Protest Guantanamo. Go on then, do your thang...

I kind of feel like I can't really talk to my friends. Or maybe it's that I can't really talk to anyone about the relationship I'm having with them. We can talk about other things. Or pretend to talk about other things. But it's touchy to talk about "us". Whoever we are. And it sucks. People are lame. I used to like them, or so I thought. But now I don't. Now I'm blogging instead.

Posting Can Be Fun

When I was a kid I had this book that I loved!! That's right, Manners Can Be Fun. I AM SO COOL!!! I had another one titled something like Cleanliness Can Be Fun. (?) I can't remember. Anyway, they were wicked old and had these kind of stick figure illustrations. That's all I have on that.

I'm super tired and want to be asleep in bed, but got myself on the PC and well, there are just too damn many things I want to do in life, allllllll the time. I need some clones.

Things are pretty good. Or my attitude is. Like I'm always saying, I'm not sure which matters more. Though I'm certain both are relevant. There are annoying factors going on, but maybe I'm just more hormonally equip right now.

The coming weeks are all planned in 2 hours blocks. Even the happy, friendly good times. Kind of takes some of the charm from life.

Um, yea, I'm gunna' sleep now. OMG! Yea, it's late. Someone please send me some time (belatedly?) for my birthday and for Christmas and just for the hell of it, because you saw it and thought of me and you love me that much and couldn't help but get it for me. I want the big model too. BIG FAT FATHER TIME!!!!

Sabado Noche

I'm going to the sauna. Cuz I'm new age. YES!! Which means I'll be waiting to shower, and I'm so food-service grrrrrosssss. Things seem to be improving for now. Or my attitude is. Is there a difference? Yeah, I guess sometimes. Perspective matters, as do circumstances. (It doesn't have to make any sense to you. Or me. Or anybody honestly. It's mine and I love it just the way it was born of my psyche. Cuz my self esteem in improving and that rocks my cock!!!!)

I'm bummed that Radiskull and Devildoll episodes don't actually play when I go to the sight. No one ever cares about inside jokes that make no sense and I can't let them in on. "Yeah, it's really great, there's this floating skull with spikes and a bandanna, and he's dense, and his best friend is this little red devil who has a requited crush on an angel, and the two friends rap together, and Radiskull loves coffee. It's GREAT!!!" Many blank stares. Many changed subjects. Just like when I talk about Fuckchops. Who INCIDENTALLY is gunna' give that girl another fuckin' kid if they keep at it!! Does she really need THREE?!!! Population crisis. Will the baby seat fit in the sports car? Moving on...

So yeah, a former co-worker, who has a different shitty job now, made us sweet reservations for the sauna tonight. This will be our third time going; I think? Rituals are dynamite. Rituals of the getting really sweaty, non-satanic persuasion.

...though speaking of, my motherhumping stereo malfunctioning causes my eyes to roll back and my tongue to fork. I even retrieved a ghetto-blastin' boom box that ALSO WON'T PLAY MY MUSIC AND I AM ABOUT TO MAKE BLACK PLASTIC SHARDS TO SHOOT THROUGH AN AIR GUN AT NON-SUSPECTING PEOPLE OF ALL RACE, CLASS, AND GENDER WHO ARE ABLE TO JOYFULLY EXPERIENCE THEIR MUSICAL COLLECTION IN THE COMFORT OF THEIR HOMES!!!!!!!!!!!!AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!

Um, so anyway, it's been a good day if I isolate it's parts in my brain. And I'm down with that.

Severance Pays

I'm so ready to be over this guy. But like in Heathers, when Veronica says that someone elses head is just going to sprout up in place of the current Heather, I know if it isn't him, it will just be SOMEONE ELSE!! Lord God, relieve me of this obsession. Male addiction is NOT recommended, my friends. Why can't I just fucking habitually smoke pot like everyone else in the county?!!! Pot can't insult me or fuck a bunch of SUV driving bitches. GROSS!!! I can't deal with his persona getting him so laid. Oh, I'd take him as my own without hesitation, don't pay no never you mind. Having him would do wonders to my own persona. He'd raise my worth cuz he leads with his crotch when he walks like the true alfa, engine fixing, opinionated, dark coffee drinking, kayaking Fuckchops he is. AAAAAAAAAAAAA. I forgot that in the title, so there's some AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA for you. AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA. It's going to pass. And then it's going to be replaced by some other obsession for some other fucking asshole who will reject me and make me feel like shit. Because I am karmically fated to suffer at the scoff of disapproving males.

OH GOD!!! I just found a gray hair. If you'll excuse me I have to go shoot myself for a minute.

My friend emailed me something about some guy who was saying something about how catholics and their guilt are so much more interesting than a guy who knows he's good looking and always has great sex. I don't really know what my point is, except that maybe I need an interesting ex-catholic instead of This Charming Man and the subsequent thoughts of him and sugar plum fairy sluts fucking in my head.

That said, I've been eating sugar for days. I think I'm sabotaging the weight loss I've been enjoying. Well, mostly enjoying, except that I can't successfully dress myself in ways that are efficient for leaving my home. I bought a pair of pants, since none of mine particularly fit. My co-worker/friend said, "Yea, you need more than one pair of pants."

Who knew the depths of my ability to complain would extend to whining about needing to buy new clothes because I've LOST so much weight. I'm a champion complainer apparently. Bring it.

No, I don't want to be all martyr-y and sulking and bitchy and negative. So much practice with looking on the dark side of things though. Oh, it can be fun, can't it? But it drains the lymph nodes of their power, or something like that. Weakens the ol' immune system, brings about more of the miserable same, scares the children, keeps one single, renders one ALONE on many night after many night after many day and night and alone, lonely day and night and following day. Not that I'm always pissed or bummed, cuz I don't think I am. AM I? No, I don't think I am. I spread my sunshine. Like shmear. I'm good at spreading incidentally. Or is it consequently? Can it be both? Anyway, working at a bagel shop gives me quite the ability to spread. All day long. But that's kind of a tangent, while the rest of what I write on here is linear and full of purpose and insight.

That fuck bag!!! Why did he even enter my realm? I began by calling him The Mirage and then took to calling him The Miracle. But Fuckchops and Fuckbag are really much more true to his personality, now that it's been revealed. Less to do with me and my perceptions or experiences, and more to do with objective reality.

Ummmm...I guess that's plenty for now. The sugar makes me write things. I can't really apologize on behalf of the sugar; I'm generally not authorized to speak on behalf of the sugar. But I am as sweet as the processed refinement that I crave and kill motherfuckers for. And eat in dutiful amounts.

Speaking of, do you watch Aqua Teen Hunger Force? You should. I don't really speak in terms of "should" for the most part. But I feel really confident about that. I bring it up because one media reference isn't enough for a blog post. ANYway, I currently play the role of M.C. Pee Pants it seems. Go forth now. With this important final paragraph to confuse and alienate you.

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

I'm going to start every post with that. Especially on days when I'm feeling that way. For now I am. I am writing on a day that is not a day at all, but rather a night. I am writing on a night which I have already written and posted. In fact I posted something that was just waiting around to be posted from a different day as well. When it pours in Northern California, I rein. Um, so, right... AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA. More letters to Fuckchops:

People die of cancer. They get cancer and they die. Where are you? And who are you with? And moreover why aren't you with me? Blood spewing from puncture wound to heart. Spew. Spew. Spew. Puddle. Drip. Drip. Pool. For the record I completely do NOT get you. And I'm getting to the point where I don't really want to. Ever. Exclamation. End quote.

Oh, so I also remembered why I stopped blogging...BECAUSE THE COMPUTER EATS SOULS AT EVERY MEAL!!!! The computer will, in fact, eat. your. soul. It has entirely digested mine, which is to say completely but I didn't want to repeat that word cuz I already done used it once somewheres upin here. Er, no, I guess I didn't. Well, now I have. I didn't do the things I said I was going to do. But isn't that a given? Does anyone ACTually do what they say they are going to do? How declasse`. How retro of the brown and yellow owl motif verity. No, I dare say that we are a contemporary peoples of none-doing as we claim. Making a statement about the future can NEVER be a fact according to philosophy and everyone who agrees with my professor. Even when I make a claim like, tomorrow is Nov. 10th, 2006? Is that not a true fact about the future? I forgot to try that one on him. Him being my professor that makes me laugh so hard (literally, not sarcastically and bitchilly) that I turned to one of my table partners (like one would have in kindergarten) and said through wisps of sayingness, "He'sssooofuuunnnyy", as though we had rented Chris Rock together. But instead I was obnoxiously the obnoxious girl at the front of the room that no one seemed/seems to EVER understand. (I can switch tenses in one sentence. You learn the rules and then you break them. It's called modern art. Get some.) They don't understand because they are dumb. And boring. And their mom has bad breath. And so does Fuckchop's mom. Have bad breath. And doesn't cook as well as mine. Or my step-mom that is. BUUUURRRNNNN!!

Anyway, so I got back on the computer after having completely AND entirely (now I've used those words gratuitously) logged out, and turned it off, and listened to music in the car, since my fucking stereo has been asking to go to an assisted living facility and I say, "NO! Stop whining! We do fine HERE! You just need to stop all this signs of aging bullshit and produce music like you did when we were young, and in love."

My personal rendition of "Oh, When the Saints Go Marching" is coming along nicely on key board. That is pretty much the only interesting tangent about school I can think of, outside of the wacky professor that makes me slap knees and tables. And bitches. I'm hungry but I already rinsed, flossed, and brushed. In that order. If you can think of a better order, please do not elaborate. New World Order. New Edition. New Jack City. Naxoproxen. Naugahyde. Niygggggah. Word association is totally in.

I'm going to San Diego in January and I'm not sure whether to tell my ex while I'm sober, ahead of time. Which would be proper etiquette, like declaring war civilly. Or just show up drunk, which will likely happen either way. Hmmm. What would you do? Again, don't feel like you need to expound on your experiences with such things. You needn't. I'll do what I want anyway. Or more accurately, what the alcohol wants. With very little regard for what he actually wants. Cuz I'm cool like that. And single like that. And have countless ailments like that. And mental illnesses as well like that.

(That made me laugh audibly. It's too late to be blogging when you openly laugh at your own thoughts in a silent home that only houses yourself. And no music, cuz your stereo is elderly and some how still took your virginity in high school.)

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

FUCK SHIT PISS FUCK IN YOUR HEAD!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I am SOOO pissed at my slllloooooooooooowwwwwwwwww computer. WTF? Is it the computer? Is it the internet? Is it satan? I bet it's Fuckchops. Or Henry. I bet it's fucking Henry!!! AAAAAAAA.

Anyway, I read THL and suddenly want to post. I haven't been regularly posting in like...a year. And I never really regularly posted ever, as it were. But that is neither here, in Arcata, or there, wherever there is. I wonder if there is dark and rainy like here, in Arcata. Outside of course. Not in my apt. It's dry and lit in my apartment.

This is a love letter for Fuckchops, who my heart currently belongs to:

YOU SUCK!!!!!!!!!! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!! WHY DO YOU EVER EVEN CONTACT ME?! YOU MAKE NO FUCKING SENSE!!!! I DON'T EVEN LIKE YOU.

What do you think? I wonder if it's too long? I've been told by some dating advice capitalist monger opportunist not to write long messages to guys. Cuz they are turds. And turds don't have very long attention spans. Heh. Turd. Long.

ANYWAAAAYYY...yeah, I never got into blogging enough because of some reasons that I will address in short. Maybe in list form?

1. I don't know how to use a computer

Um, that about sums it up actually. OH, and the non-anonymous issue. Because I set it up in a non-anonymous way. And then just never really was motivated to start a new one. Or didn't care enough? Is there a difference? Motivation? Interest? Hmmm...

Yea. I LOVE reading THL, cuz then I can write whatever I want too. Not that I have adventures and a boyfriend. Or a career. Or a lap top that I know how to use. But just that I have random thoughts and am liberated to put them in small paragraph type thought segments and not edit them. Not to say that THL doesn't edit her shit, what the fuck do I know?

I know that if I don't fucking CHILLLLLLLLLLLLLLLL my face is going to fall off. I am not going to go into my medical issues right now, but they are mounting and worsening. They are worsor than they've ever been. Well, actually Halloween was perhaps a pinnacle, nay, the acme of worsenessness. I need to pee and um, cut up my new shirt so it's fashion forward and supah cool for my shitty minimum wage bagel shop job. And sort through papers. The bane of all reality and sent here from the alien demon government monsters to steadily turn me from marginally functional to, say...on the streets babbling to myself about Monchhichi or McDonald's mostly soy burgers and how good they are and would they be considered vegetarian and could I eat one and still say I was a vegetarian and would I want to because I would likely get diarrhea and would it be worth the ring of fire and could I use a McDonald's restroom in that case because even though I was a street person at that point I would very much be a paying customer and they couldn't send the alien demon government monster cops to take me and make me one of them and read my thoughts and send me out to recruit other unsuspecting marginally sane people to merge in to the likes of them.


(update: the computer is still being slow and STILL making me want to put a used catheter in a nice person's mouth. Furthermore it makes me not want to spell check. So, if there are spelling issues, you can blame the internet, or my computer. Or satan, which spell check wanted me to capitalize. They also wanted me to call boys Tarts. I'm not making shit up.)