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Feb. 10th, 2017


Monday afternoon I forwarded my boss a confirmation email I received for a promotional interview @ Parks and Rec (lol) I'd applied for in January. Within moments, his boss was calling for me to join her and him in a tiny room.

I'm being written up for applying to Parks and Rec (lol) I thought to myself as I sat down, smiling wearily. Is that possible? Maybe they'd seen me stick my Wonder Woman stamps on the application and walk to the mailbox on the corner on State time. They knew I didn't walk for funsies. Or maybe the strappy, plunging AZN shirt I was wearing from the 4 dollar strapping plunging 4 dollar AZN store at the mall was too much (or not enough)?

"You do a good job, the field likes you, you get along with vendors nicely..." she began praising me as I grew feverish with regret for ever having approached the stupid AZN store after exiting the thunderwear shop. Were my boobs hanging out right now? Was my nipple showing? If I reached for it, would that make things worse? Oh GOD. I blacked out and could hear only the pounding of my heart against my ribs as her mouth continued opening and closing.

"...and that's why we'd like to make you an Associate Governmental Program..."

I snapped back to consciousness.

"Super Analyst!?" I interrupted her in shock.

"...Program Analyst," she finished, and then smiled.

I waved my hand at my cheeks like I was Halle Berry winning an Oscar and then wiped away tears.

"Oh thank you! Thank you!"

In light of this, I'm redacting pics of myself from here until I'm off probation so Vicki from Contracts can't file a slander lawsuit and they don't shitcan me back to Office Technician.


Jan. 29th, 2017

Good Times, Bad Times

Today, I was human trash. I ate biscuits from the Dollar Tree and laid in bed reading about all the Trump shittery going on. No one cares about my opinion on it, but even Dick Cheney says he's an asshole. Wow, that's saying a lot from the ultra uber definitive asshole himself.

Still in a tiny conference room with 2 other women from work breathing noxious HVAC fire fumes for 9.5 hours a day. Our menstrual periods have synced and we laugh hysterically at the stupidest dumbass memes that Jewish Guy emails us from another conference room. Get this, Jesus Guy unplugged his puter from the conference room table and brought it back to the scene of the fire where he is now procuring. He says the neighborhood is better now that the riffraff has moved out. He burst into our room once to defend Trump about something but I was so high off the Sharpie I'd just used to write down a purchase order number with that I couldn't argue with him. I rarely argue with him anyway, I just stare back at him with my lip curled and my brow furrowed.

Jesus Christ, tomorrow's Monday. I bought a little "Daily Gratitude" journal at the beginning of the year, but have been super lax about being grateful in it. I also have a Dreamworks Trolls journal which I have been far more prolific about being a crumudgeony misanthrope in.

I had just finished 500 purchase orders for toilets Friday when I reached for Trolls journal to document my hacking HVAC fire cough in. Suddenly, The Man entered the room and said we could all help clean the shit out her new office if we felt like it. Betty's eyes flashed dangerously and I could feel my lip begin to curl. Even cheerful Liz's aura blackened and filled the room with bad vibes. The Man either didn't notice or didn't care because she went on instructing us as to what we could do with the rolls of plans and giant binders stacked in her office.

I think Betty began furiously typing to the Union the moment the door slammed and Liz got on the phone with OSHA. I grabbed Trolls journal and began penning my outrage. Janet fucking ***** is a BITCH, I wrote feverishly, the pink Troll hair on the tip of my Troll pen flailing wildly in the air. The door opened again as I was describing the orifice The Man could put her binders in.

..."Forgot to wish you guys a good weekend!"

I pulled the zebra-print bandana I was trying to tame my mullet with from off my head and wrapped it over my eyes. "Betty, shoot me in the head" I told my coworker. She laughed so hard Liz and I joined in and drained the last of the oxygen out of the room. I asked them if they had seen the Spaceballs scene where royalty cracked opened canned air and sniffed it. That's what Janet's doing in her office right now, I explained.

We laughed some more until we begrudgingly left the room to haul plans and binders down into Ground Zero where Jesus Guy was sitting. I told him he was going to grow a third eye like that fish on the Simpson's sitting down here, and he told me that I was going to Hell like usual, and then we parted ways.

Back at it again tomorrow.

Jan. 19th, 2017

Desperate, but not Serious.

Now it's late January and I've only yesterday taken down my pink Christmas decorations. Don't worry, they weren't on the outside.

I'm excited because it's been 7 months since I Fight Club'ed my hair off and I can *almost* get it in a little tiny baby Beethovenesque ponytail. I got the bright idea to comb bangs down over the top of my forehead rather than straight up like Brian Setzer and I think I want to kill myself a little less as a result.

Here I am, in a cube in Cubeville, Jesus Guy lurking:


Over the, as I call it, Maynard James Keenan holiday weekend, an HVAC unit in the building at work caught fire and burned some shit down (No, it wasn't me). It stinks so bad and it's so cold, they're going to move the entire Procurement unit into a conference room upstairs. We share one phone and 2 computers or some shit. Outraged by the concept, we all called Union reps and complained that we should be relocated to the Grand Sheraton downtown, but no one in authoritay is having that. So I guess I report to Room 1173 or some shit on Monday.

Nov. 27th, 2016

Tidings and Joy.

Hey. It's not December yet, but I've hung up my pink hotline bling Xmas decorations errwhere. I even put up pink Xmas lights on my desktop courtesy the year 1995 and my mother. Speaking of pink, I'm motivated to lose weight by tomorrow in order to fit into the Victoria's Secret Pink flannelish shirt I picked up at a thrift store last night. I just put it on and it's squeezing the life out of my armfat and I can't move. I did manage to hold the camera up to my face and snap a pic so you could see the wig my fiance's mom gave me from the 70's. I call it the Lana Del Rey - the higher the wig, the closer to God:


I may have mentioned this last year, but white people are ruining my holidays. Thanksgiving morning, they barricaded me in my house so they could run "to feed the hungry" down every street in the vicinity amongs the homeless people casually pushing their shopping carts and dragging their starving dogs. This morning, there is a family doing their annual winter photo sesh in my front lawn. They pick up the leaves and throw them in the air and leap about. They were barely in the car leaving when my angry neighbor came out with his leafblower blowing. I had opened my blinds for some sun after all the recent rain, and promptly closed them. Fuck all that.

I made Roman Apple Cake (although not certain where the Roman part comes in) for the fam on Thanksgiving, and they actually ate it, so I guess it was edible. My Chief had given me the receipe and directions in a strange episode of her stopping outside my cubicle and talking up a storm. She asked me to text her to remind her to bring the recipe that night. I thought that kind of uncomfy, but did it anyway. I started to type, "PS. can you please promote me? I can barely afford the apples this calls for" but hit backspace instead. Sigh.

I've been watching a yule log on Comcast for like 72 hours. Sometimes they just slowly close-up on the flames and I imagine I'm in hell. Not that that takes much imagination.

I'm going to go do some jumping jacks or something so I can wear that shirt tomorrow, because I don't want to do laundry. Maybe just the top half of the jumping jacks, though, I can still fit in my pants.

Nov. 1st, 2016

Viki from Contracts

Viki from Contracts came over while I was talking to the ladies in my unit and stood waiting impatiently for me to stop and go back to my cubicle so she could begin shreiking hysterically about how she'd been proposed to over the weekend.

"LOOK AT THIS RING! WOULD YOU DIE!?" she screamed, thundering up and down in the air with them, "I thought he'd hurt himself in the marathon, but he WAS ON ONE KNEE TO PROPOSE!"

Would you die? I thought as I pantomimed shooting myself to Jesus Guy. He frowned.

"Be happy for her," I think he whispered.

Gay Manager appeared out of fucking nowhere and joined them squeeling and leaping around in Ring Around the Rosies. I pulled my trash can out from under my desk in case I puked and remembered I'd disposed of inedible runny Halloween potluck chili in it earlier. God damn it, now I was really going to barf.

The only good to come of this was Viki getting her head caught in the low-hanging decorative spiderweb Jewish Guy had hung everywhere. He had originally attached it to the ceiling, but was reprimanded by a passing engineer about sprinklers and fire code.

I had often wondered in my life what was more asinine than participating in a marathon. Now I know that it's proposing to Viki from Contracts afterwards. At least this had not occured on the street in front of my house where most asinine marathons seem to take place. I suppose it could have. I was too busy inside having a mental situation to be exposed, if it was.

Oct. 30th, 2016

I'm Feeling Much Better Now

I took my meds Friday night, I think. Have been in bed all weekend Rentoning from Trainspotting. Unable to discern whether it is some facet of withdrawel, or if I am so obessive compulsive I can't function. I remember being med-free in my twenties, but I guess I was drunk then. I was neither drunk nor on meds as a teenager, but that was the last time I remember feeling quite this miserable as well.

I would wake up in the dark and cold from a sweet unconscious. Still my favorite thing to be...and there I was again. In the bedroom that was disgusting because I was a hoarder. Awake again and having to dig around for some semblance of an outfit so that I could get to that freezing empty locker room at the high school and sit on a bench for half an hour before first period - Phsy Ed - started, and then I'd take that outfit back off, exchanging it for a scratchy sweatshirt and shorts with my last name written on them.

I remember noting that not even the happy kids looked happy on those mornings. We'd stand out on the blacktop while the coach took roll, pretending to stretch while grimacing. Our breath coiling up in the cold and lingering like souls outside our bodies. We'd then run a mile in under 5 minutes, something I marvel at my ability to do now, and move on to something immeasurabley horrific, such as hurling dodge bolls at the heads of the vulnerable (me) for an hour.

Some mornings I think about that when I sit down in my cubicle and spin my chair around to the computer at my dull job. I'm glad that part is over. I'm glad I'll never have to go through that again. And I tell myself I'm never coming back here to put myself through it. Not even the to the most carefree life, the most beautiful body, the most sound mind. Because I'd still be subject to the gravity, the disease and discord, the death and decay that we all are on this rock. And maybe I still don't get the point this time around, but I'm good. That's enough. I will finish this particular dumbass life as best I'm able.

In closing, please don't tell your crazy friends that they should get off thier meds because you think they're fat and unmotivated, nor that things could be worse. I know things could be worse, I've had urinary tract infections and kidney stones. I haven't been blown up in Syria or homeless (yet), but I am a batshit crazy. I've got lots of challenges and so does everyone else, so lay off.

And sorry to the guy I shoved in Starbucks. I'm supposed to "act in love" and I suck at that, sometimes. I am still trying although it probably doesn't look like it when I'm tailgating you.

Oct. 15th, 2016

American Horror Story

It's October, sorry. I'm trying to get off my meds (again) so that I'm not a tranquilized cow out to pasteur for the rest of my life. First there is the dizzy, shivery, nauseous part that I managed to get through. Then there's the rage phase I'm winding down on. Next is nervous breakdown, which I've never managed to successfully get through. There's a first time for e'rything.

The rage is bad. I feel like I'm on steroids. Starbucks forgot to make my pumpkin spice latte the other day and when I questioned them about it's whereabouts half an hour later, she said the cashiere had never given it to her to make. So I waited about 10 more minutes and asked her again.

"We're busy," she said. I stormed the counter and threw my huge purse on it, knocking over their tip jar. I demanded my money back and then couldn't find the card I'd put it on in the first place . "Fuck it" I snarled and left, shoving some rando guy on my way out like i was Lauren Hutton in Once Bitten (if you haven't seen that, you have no business reading my journal anyway but fine, watch this: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CBwyjWbss1o).

Last night, I about dived over the table @ the Mexican restaurant and beat the shit out of my sister with a nearby Mariachi guy's trumpet for telling me I might as well "go back to drinking" since I exhibited other, equally devastating addictive behavior towards food and relationships.

Yes, because giving myself Cirrhosis and slaughtering people with my car is something I really need to be doing right now on top of whatever the fuck else is wrong with me. She's always talking about "triggers" and has the nerve to say that to me over her Dos Equis.

In other insensitive, annoying news, my therapist refered to me as "deadweight" the last time I saw her. I was complaining about my inability to actualize my dreams and she snorted. I put down the pen I was fiddling with and looked up at her.

"Forget your dreams," she said. I sat wondering if anyone had ever told me to forget my dreams before, least of all someone counseling me. "You're just deadweight right now."

I thought perhaps I had intrinsic value as a human being, Therapist.

“You don't need anybody to tell you who you are or what you are. You are what you are!” - John Lennon.

Aug. 14th, 2016


808s and Heartbreak

I have been in bed all weekend. I got up to take a walk to the park this morning, and I dyed my "hair" this evening, but other than that, bed. I'm in it right now because I couldn't remember my LJ password from my desktop and it tries to make me assemble a picture of a turtle to retreive it, which I am apparently incapable of doing.

I don't like my life. I am not happy. The thing is, I've never liked my life and I've never been happy. So what do I work from? The last time I remember being truly happy, I was driving to see my new boyfriend. We'de been talking all night and I was going to see him for the first time. When I finally got there, he had a sheepish look on his face which he later described to me as his "falling in love with Colleen" face. He began kissing me and I was blurting "I love you" before I knew it.

Now he hugs me with one arm when we part and doesn't touch me in the meantime. We haven't talked all weekend, and the last thing I uttered to him was something mean and nasty. I made him ask me to marry him and now he has no intention of ever doing it.

The owner of the "dodgy motel" (Australian visitor's words) we stayed in last week in Santa Monica asked him why he hadn't married such a gorgeous girl as me yet. Wasn't he afraid I'd be stolen out from under him? He shrugged and said he didn't live in fear of anything. I laughed nervously and then went back in the dodgy motel feeling like a fucking idiot.

While borrowing money, quite pathetically, from my ex at the end of last month, I mentioned to him that at least he and I hadn't fought as much as he did with his current girlfriend. "Yeah, because no one cared enough," he (too) shrugged. "We were just apathetic." I sat stung by his words accross from him at the Starbucks table with my white mocha in hand. Really? I didn't respond, just laughed nervously and felt like a fucking idiot.

I wish I couldn't hear myself sing along so terribly to this Kanye song over the headphones. I mean, Kanye can't sing either but at least he has that autotune technology.

Aug. 13th, 2016


Somehow I'm Not Impressed

My assignment from my therapist was to write something flattering about myself instead of self-deprecating. Giving it a go, but I've taken off my hair and rolled up in my depression blanket and am staring vacantly into my vanity mirror whilst listening to morbid-ass Interpol songs, so it's going to be kind of hard.

It's my bdizzle on the third of September. I'm going to be 35. There's a whole slew of self-deprecating things I could write about THAT, but I'll refrain.

Have recently returned from Southern California to meet up with a girl who was banging a guy who banged me 10 years ago or so, or something like that. Not knowing the area, I googled occult shops she was interested in seeing and ended up dragging her to a new age dildo shop in Little Armenia. We hit up Sunset and Melrose and Malibu, but I wasn't feeling any of it. I feel like I live in a smaller, less poluted, more charming version of LA here in Nor Cal, and am not sure what the draw there is. Walls of traffic? Ugly buildings? Miles of strip malls? Meh.

Wearing a wig on the beach sucks ass. At one point, I took it off and dyked it up for a few minutes, but I won't show you those pics:


I've noticed my fangs have made a full on comeback since I abandoned the shitty retainer that made me spit all over the place. Oh well. Not being self-deprecating, I'm a vampire. I was meant to have fangs.

Jul. 30th, 2016

she wants revenge

Motorway to Roswell

I feel like I am legit losing my shit more and more with each passing day. The thing is though, having already shaved my head bald, there's not much else to do in the way of losing my shit aside from ripping off my wig and running down my street screaming or @ing Drake on Twitter and telling him to murder my vagina (if I'm going with a more indoor route).

In the name of trying to get, but never being promoted, I let them send me on a 'roof walk' with a bunch of constructiony dudes at a prison in Stockton. As I climbed the ladder up the roof of a prison, my wig wipping around my face threatening to blow into the sky, I wondered how I'd gotten to this point in my life.

"You're doing great, Coll!" some guy yelled from the ground. I turned to look down at him through tangles of faux hair and immediately wished I had not. Oh God, I'm going to die, I told myself as I clutched the rungs. I turned back around and pressed my face into the building, leaving a smear of makeup.

I didn't die, I made it onto the roof and back down the roof and eventually all the way back to Sacramento into my cubicle where I'm WAY underpaid. I sat back in my chair grumbling and opened my email to find I'd congruently been assigned several clock and binocular orders to mark someone in the Department retiring and pummeling toward their own death.

"God damn it," I muttered and immediately felt Jesus Guy's eyes on my back.

I would have gone to Taco Bell at that point and gotten cheesy fiesta potatoes to escape into, but it was motherfucking 108 degrees outside and the air conditioner had crapped out in my car. I can't possibly describe to you the firey pits of hell-esque conditions of driving home on the highway alongside big rigs and oil tankers with my wig and my makeup and padded bra suffocating every part of my body. It feels like my tiny Toyota will ignite in flames right there, and I will combust having not even been the receipient of a clock or binoculars.

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