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Jul. 9th, 2016

aunia kahn

Our Summer Turned to Fall

My wedding fell through due to my other half not wanting a wedding. No photographer, he said. No dinner, no this, no that, no anything. No friends, no family. So no wedding. He says I just wanted a wedding irregardless of who I'm marrying, which is not true. I say he's shitting all over my dreams, but whatever, right? I can't tell him any of this because I'm "complaining," so I guess I'll just continue to complain on the Internet. Don't give me shit for complaining on the Internet, then.

I had told the girls at work and even mailed out flower n skulls Save-the-Date to *my* friends and family (wasn't allowed to do his) and, as written about, tried on a few floofy ballgowns in front of my sisters and sent my bridesmaids a few domineering emails about when and where to be. So that's my wedding experience for this life.

I've been frequenting a Spiritual Institute, which happens to be located a couple streets away, since this all went down. I'm taking some class on loving yourself and your body or some shit, which has always been difficult for me. Especially lately. I have trichotillomania, a self-mutilating, obsessive-compulsive pull-out-your hair sort of dealy that I've been inflicted with since I was 11. I do it off and on, but when stressed, go apeshit with it. Recently, I pulled out the whole crown of my head and couldn't stop doing it when I got home from work in the evenings. No parting or combing over could help, so I went to the bathroom one evening and shaved it all off with my shitty pink Venus razor.

It's more difficult than you might think and hurt like a bitch given all the damage I'd already done to my scalp. "What have I done?" I channeled 2007 Britney as I stared at my reflection in the mirror. Definitely not getting married now.

But it's been a couple weeks and my head is almost fuzzy now. I haven't pulled any of it out and I don't plan to ever again. Kind of like I don't drink booze any longer. Like that.

Wigs are hot and sucky, and when combined with my Kabuki makeup, result in me looking like more of a dragqueen than I already might have. So I can't wait for it to grow out to a socially acceptable length. Not sure when the shit that will be.

No, I haven't been promoted either and I don't think I ever will be there, as I don't kiss ass and attend annual BBQs. Gee, it's like I'm off my lifepath or something. I am taking a spirtual healing class next month, as I'm always told I'm a healer by every psychic, evar. Maybe people will pay me to perform Reiki voodoo on them someday.

May. 30th, 2016

bajema.com

It's a Nice Day for a Whitetrash Wedding

Dollar Tree was correct, I am not pregnant. Just fat.

Went wedding dress shopping and Sis ran her mouth the whole time about how it was a whitetrash wedding and I needed only a whitetrash prom dress from Ross. Because that's what you want to hear when you're standing in front of your friends in the ballgown they stuffed me in. Lunge off the platform and sit on her, I entertained, smother her skinny ass with tulle? No.

Dad agreed ballgown was too much, so it's back to the dressing room. May just get the assless leather chaps and pink body glitter from the stripper/dragqueen store downtown my other bridesmaid suggested. That's what I found there.

Promotion not happening at work. Not only that, but I seemed to have been unable to do simple math over a year ago, and sent the wrong vendor for intensive review for over a year and will probably be demoted to the mailroom for it.

I discovered this whilst reading my work email on my day off, a practice I should really stop engaging in unless I want to relapse on blue raspberry vodka that is readily available at the local corner store. At least when I'm at work, I only have access to my jar of peanut butter and cans of Diet Sunkist. Office Pervert does keep a bottle of mouthwash that he swigs from in his cube, so I guess that's an option.

I am up at 2:30 AM due to having slept off a puking migraine all day today. I puked up first a jacked up bean and rice burrito from Del Taco, and then the handful of mixed nuts I'd eaten afterwards. I managed to keep down a family-sized box of garlic mashed potatoes I made upon awaking this evening. It stayed down. I am so grateful and feel so wonderful without the skull-pulsing puke pain of the migraine that I don't even want to go back to sleep again.

If I can be arsed, my presence is requested at my highschool friend's birthday soiree tomorrow. "But that's another story..."

May. 8th, 2016

she wants revenge

Springtime for Hitler

I hate Spring. I hate Easter. I hate Mother's Day. I fucking hate it. I wish I could go all bear-status and hibernate until October, skipping the part where I turn 35 in September while I'm at it.

Obviously I don't feel like writing about things that I'm grateful for at the moment. I am bitter and bile-filled and focusing on things like the tooth my idiot asshole orthodontist ripped out for no reason that I still can't afford to replace. Or the fact that I spent all my fun money replacing belts in a car I"m sick of driving but can't afford to give up. I can't afford any of this because I still can't get promoted because it's some sort of popularity contest I can't win.

Yesterday I was pleasant, at least. I spent it with my mostly sister-in-law persuing Sephora for highlighter and nude lipstick before ending up in Torrid shopping for thunderwear. They had plenty of them with butt-cutouts and butt-corsets and all sorts of stuff you probably shouldn't wear when you're having to shop for thunderwear, but I got them anyway in the hopes that the goth aerobics and rice cakes I've been putting myself through the last few days will pay off.

Speaking of terrible mothers and disaffected children, I'm late for my monthly, but the Dollar Tree says I'm not pregnant. I will not pay 30 dollars for Clear Blue Easy to tell me I'm not pregnant either, so I'm going to just assume I'm not pregnant. Will confirm shortly.

Mar. 13th, 2016

aunia kahn

But on Good Days, I am Charming as Fuck

Still not a Super Analyst. Sort of in the thick of it at the moment, and it sucks. I'd rather not talk about as I've had mutliple meltdowns on the subject already, sooo, today I'd like to focus on the things I'm grateful for.

It's been raining balls for weeks, and I'm glad I'm not homeless. I'm in a cute little half-of-a-house decorated to my liking with sugar skulls and flowers and candles up the ass. The roof is new and it doesn't leak and there are no longer opposums in my attic burrowing down into my bedroom.

I have a couple friends that tell me not to kill myself every so often. I have a loving fiance that puts up with me even when I overdose on uppers after being catatonic on downers. I have a dad that just bought me a grandslam and hot chocolate at Denny's.

I have a secure job, even though I sit in proximity to a wailing, cackling Banshee of a woman. I get paid every month and it keeps the oppsomless roof over my head.

I have a reliable little Toyota that doesn't shit out on me even though I treat it like a rolling trash-can.

I have not drank booze in three years next month, and my scars from drunken gravel angeling in the parking lot at then-job Tower Records are nearly invisible now.

I've lost 5 pounds with the help of public shaming on My Fitness Pal from my brother and his fiance. (God and everyone sees when I eat an enormous peanut butter cookie for breakfast).

I have trouble getting arsed to do laundry sometimes, but at least I have a functioning washer now (also courtesey Dad) when I do.

I'm not the prettiest you've ever seen, but I have my moments.

Jan. 10th, 2016

agent provocateur

Black Chow for Everyone

Sometimes I read my work email over the weekend because I have no life whatsoever. That was the case this weekend, and I saw that my boss had assigned me a formal bid with a smiley face. Formal bids are complex and lenghty and require wearing something other than lazypants and probably combing your Jewfro on the day that you host the bid and the public shows up to quote.

Formal Bids are reserved for Super Analysts, of which I am not. I am your typical, lowly Analyst. But I had pulled my boss aside before Xmas (having been reading A Christmas Carol on my break and feeling good about my chances) asked him what I could do for them to consider me for Super Analyst. He had smiled and said he knew I was ready, and would speak to the big bosses about it. Well, at least he's in my corner, I thought, but the big bosses had the ultimate say. The extent of my interaction with them involved waiting for one of them outside the toilet in the lobby. They would nod and say hello as the bathroom door slammed in my face. I probably hadn't combed my hair at the time, either, can't remember.

So this could mean one of 2 things: they are testing me for Super Analyst, OR they are merely dumping more work on me 'cause I'm there and I'll do it, because what other choice do I have. Recently, a man who led police on a high-speed drunken chase through his gated community in a State-issued car was appointed Secretary of the Department I work for. As a fellow ex-drunk (assuming he's an ex, now) this bodes well for me. I've only ever been in a State care once. It was a Prius and I was non-drunkenly taking it to be serviced as a favor to the pregnant girl who was too fat to get in it anymore.

So we'll find out tomorrow, I guess. Or after the six-months it takes to complete a formal bid.

Dec. 30th, 2015

Mrs. Potato Head and Her Bucket of Parts

Tried to take a celebratory selfie upon getting off work this evening (and being off work for four days). I carefully applied my winged liner and black lipgloss and positioned myself in the glow of my pink Christmas tree, only to end up with half a dozen photos of Mrs. (possibly transgendered Mr.) Potato Head.

"Fuck!" I exclaimed, tossing the camera into a pile of pink depression blankets I would be utilizing shortly. My phone dinged to tell me that a Suicide Girl was on Periscope. I reached for the phone and pressed the broadcast button, staring stupidly into the grainy front-facing camera while randos typed hearts at me. I turned it off and sat deep in the pepto bismal-pink pile of depression blankets.

What, I asked myself, is to blame for the vacuous, shit-sucking black hole of a soul I have that does not allow me to practice any love of self? So no one ever hugged me and a few people destroyed my self-esteem as a youth; Am I to suffer endlessly, forever seeking validation through multicolored, animated hearts?

I turned on the TV. Marie Osmond began telling me she'd lost 50 pounds via powdered, astronaut meals. I imagined losing 50 pounds. I'd shed a couple stomaches and chins, and maybe even stop knocking porcelain salt and pepper shakers all asunder in the antique store with my hips. I could wear sexy, strappy underwear once more without it getting lost in my buttcrack. Would I be any less of a sad sack, though? I have been a very thin, very sad sack in this life.

I wrapped myself in a pink blanket and sunk deeper into the couch. If I had children, would I be happier? Or would I go off the deep end? I had lost my shit after two weeks of cat ownership. Besides it seems unfair to me to inflict life and dysfunction upon some innocent chromosomes.

My dad told me I should be very proud of myself for having chosen to not drink into an early, liver-failurey grave three years ago. He says I should see that as a shining example of what I am capable of. Well okay, then I should be capable of not shoving buttery garlic Jacks in my face on my lunch hour, right? And not pulling out all my hair, or letting sweatshirts, fuzzy boots, and ten tons of makeup pile up on my bathroom floor until I can't reach the toilet.

I don't know what I capable of actually *doing*, but I can see a few things I should obviously not be doing. I guess I'll start with those.

Dec. 20th, 2015

she wants revenge

Bah Humbug

I'm doing my annual reading of A Christmas Carol, and if it's supposed to give me some sort of awakening to humanity, it's not. I just identify with Scrooge (pre-Xmas morning Scrooge) more and more each year. I was dozing on the couch this afternoon when I became aware of a really loud Unicef commercial telling me over and over and over that just 10 dollars a month would allow me to virtually feed some cold, hungry kid somewhere. I shouted SHUT UP as I groped for the remote to turn it off. I then threw the remote into one of my mannequin heads, knocking the false eyelashes I'd stuck on it clear off.

I put my head back on the pillow and thought of my earlier adventure at the mall with dis-ease. I'd just come from Barnes and Noble and was trying to make my way to Macy's to get that stupid applesauce scented perfume for my ungrateful sister, when some girl waving a clipboard around attempted to stop me. I said, "No thanks," without stopping, which caused her to call, "Alrighty then!" after me as if I was a monster. I thought of turning back around and beating her about the head with my purse, didn't because I was on a tight schedule.

I sit in my cubicle from 6:50 AM til almost 4:30ish every day of my life in utter misery, and if I want to spend all the money I've made there on shimmery eyeshadow palletes from Sephora, I WILL. If you are cold and/or hungry, try sitting in a cubicle from 6:50 AM til 4:30ish everyday. You will stay warm during the day, and then you can spend your money on food, shelter, and may even have some left over for whatever you were waving your stupid clipboard in my face about.

Dec. 9th, 2015

bajema.com

Bettie has Allergies

I think I am bipolar. I'll be having a decent couple hours at work, and the next thing I know, I want to throw one of my plastic McDonald's Happy Meal ponies at Jesus Guy as hard as I can. And the one with the unicorn, so it injures his eye.

Today, this was triggered by Gay Manager sashaying over and waving his limp wrist around dramatically whilst yelling, "Who's wearing perfume? Bettie has allergies! BETTIE. HAS. ALLERGIES!"

So I have on a half a rolly ball of Katy Perry's Killer Queen, BFD. I'm pretty sure he's more upset by the fact that I got it at Walgreens than he is about Bettie's delicate sensibilities. Maybe if I came to work in a tiny Burberry coat like his, dabbed with Chanel #5, he would leave me alone or even utter something to me other than "what are you doing with your life" when I bring him a file to review.

That question took me aback. I stood clutching my purchase order for 3,000 rolls of toilet seat covers wondering how to answer him and why I should have to anyway. What am I doing with my life? He was referencing the fact that I hadn't promoted in years and came to work looking like a (more) disheveled Patti Smith every day. How is that any of his bidness? Was he looking out for me, or just being a bitch? He doesn't know what sort of challenges I face (other than bad hair and fat assery).

Ruder than smelling like Katy Perry, IMO.

Oct. 25th, 2015

bajema.com

Come on, Vogue

Laying around watching Devil Wears Prada this evening. Does anyone else hate the way that ends? Why does she have to wipe off all her makeup and start dressing like a schlub again? Then they hint around that she may get back together with that douchepacker from Entourage? If my job made me over into Anne Hathaway, dressed me up in Chanel, and flew me to Paris to procure, you can bet your sweet ass I wouldn't throw it all away in the end. Gawd, what a bummer.

I'm sure it has some moral l'm not getting. Like the time they read us a stupid story in kindergarten about good things coming in small packages. At the tale's end, two women emerged. One with a big giant sparkly gift-wrapped box, and the other with a paper bag. "Pick a present," the teacher told us. Of course, I scooted over to the lady with the box. I wasn't about to go sit by an ugly woman with a brown lunch sack. "Now you will recieve the contents," the teacher had said in 5-year old speak. Much to my dismay, the box contained wadded up paper and everyone over at the paper bag (which was indeed everyone) got gummi bears. Son of a bitch, I thought to myself as I looked over at all those twits with their candy. That is fucked up.

Ah, the struggle.

Oct. 20th, 2015

bajema.com

Give me strength and self-control. Give me heart and give me soul.

I went home mentally unstable today. I got up and mumbled something to my boss about having a headache and left. Too many pregnant girls in my face.  Too many grandbabies being born. Too many idiots shouting HOW ARRRRE YOOOU in the copy room like they actually fucking care. There comes a point where I can't physically make myself act like I care about any of it. Especially not when I have a Jew-fro and I've smeared my eyeliner crying. That point was about 11:30 AM after I'd finished stuffing stuffed-crust frozen pizza in my face.

I'm glad I left work, because I managed to clean up my kitchen and sit on the porch for a bit in the unoffensive weather. I came back in, opened up all windows and played old Coldplay albums until I felt sane again. Now I guess I'm competent enough to go back to work and get incompetent again.

I'm trying really hard not to buy a new wig, a 500-pack of candles, or any more Halloween decorations with what little money I have remaining. Everyone says I need a hobby. I tried reading my giant Edgar Allen Poe book 'cause tis the season, but I got really pissed off the first paragraph in. I couldn't understand a Goddamn thing he was writing. So I flipped to the poems where I fared better. Who doesn't understand The Raven?

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