; Trent was packed up and towed off to the mechanic’s, Allen was dispatched home with a sweaty kiss and my blubbering gratitude, and the paramedics went off to find an actual accident. And now it is just me at home on my own, missing Trent and hoping this little incident didn’t cost more than, say, $20 to repair.

Fingers crossed, people!

Whooops

.

Be Still My Bleeding Heart

Ah fuck! AGAIN???

So don't expect the best
You won't be disappointed 
When you take a bite and watch
The worm crawl back inside


Happiness was killed, we watched it bleed
Some say it died from hate


Some say from bleeding heart disease


~ Bleeding Heart Disease, NOFX



Dad tried to hide it from me, because he’s a smart man. He knew exactly what I would do if I found it.

Unfortunately for him, I did find it.

I woke from a bad dream this afternoon. It left a bad taste in my mouth, which I decided to replace with smoke in my mouth, so I suited up for the cold and took Billy and Chiclet outside. Something made me go out the front of the house, which is kinda odd, cuz I usually take the dogs out back with me. I don’t know why I went out the front door today, I just did. Dad didn’t hear me, or he would have stopped me.

I was thinking about the bad dream and trying to shake off the residual wiggins when I noticed my biggest dog, Billy, trying to knock over a plastic garbage pail that was sitting on the concrete beside the garden. I grinned and shook my head. Silly Billy, I thought, and walked over to move whatever food was in the garbage out of my baby boy’s reach.

I got to the plastic garbage can, looked inside, and screamed. I dropped my smoke on the ground and backed away, then turn and ran back into the house.

“Dad!” I screamed as I rocketed through the door. “Dad, come quick! There’s a baby mouse outside in the garbage can and I think he’s hurt!” And I hurtled back through the door.

My dad came running out a minute later, pulling on his big puffy jacket and gloves. “I didn’t want you to see this,” he said grimly, and a moment later I FINALLY clued in to fucking reality.

“It’s a trap, isn’t it?” I whispered, and approached the plastic pail, feeling stupid. I watched as my dad reached in with his glove and opened the trap. The baby mouse scuttled away from Dad’s hand, and he pulled the trap out of the garbage pail.

“It’s supposed to break their necks or their backs,” he said helplessly, as tears coursed down my face. “They’re not supposed to suffer.”

“What are you gonna do with him?” I asked in a small voice. Henrietta Collins, aged twelve.

“I didn’t know what to do with him,” Dad turned his palms up and shrugged. “I caught him in the ceiling and brought him outside so you wouldn’t see him.”

“Can I take him to Nose Hill and release him?” I asked hopefully. We used to do that when I was a kid.

“You wanna drive all that way for one little mouse?” my dad asked incredulously and rubbed his forehead.

“Yes,” I shrugged.

“Do I have to come?”

My eyes lit up. “Nope.”

“Then do whatever you want,” Dad shook his head and went back into the house.

After some careful observation, it became clear to me that the little mouse’s foot/leg had been broken in the trap, and he wasn’t able to move at maximum capacity. This would make him even easier prey if I released him in the park. Combined with the -25 temperature outside, my decision became very easy.

And that’s how we got our new pet mouse!

I can't believe we found each other, Nibbles.
It must be density! I mean destiny.

(Before you lose your marbles, Nibbles is quarantined in the garage; and it's just until he can walk a bit better and it warms up. Then I'm going to release him at Nose Hill Park, which is the massive woods-and-acres dog park by my house.)



.

Disposable Teens

Yay! School!

I'm a black rainbow, and I'm an ape of god
I've got a face that's made for violence upon it
I'm a teen distortion, survived abortion
A rebel from the waist down


I wanna thank you Mom, I wanna thank you Dad
For bringing this fucking world to a bitter end
I never hated your one true god
But the god of the people I hated


~ Marilyn Manson


Argh! My Teenaged Fan Club took it up a notch on Saturday. The little fuckers.

At the sound of the door chiming, I came out of the office that stands behind the front counter and discovered the three of them waiting at my desk. “Good morning, boys,” I said pleasantly.

“Good morning,” they said in unison.

“What can I do for you today?” I said when they didn’t offer anything else.

“I am here for my TAAAAAttoo,” said the tallest one.

“Oh right,” I nodded uber-professionally. “You were going to bring me $1,500 today. Or was it Euros?”

“Ah, yes,” he nodded too. “My bank card wasn’t working this morning. Ah ha, ha.”

“That’s too bad,” I commiserated. “Well, maybe tomorrow.”

They picked up some tattoo magazines and started humming and haaing over the pictures inside. “Yes, I like this one,” the shorter black kid said as he leafed through the pages of gorgeous tattooed girls. “And this one. And this one.”

They came across a page that showed twelve monthly covers of the magazine, all of which were girls in bikinis showing off their tattoos.

Their eyes bulged. “Is that you?” the muslim kid asked, pointing to a busty blond.

“No,” I shook my head.

“This one?” Another big boobed, tattooed girl.

“Nope.”

“She’s that one,” the tall kid said, and pointed to a topless girl with black hair, covering her enormous boobs with her hands.

“Yeah, that’s me,” I snorted. “Anyway, guys, it’s always nice to see you, but I gotta get back to work.” And I motioned towards the door.

“Can I have a hug?” the shorter black kid asked.

The other two looked up expectantly. “Me too!”

“No, you cannot have a hug,” I said, exasperated.

“Why not?” Muslim kid asked.

“Because I can’t go around hugging teenaged boys,” I said. “I’ll get in trouble.”

“Okay, can I have a handshake, then?” Shorty asked me and held out his hand.

I moved out from behind the desk. “Yes, you can have a handshake,” I said and reached out to meet his outstretched hand.

As soon as my hand met his, he pulled me towards him, then threw his arms around me in a hug. I squeaked in protest and tried to pull away but then the other two stepped up and threw their arms around me too. The Muslim kid even had the bloody cheek to rest his head on my chest, right in my cleavage.

Eventually they let me go. I scurried back behind the desk and pointed to the door. “GoodBYE, boys,” I said.

They were busy giggling and high fiving each other. “Bye, Tattoo Girl,” they sang and pushed each other through the door.

I turned around to find my manager there, grinning at me. “There’s only so much of that that’s gonna happen,” she said pointedly.

“I know,” I said sheepishly, and she walked into the office again.

I heard a knocking and looked up. My Teenaged Fan Club was waving to me through the glass door.

I rolled my eyes and followed my manager back into the office in shamed silence.

The cheeky little fuckers. I can't believe they got me.




.

I Wanna Be A Drug Sniffing Dog

"Bend over a little further, Jello. We still can't find Kage."

I wanna be a drug sniffing dog 
So I can snort coke all day long 
Bite my master when it suits me 
Get off on diminished capacity 



Weh oh, Weh oh ho 
Sure beats Alpo 


It's the life 
It's the stink 
It's the attitude



I wanna be a customs man 
Snoop through your stuff 'cause I can 
Sneaky peaky pry through your private lives 
Stroke your panties, jackin' off at lunch 


It's the life 
It's the stink 
It's the attitude


Choose your masks


~ Jello Biafra w/ Lard

I opened the curtains to my bedroom this afternoon, to let in some much needed sunlight. What I saw made me jump back in shock and give a loud yelp of fright.

A large, colorful monstrosity stood before me, peaking into my window. I screamed again and let go of the blinds, then dropped down to the floor to hide.

Wait a minute, I recognize that, I thought vaguely as I heard the blinds crash back down to the window sill.

Shaking all over, I reached a hesitant hand back up and cracked open two slats of beige plastic so I could peer through.

Is that...is it...

Lord thundering crap! Is that SUMMER?

It's been so dark and lonely stuck in my own anal cavity, drowning in my solipsistic misery, that I actually missed a change in the seasons.

Good Fuck! That can't be good.

So...um...maybe I'll stop fucking doing that.

Yeah, that sounds pretty wise. Otherwise it will be goddamn winter again before I know it, and I won't have any cute boots to wear.

I was so hurt and angry on Friday at the rejection I felt from M's parents, that I was determined to prove them right. I was gonna go out and get the most OxyContin and the most cocaine in the entire world and was gonna smack myself harder than I ever have before and that would show them that I...um...that would show them that  I...uh...

Sigh. That would show them that I was the very fucking retard they suspect me to be.

Ummmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm? Nah.

After long and careful deliberation, I've decided to accept the wise counsel of the lovely and beautiful Jewels, and start getting better again so I can rub it in their smug, judgemental faces. Perhaps not the healthiest of motivations, but sometimes you gotta take what you can get and fucking run with it, then cash it in for something better further down the road.

I've been been dithering in my complacency for months now, never doing more than I absolutely have to in order to get past my shit then wondering stupidly why I'm not getting better. As if I don't know.

Throughout my strange little life I've always somehow been a kickass underdog, sneaking up from behind those that dismiss me as worthless and sinking in my goddamn teeth to prove my point. And I'm gonna do it again.

I am not worthless, you narrow-minded...old...jerkfaces.

Oh! Um, no offense, Mr. and Mrs. C.

Well. Maybe a little.

As we all know, though, talk without action is a luxury I simply cannot afford at the moment. Clearly. So if you'll excuse me, I'm gonna go find some help with my terminal fucktardism.

Pissed Script: Thank-you for all your encouraging comments and emails, everybody. Please don't be offended if I don't get back to you right away, I am pretty overwhelmed at the moment with cleaning up the disaster that I have wrought. Please know that I read everything you send me, and I hold it deep in my heart.

Haha! That was so gay.

I better work on that, too.



.

Pimpin' Ain't Easy, Bitch! (But Neither Is Self Mutilation)

It's all the presentation...

Bitch better have my money.


~Me

I don’t really know where to start.

About a month ago, I took over running the agency that I work for, Dreamgirls. I’m essentially a madame for strippers now.

It’s going really well. I like being all organized and efficient, running an office and bossing everybody about. It suits me.

However, also about a month ago, I moved into the house of the owner of Dreamgirls, to house sit for two weeks while she was away in Mexico.

Thaaaaaaat didn’t go so well.

Turns out the girl who hates everyone and wants to be left alone all of the time really shouldn’t be left alone all the time.

Or any time.

I dropped ten pounds in the two weeks that Gigi left me to my own devices, to do whatever I wanted.

  Like forget to eat.

 Ooooooooooops. 

I can’t believe how quickly and indiscernibly this shit snuck back up on me. I am not a stupid girl, nor am I clueless of my surroundings or the malevolence of other people - in fact, I’m incredibly sensitive to it.

So how the fuck is it that I have fallen victim to myself?

Da fuck? The one being, the one entity, the one force of nature I have to be the most wary of is ME? Where’s the ingrained instinct for survival? Where’s the inherent drive to thwart perceived threats and fight to the death to protect one’s very existence? Where dat shit?

The one who hurts me the most is me. I am the biggest threat to my physical and emotional well-being. How fucking dumb is that?

That’s just how it pulls me in. When I’m stuck in Victoria Beckham mode, the ability to lose weight IS my survival instinct - the more I can control my weight, the more I can control the elements of my surroundings. People, places, things, anything that could be perceived as a threat starts to fade away when I am back in control.

Or so I think.

I don’t seem to notice that actually, I am spinning wildly out of control, heading back down a path that can only end in death, self induced or otherwise. But that’s okay, cuz hey, have you noticed how good I look?

Why are you posting this crap? I hear you ask. Good question. I don't know. I guess I hoped that by being honest and posting the truth up here for everyone to see, it might help pull my head from my arse.

With the diminishment of my perceived threats comes the dwindling of my capacity to feel joy. My blog, once the epicentre of my world, now exhausts me, and sits abandoned and pointless. I rarely see M, Kay has to stalk me, and my beloved dogs sit sad and neglected and painfully bloated from lack of exercise. But that’s okay, cuz hey, have you noticed how good I look?

The most screamingly hilarious part of this whole thing is how initially offended I was when nobody noticed. Look at me! I would think  desperately. Look how in control of my life I am! Until they did notice, and I became enraged by their endless fussing, their suffocating attempts to “help” me. Leave me alone! I wanted to scream at them. But before you go, have you noticed how good I look?

Ker-rist.

The usual threats from my loved ones are back: If you don’t gain weight you are fired; I want to weigh you once a week; you look emaciated and sickly; don’t you think you should go back into hop-sital?

No.

I don’t know what I think, really. I don’t know what I want, either. I would really like to just lie down and go to sleep for a while. But hey, have you noticed how good I look?

At least the world is ending tomorrow. That makes me feel better. Bring on the hookers and blow!

Retards.

Thank-you to everyone who has emailed me, asking if I was alright - Hed, Spaz, Dan, Sugar Free, Mike Lisssty, the lovely Crkets Galore. I’m sorry I never responded, and also that I haven’t been to your blogs in a month. I keep starting to read the hundred-plus blogs I follow, I’ve even started to make a comment here and there. But then I become so overwhelmed and daunted by how much catching up there is to do that I just close Mr. Rollins and go to sleep instead.

Which sounds like a bitching idea right about now.

I hope this cheerful missive finds you all well. Ta.

Pis.s. I promise not to be so unbelievably solipsistic and self pitying in my next post.

No, seriously. I can do it.

******************Edited Saturday May 21, 3:50 pm***********************

Oh my Christ. Id just told me about Rafa's Search For Kage post! I just read it, and I am so incredibly touched. What's that? No, I didn't cry! It's just been raining on my face. And I was cutting onions.

If I may be oh so cheesy for a moment, I am so honored that all of you incredible people think so much of me. Thank-you so much, you guys. I've missed you, and I am so grateful that you've missed me, too.

Charlie Sheen Rode Me ALL NIGHT LONG

"Come here often?"

"It's only called 'Terrorism' if you kill American civilians. If you kill British civilians, I believe it's called 'Bangers and Mash'."


~ Stephen Colbert

Sorry, did I say ‘rode’? I meant ‘wrote’. Charlie Sheen ‘wrote’ me all night long, about the LAPD being in his goddamn house.

See, I joined this brand new social network yesterday. It’s so new that you probably haven’t even heard of it yet - I know I hadn’t - but it allows you to get, amongst other things, a blow-by-blow commentary from your favorite celebrity train wrecks, like Charlie Sheen.

And I LOVES me a train wreck. Especially when it’s not ME.

The real reason I joined this network was because I found out that Stephen Colbert is on it. Say no more! I thought gleefully, and signed right up. But then Stephen mentioned Charlie Sheen’s 2 million followers, and to my shame and regret, my curiosity got the better of me, and I went there, too.

And now Charlie Sheen keeps me up all night long! At least Stephen Colbert and Jon Stewart have the decency to stop writing me during the midnight hours. But not Mr. Sheen, no - high on Mr. Sheen Juice and Tiger’s Blood, ol' Chuck has something to say 24 hours a day. It’s exhausting trying to keep up with him.

It did lead to one interesting video, though even I can admit that he’s going to have to come up with some new crazy soon. The world is already losing interest.

What was the name of the new social network I joined, you ask? I don’t remember, I think it was called  Twitter or something.

Charlie Sheen's Winning Recipes from Charlie Sheen



.

Jesus Is Coming! Look Busy

"You would be lovely with a bit of mint sauce..."

I've noticed lately that other bloggers are letting their thoughts on religion be known through their blogs, and I realized it was high time that I did the same. After all, you don't really know a person until you know their views on spirituality, do you?

I have found a soulful, talented young artist who expresses my feelings on God and religion so much better than I ever could. I would like to share that with you now.

Last year's Christmas card.

I Think You're A Nazi

Contrary To That Documentary They Call JAWS...

"Argh, god damn it! I lost my belly chain AGAIN."

Hello everyone, and welcome to Twee Talk Daily! Ready for the latest gossip on some of your favorite bloggers?

Ah, sure you are.

Let's get started with the dirt that we dug up on one of the more notorious bad girls of the blogging community... Kage.

Turns out, everyone, that Kage, from Sex, Sequins and Sociopaths, is having a torrid affair with....Kage, from Sex, Sequins and Sociopaths!

Can you believe that whore?! Jesus Christ.

And that's not all. Kage was also recently caught in the middle of a cat fight with fellow blogger, Heather from Sugar Free Thoughts, over the ownership of some movie rights! Mwror!

I caught up with that psycho Kage at an S&M Club-slash-Preschool Daycare Centre (cutbacks affect everyone, people) in downtown Calgary, to get the latest scoop.

"So, like, Heather and I were arsing around on Rafa's blog the other day, and we both saw this wikked video that he had posted there," she said, as she chained a screaming businessman to the wall, while simultaneously calming a crying toddler on her hip.  "It was something about a Honey Badger."

"A Honey Badger?" I repeated disbelievingly.

"Yeah, bitch, a Honey Badger," she glanced at me over her shoulder. "Do you have some kind of problem with that?" And she slapped the businessman hard across the face with her free hand.

"No," I said quickly.

"Good," she said. She slapped the businessman again, causing the toddler on her hip to laugh and clap her little hands. "So anyway, Heather and I saw the video at the same time, and we both called dibs. Before he knew what was going on, Rafa had a cage match of epic proportions on his hands."

"A Kage match?"I interrupted.

"Yeah, a cage match," she said.

"Here, hold this," she said, and tossed the toddler at me.

I threw my pen and pad in a panic, barely plucking the squealing toddler out of the air before she landed in a vat of hot oil.

I hugged the baby close to me and watched as Kage poked the businessman in the ass. "You alright, Gary?" she asked him.

"Yeah, Kage, I'm good," came his muffled reply.

She pulled out a long whip, and turned back to me. "So anyway, I knew Heather was going to Irish Jolly Stomp my ass into next week," she said, twirling the long end of the whip slowly around Gary's ankles. "But I really wanted those movie rights."

"So what did you do?" I asked.

"Haha! Easy," she grinned. "While Heather was warming up for my ass kicking, I set fire to an animal shelter."

"You...you what?"

"Yeah," she laughed. "She totally fell for it, too. Went running off to save all the animals like the good person she is, leaving the Interweb wiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiide open. And so, I got to the videos first."

"Well! That's super," I said enthusiastically, surreptitiously glancing around for the closest exit. I spotted it at the top of a back stairway, and I knew I had only one chance to escape.

I quickly shoved the toddler back in Kage's arms. "Well, I'd best be off," I said cheerfully, then I turned and ran like fucking hell, before she could put down the kid and chase me.

I'm lucky I got out of there alive.

And so, here are Kage's hard-won videos, everyone. Even though they are edumacationamal, please stay and enjoy them for a moment, as a lot of suffering was endured to present them to you.

I'm A Total Friggin' Rock Star From Mars

Looking good, Chuck!
I like your rub-on tattoo.

"Yeah, I'm on a drug. It's called Charlie Sheen. It's not available, cuz if you try it once, you will DIE."
~ Charlie Sheen


I have never done a poll before, because I am far too lazy to bother. But if I was ever tempted, it is now, and it would look something like this:


Who is more completely fucking, head-up-his-ass-bonkers delusional right now?
                        Charlie "I'm an F18, bro!" Sheen?    
                                          or
            Muammar "But I'm The Most Populist Guy On Facebook!" Gadhafi?


Seriously, every time I see Charlie Sheen, I just want to go on a massive cocaine-fueled bender, and then laugh about it, cuz hey - I'm tired of pretending I'm not special. Cuz I am. And seeing Gadhafi just makes me want to smack myself stupid with Al Qaeda hallucination pills. Whatever the fuck they are.


Anywhoo. Enough ranting. From me and them. Let's see what's happening in my life.


Um...


Erm...


Hmmm.


I got nothing.


Just kidding.

I recently started going to the rich-people gym by my house, instead of driving all the way down to the one by the university.

The Edgemont location is literally a two minute drive from my digs, but I used to prefer driving the extra half hour to go to the Richmond location, to be with my own kind.

About a month ago, though, I decided it was time to nut up or shut up, and get my ass up to Edgemont. It was stupid, driving all the way to Richmond twice a day, when I could almost walk up to Edgemont.

I say almost, because if I were going to walk all the way to the gym in the goddamn snow, why would I even go to the gym at all?

Anyway, I think I went to Edgemont a whole two times, then stopped going completely.

I didn’t like it there. I missed my own people. I hated being an eyesore, a social misfit, an anomaly, even more so than usual. And at hoity-toity Edgemont, they made sure I knew I didn’t fit in.

At the gym by the university, there were plenty of other freaks like me. I mean, the place didn’t crawl with people of the pierced and tattooed persuasion, exactly, but none of the other members screamed when they saw us coming, either.

Cut to my first day working out at Edgemont, amongst the city's elite and wealthy.

It looked something like this.

Them, grouped en masse, staring and appalled.

Me and my barely discernible tattoo,
working out alone and ostracized.

Now, I like to fly in the face of public opinion, but even for me, this was a bit much. The glob of them, literally massed at the far end of the weight room, just staring and whispering, like I'd grown an extra boob or something.


(Note to self: demand immediate $100 raise in show price if ever grow third boob.)


And so I found reasons to not go the next day, or the day after that, or the day after that. They were plausible reasons - I had a headache, Mr. Rollins-the-MacBook was lonely, the dogs were looking at me funny, the sun was too shiny. Before I knew it, a month had gone by, and I was bored, out of shape, and pissed that I had  allowed myself to be uprooted. I used to be staff there, for fuck's sake! What the hell was wrong with me?


So I tucked in my petticoats and went back yesterday - probably, I will admit, with a massive chip on my shoulder. 


I was upstairs in the gym, lifting weights next to an posh-looking blond lady and her trainer, blasting some kind of offensive music into my ears (it was NOFX Shower Days, actually), when the shit hit the fan. Or the excrement hit the oscillator, mwuarh mwuarh. Top drawer.


Posh Blond Lady was pointing directly at me and talking animatedly to her trainer.


Fuck! I thought. Here we go.


I put down my weights and pulled out my earbuds, ready for a fight. I pay my fucking dues at this club, I thought angrily. I have every right to be here.


"I'm sorry?" I demanded aggressively, putting my hand on my hip.


"I said 'I want abs like yours!'" Posh Blond Lady cried, and pointed to my stomach.


"Oh," I said, taken aback. "Oh!" I said again, as my face burned red and I realized what a fucking fucktard I truly am.


I immediately apologized and thanked her, told her she was lovely and started alphabetically listing off her finest physical attributes in my guilt-fueled sycophancy, until she and her trainer just kind of backed away, frightened. 


I was left alone once more, to consider myself, and the fact that while I had been so angry at these women for judging me based on my looks, I hadn't noticed I was doing the exact same thing to them.


Ooooops-a-dilly! I don't know.


Life's funny, innit?


Sorry, what's that? What have I learned, you ask?


Um...


Er....


Hey, isn't Charlie Sheen like craaaaaaaaaaaazy right now?

"I, like, love working out!"
That's me ten years ago, when I actually worked at the Edgemont location
and somehow became their poster girl.
I'm still pissed you can't see my rack in this photo, though. Bastards.

Take Me Back, Or I'll Drown Our Dog

"I swear to God, Kage's boobs are like this big..."

Hey! 
This is how life should be 
So I'll pretend it is 
Happy news 
For happy people 
With happy problems 


(Headlines) 
Tell a person something 
(Good news)
Long enough they'll believe 
(Anything)
What they think is real 
Instead of what they see


~ Tumor Circus w/ Jello Biafra


Wanna hear something gross?

Sure you do.

I let my two smaller dogs stay in the bathroom with me whenever I shower. (That’s not the gross part, pervie). Well, I guess it’s not so much a case of “letting” them stay in the bathroom with me, as much as it is a “Chiclet figured out how to open the goddamn door so I don’t really have any choice” sort of scenario.

I stepped out of the shower last Thursday night to discover that the door was wide open, the bathroom was freezing cold, and my dogs were long gone.

“Hey, thanks for closing the door behind you, assholes,” I yelled into the hallway, as I slammed the bathroom door shut.

“What?!” I heard my mum yell in reply, and I grinned. Let her have a think on that one, I thought.

As I walked back to the sink, I felt something squish between my toes, and looked down to see what it was. What on earth would I have left on my bathroom floor that was wet like that? Was that water?

And that’s when I discovered why my fucking dogs had done a runner.

“Shit!” I screamed. “Like, literally! Shit! Fucking shit! You little bastards! Aaaarrrgggggh!”

“Kage!” I heard my mother yell from the hallway. “Stop yelling random swears into the ether! For pity’s sake.”

“I’ve shit between my toes, Mum,” I moaned. “I can swear all I fucking want to.” But she had already walked away again.

I got back in the shower and cleaned off my foot, certain it would have to be amputated. When it was free of dog poo, I tiptoed out of the shower again, and cleaned up the bath mats by picking them up and chucking them out of the back door and into the garden.

There! Clean.

Then I wrapped a bathrobe around myself and shook out my wet hair, and walked out into the hallway.

It was time to get down to the real business at hand. SOMEBODY IN TROUBLE.

“Chiclet, Misha!” I called sweetly. “Come see Mummy, babies! Come on!”

Dumb, innocent and trusting, they came running.

Suckers.

“Come on, into my room,” I sang, and ushered them in. Then I closed the door behind me and spun around wildly, laughing gleefully.

“I’ve got you now, you little fuckers!” I cried. “Which one of you shit on Mummy’s bath mat? Huh? WHO DID IT?”

Chiclet ran excitedly to the end of my room, and came back a moment later with her blue squeaky toy, wound up by all the fuss.

Well, she was no goddamn help.

Misha just sat and wagged her tail. She wasn’t much help, either.

“Don’t wanna talk, huh?” I glared at them. “We’ll see about that.” I reached down and plopped Misha into her doggy bed.

“You’ll talk to Von Teddy!” I declared. “He haz vays ov making you talk!” And I shoved my police bear into Misha’s bed.

Misha, refusing to cooperate with Sturmbannfuhrer Von Teddy.
Even under the spot light.

Nothing.

“Alright, then,” I stood up and turned around. “Chiclet!” And I ran to the end of the room.

Chiclet vociferously defended her innocence, claiming her blue squeaky toy as alibi.

"I didn't do nothing, Copper! You ain't got 
nothing on me, see?"

Could it have been Billy? I wondered, and turned around to ask Von Teddy what he thought.

What I saw shocked and terrified me, and I knew right then that I’d never get my answer. These three, they were professionals. I was way out of my element.

Billy, viciously murdering Sturmbannfuhrer Von Teddy.

I backed slowly out of the room, my hands in the air. "Um...you know what? It doesn't matter, guys. Doesn't matter. Mummy doesn't care anymore."

I turned to flee, but I stepped in something wet and mushy on my way out the door.

Arrrrgghhh. GODDAMN DOGS!


.

I Hate Yu

Brains...We need brains...

You were just a waste of sperm
They way you look makes my stomach turn
The way you think is no way at all
God you really think you have balls


I hate Yu
Ain't it true
I hate Yu
And everything you do


You walk around like a fucking dick
And everytime you're near you know I get real sick
You're so stupid there's nothing in your head
God how I wish that you were dead


I hate Yu
Ain't it true
I hate Yu
And everything you do


~ Slayer, cleverly respelled and dedicated to my dentist, Dr. Yu.

Once again, I am short on time today, so I just thought I would chuck some of today's in-class writing assignments at you.

A paltry substitute to my usual wit and charm, I know, but...

But I'm busy. So get bent.

Oh! There's that charm.

Today we had to write a fictional example of conflict, and then a fictional setting of a potential conflict. Mine were actually based entirely on truth, and just dramatized, but the other people in the class - who wrote about their cats and dogs and bunnies - didn't know that.

So why did they still give me such a wide berth?! So weird.

Anyway. Enjoy.


       ***You’ll never guess what happened to me today...(example of conflict)***

I haven’t been sleeping very well lately. Because of all the drugs. Just like old times, I will often wake up to find myself in the middle of some activity - in the kitchen, looking for food; in my office, trying to write something. This morning I woke up in two separate locations, sleepwalking.

The first time, I was alone in my room. I woke up with a start when I dropped my water bottle onto my desk with a bang, and the water sloshed over everything, including my computer. I immediately grabbed some kleenex and started mopping it up, but I didn’t actually remember getting out of bed or picking up the water bottle at all.

The second incident, unfortunately, had witnesses - the last two witnesses I could ever have wanted.

I woke up in the upstairs bathroom, a bath towel in my hand, both my parents standing in front of me.

“What are you doing up here?” my father asked, and I shook my head dumbly.

“I want to use your shower,” I said eventually. I knew that much, at least.

“Why?” asked my mother. “What’s wrong with your shower?”

“I don’t know,” I mumbled, then walked out of the bathroom again.

 And with that I walked downstairs, climbed back into my bed, and just went back to sleep.

I was sleepwalking again less than an hour later, though.

I woke up to find myself desperately trying to use my cell phone.

I was trying to call my drug dealer.

Huh. How about that.



***Example of a Setting and Potential Conflict: What Could Go Wrong, Who Could Get Hurt***

I was groggy as I stepped off the plane, but fear quickly snapped me out of it. Since my last disastrous experience with the Immigration officers in England, I had become a nervous wreck about crossing the border with less than legal intentions.

The line up for the passport check-in was long, which I ambivalently found to be both a relief and a real pisser. How many people want to get into fucking Guam? I wondered irritably, as I watched the slow procession of shuffling feet inching ever closer towards freedom. It’s fucking GUAM.

Still, it gave me a few extra minutes to rehearse my story one last time, even though I had been doing so for weeks.

I went over the details in my mind for the millionth time - I had just graduated from the University of Alberta; had been working as a waitress and was soon to be teacher at home; was meeting Trevor here so we were getting married on the beach; would only be staying for three weeks; we chose Guam because...we chose Guam because...

Fuck! Why did we choose Guam again? I wondered desperately, as my panic started to rise. Think, think!

Our friends got married here, a voice cut through my fear, and I almost gasped with relief. That’s right. Some of our friends got married on the beach here, and gosh, it was so romantic, we wanted to do it too.

God, the pressure is getting to me, I thought wildly, as my eyes darted around to see if anyone was watching me. It wasn’t like anyone could really catch me trying to sneak into their country to work, exactly - I didn’t have any costumes or other work paraphernalia on me. But then, I didn’t have any on me in England, either, when Immigration pulled me out of line and held me for sixteen hours.

I wouldn’t have been such a mess this time if the stakes weren't so bloody high - like if I would only be banned for seven years in Guam, you know? Like, it’s Guam. Who cares?! But that’s the thing about American territories - you get caught working as an illegal alien in one of them, and they ban you from all of the United States, for seven years.

        And since there was no Canadian equivalent to Las Vegas, this simply could not happen.