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In This World

Halloween weekend. In bed with my cat Yoda. Avoided going to Kohl's for decent blouses to wear next week even, thinking it possible I'll encounter young, attractive scantily clad mice and unicorns in the Arden area searching out ears and horns.

Had to turn the AC on this evening. Youtubing Babu's Relaxing TV with fireplaces and falling rain by candlelit windows to try and make up for the lack of Autumn here.

Laying in bed gazing out the window until my eyes crossed and blurred onto the powerlines and Comcast cable cords in the cloudless blue sky. A fat little bird settled on the wires and looked down at me and Yoda. Yoda chirped and wiggled his butt, coldly calculating the bird's demise. "That's our friend Matt," I said to him as he leapt onto the window sil and lunged at the glass. "You can't eat Matt."

I reached over for my phone and held it an inch fro my nose, closing one eye so I could see close up. I typed in his name and saw that we were still friends on FB. "Remembering Matt" a banner popped up. I scrolled down through the posts wishing him happy birthday each December since he had died.

I looked back up at the bird. He was still there, shifting on his tiny feet and looking down onto us placidly. "Do you remember me?" I asked him, letting my phone flop back down into the pink blanket. He stared. "I remember you," I told him.

My attention flickered to the mirror in the vanity across from me. I thanked the Universe my bangs had finally grown back long enough for me to cover my forehead that I'd grown so sick of looking at the last two months. Yoda jumped down from the window and stepped on my chest, an activity he could not understand my dislike for. My boyfriend let him do it, why shouldn't I? I shouted that he was hurting my boobs and my sternum I was sure that my former accupuncturist had cracked a few months ago (still considering suing her).

The first visit to her had been innocuous enough. I'd laid on my side wishing I hadn't worn so much makeup that was smearing all over the pillow jammed beneath my face as she stuck dozens of pins in my buttflub. I couldn't feel anything (but who could with all that buttflub?). She left and came back long after the needles had stopped shivering and a piercing midi of David Bowie's 'China Girl,' (presumably signaling that it was time to remove the needles from my buttflub) played over and over.

I closed my eyes and sighed heavily, wondering what would happen if the building were to catch on fire. Would she come back for me or would I have to tear myself from the apparatus and run from the room into the streets likee Pinhead from Hellraiser? Fortunately a fire did break out, and eventually she came back and shut the Godforsaken midi machine off.

It was on the next visit that she put her mits all over my "pressure points." This  included a death grip made famous by Vulcans from Stark Trek on my neck, and the afformentioned cracking of my sternum. "Ow!" I had yelled, imparting upon her a look I usually save for inept middle management in my government job when they instruct me to do something beneath me. "Ow ow!" she parroted back to me in her heavy Chinese accent as she continued inflicting what was surely a WWE move on me. "That hurts!" I had exclaimed, incredulous that she was still doing it. If given the opportunity to get in a DeLorean at 88 miles per hour and revisit this episode in my life, I am sure I would sit up and backhand her through the wall and into the next room where someone else had needles stuck in their buttflub.

Instead I had cursed a bluestreak and continued to glare at her as if she was Karen, the Staff Services Manager II  that was was instructing me to clean the refridgerator in the Contracts breakroom. The "doctor" concluded that my problem lay there in my chest, and that I was to go home with really, really gross herbal tea that would restore me to perfect health. The legal action I plan to take against her at some point will center around my current state of crap health and now, broken sternum that hurts when my cat walks on it.

Yoda swung his butt around into my face and laid down on my chest. The pressure lifted and I exhaled, relieved the pain had subsided. I laid my chin onto his white fur and looked back up to the bird. But he was gone.

"I remember you," I repeated, and slipped into sleep.

Prison Bound

I'm in Tulare. Tomorrow at the absolute asscrack of dawn, I have to drive to prison in Nowherseville, Central Valley, California, to oversee my purchase of a housing unit roof. I hope they got a lift for me. Last time the construction dudes just threw a shadey-ass looking Home Depot ladder on the side of the building expecting me to first climb it and then hurl myself 20 feet down over some fucking razorwire.

Bitch, PLEASE. I guess I behave a little like Princess Vespa from Space Balls with her giant hairdryer in the desert, but I just can't even. My title is "Analyst." What other Analyst has to perform Double Dare-esque stunts of the deadly variety in prisons all up and down the state? They might as well just dump a bucket of slime on me at the end of the morning. I'll just prepare myself for it

I have been listening to a lot of Trever Something lately, and GOD DAMN, DO I LOVE THIS HUMAN.

I want to be his betrothed and become 'Colleen Something.' I'd live in his native Miami, nary a swamp alligator in sight of course, soaking in the synthesizers and his beautiful voice droning throughout our mansion and drifting outside to the pool where I lay in my pastel pink bikini, sipping virgin pina coladas under the orange-streaked sky.  In this scenario, my ass does not look like the moon and my mullet has grown out to a shimmery, shiny mane of lux black locks that cascade down my bronzed brown back.


Pray I don't fall off a prison roof tomorrown into a pit of inmates. Or actually, I don't care. As long as it isn't a slow, painful death. I don't want to be crashing through barbed wire, smashing into a concrete yard below and then be ripped to itty bits by the general pop while I'm still conscious.

The September Issue

It's September. I'm 37 and my kitten is now a man. He had his balls surgeried on and now, much like me, wants only to eat (Fancy Feast, although I don't partake in that particularly) and sleep.

So I'm off work this week and we've done a lot of lounging around on the couch and putting on Too Faced makeup together (not on him). I ordered that big-ass glittery pink anniversary pallet for muh damn self. Not all that impressed, but maybe it's my complete and utter lack of ability to put it on correctly. I mean, I am okay at drawing a bat wing on my eye in octopus ink black liner, but not much else. Maybe it's my actual face that's the problem.

Lately a plastic surgeon has been liking all my selfies on IG and it makes me wonder if he thinks it's going to motivate me to get a nose or boob-job or something. 🖕🏻 you, plastic surgeon. Maybe I like my huge, crooked nose and lazy right eye. Perhaps I *want* small, crepey tits and a tremendous potato-pear stomach.Have been unsucessful in general in terms of stopping eating, BUT I have not had a soda or Rockstar in a month. I thought that would result in dropping 60 lbs. immediately. I guess not.

God I was doing so well with my hair until May, and now I am mostly bald save for a ring of mullet I pull up in a high ponytail. It's really depressing. An inch of fuzz has grown in and I'm considering keeping it all shaved that short so that I can't even grab it to pull it out. The problem with that is that I do not have cheekbones and very much resemble a slightly femaler Adam Sandler with my hair short.

At least October is near. Something to live for. 🎃

6 Months Later.

Summer now. My friend Sarah convinced me to take a stray kitten dwelling in her sideyard to my home, and I did. Now he thinks I am his mother. I guess this was accomplished by licking my nose while I sleep, and via rubbing his butt in my face while I try to type, or maybe from taking flying leaps and latching onto my neck to chew on my Our Lady medal when I get up.

So now I'm responsible for him, but not much else besides rent and an astronomical car payment for a Toyota Corolla. Jesus, I could have bought a Tesla outright for what I'm paying in predatory interest, but I guess that is my fault for not attending to my Hot Topic and JC Penny cards promptly enough a few years ago.

I am still fat. Also my hair is white, and I pull it out obsessively, because I have trichotillomania. That's attractive. What's more, I've noticed my eyes being all gross and crepey when I'm trying to apply my signature liquid eyeliner in the mornings, and on the offdays I'm not wearing an ugly paisley-print blouse from Lane Bryant and actually have my boobcrack exposed, it is hella crepey and gross too.

I turn 37 in September. Not happy about it. I imagine getting fatter, crepeyer, balder and grayer as I cruise Walmart in a Rascal.

When I see a little fat bird land on the Comcast wires outside my window and stare at me, I will think of Matt Winkfein (Ruxpin) who once posted on here about being drawn to little fat birds, and I will say, "Hi Matt." Then I will (however morbidly) be slightly jealous that he is not getting fat or crepey in Heaven.

But I think of all the people he left behind here prematurely, and all the turmoil and guilt they must feel, and I remind myself that "what's your hurry? every man will have his day to die" as Maynard pointed out with APC (possibly Shakespeare pointed this out previously, I admit I don't know) and that I am of service in some small way, even if it is from procuring steel toilets and tampon machines for the State of California for 10 hours a day.

I try to be kind and somewhat entertaining in my emails to vendors and field and colleagues (can you call fellow State workers "colleagues"?) and creative with the clipart in my signature blocks throughout the seasons. I feel this counts toward contributing to the world in some small way. If I was to drop dead suddenly one night from sleep apnea, I know the kitten and everyone I have procured binoculars for would be none the worse to have know me. It is not that I have not been a megabitch a few times during my time here, but I have tried to make amends. At least to a parking lot attendant and a Starbucks baristo I lost my shit(s) on this past year.

I am excited that when this ball-blisteringly hot and insufferable summer ends, it will be Fall and Halloween time. I look forward to curling up with my kitty beside a virtual fireplace on Youtube with a pumpkin-spice latte in hand (from a baristo I was not an asshole to).

Try This for Sighs

Me again. Friday evening. Last night Teri and I went to Chili's to use my 10-dollar gift card imparted to me by an anonymous source at work for Christmas, where I consumned at least a dozen different appetizers featuring a cheese-theme on one plate. And no, not fancy cheese that could somehow be construed as socially or otherwise acceptable, but things such as fried cheese and nacho cheese and the like. Then, rather suddenly, I caught a glimpse of myself in a reflective surface of sorts and instantly became irreversibly disheartened. I could not astertain where my "chin" and boobs began or ended, and the mullet I had tied back in the sort of ponytail that looked more attractive on Paul Revere and later Adam Ant was the icing on the unsightly cake.

So that was my first fairly low moment of 2018, really. I could not make myself utter much to her the remainder of our dinner, and eventually shuffled back out into the night and toward my car to drive back here once more.Today, my day off, I went to lunch (yet more eating) with Josh and Sarah because of plans cemented into existance prior to seeing myself in a reflective surface that I felt an obligatiion to fulfil. It was not terribe, despite Josh's perfunctory replies to my conversational questions about life over his spaghetti. Not more than half an hour after we'de been there, they insisted they hurry back to the office on account of the new, micro-management they were under. Fortunately for me, nary a rat's ass is given as to how much time I spend away from my desk at my own place of business. Granted, most days I spend lunch hunched over my (very dirty) keyboard, salami and cheese (yes, yet more cheese) in hand, as I field phone calls and emails from fellow civil servants.

I have just made espresso with Slimfast shake powder (my Swiss Miss cocoa has gone bad) and am starting to think that may have been in poor judgement. What is there to be awake for at this moment? I have already acted quite desperados over the internet this evening, posting semi-erotic pictures of my new harness bra (which I nearly hung myself tyring to squeeze into the straps of, by the way) on Instagram and informing Facebook that I had finished cleaning my bathroom with Scrubbing Bubbles and that any friend or relative who wished to could come over to visit/pee. Not a single comment was made on that invitation!

I suppose I will wait two hours for the caffeine to dissolve in my system before I take downers and sleep. Or I could take downers now and maybe actually die of a heart attack. That does not sound especiallty appealing, however. But I'm undecided.

It's a Wonderful No Life

Since this site is owned by the Kremlin, I feel that the punishment for anyone posting tits or ass adverts in the comments section of my journal shall be horrific death via medeival torture device such as the iron maiden or the catherine wheel post-haste. I am really over it and shall not tolerate this nonesense any further. If this is Russian collusion, then so be it.

Doing my annual viewing of It's a Wonderful Life via Chromecast from my position on my bed. Trying to decide if the city of Sacramento would be in the state of duress displayed in the movie if I had not been born. Thinking at worst, Krispy Kreme might have gone out of business a little sooner than it did without my financial contributions (in donuts, not stock).

God, George is really being a big dick in this movie. Grabbing everyone and shaking them and screaming in their faces and emotionally abusing his wife and children. My mom points out that the whole movie is the education of George, but I'm guessing dude is still a dick even after the angel encounter. Perhaps a sequel would be titled as such (Still a Dick).

If *I* weren't around, I don't see anybody dying or not coming into this world or any sort of Bif-finds-the-Almanac-in-the-trash sort of scenario, really. But I could be wrong. Personally, I remember every nice thing every friend, family and rando ever said about or did for me growing up. Maybe someone remembers me being kind or helpful or somehow entertaining at some point.

Maybe I'll start now. Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night.


I went to the Christmas party anyway with a sugar shimmer lipbalm kit in a pink sparkly bag that ended up in the hand's of the office personality-less dyke She looked at it with flat affect before shrugging and sitting back down in her pantsuit. I chose Jewish Guy's gigantic Nerf guns, which I later tried to give to my boyfriend for his son, but he has an anti-gun policy, apparently. What about the 2nd amendment and shit? What if King George bursts into his house? He will need to be armed with a Nerf gun that shoots styrofoam darts up to 4 miles away with hurricane force. Or so the box says.

I keep getting notifcations of comments in this thing, and when I go to see who is expressing their interest in my memoirs, I see links to galleries of "beefy tits." What? Who has "beefy tits" and who enjoys looking at them? Not me. Not my vast audience. So please take your beefy tit advertisements elsewhere.

I guess people are still getting sexually harrassed by Kevin Spacey and Melanie Martinez. Some girl that is now a guy but has beefy tits, I guess, said Melanie touched these beefy tits while they were sleeping together and he/she just didn't know what to do with him/herself about the matter! He/She's been running it by the general public and the consensus is that Melanie Martinez is his rapist who should be stripped of her two-toned pastel wigs and Hot Topic merchandise as a result.

Although widely considered a libtard, I must split with my brethren on this issue. If Melanie Martinez rubs your titties or pokes you in the vajeej with her mint-colored dildo while you're in bed with her, you are not a victim. You are lucky.

If I took to Twitter with an exposé every time something was put in my unassuming ass, I would not even have time to procure or enjoy virtual yule logs.

Cold Rock a Party

It's Sunday afternoon and I should be digging through the mountain of crap and laundry beside my pink bed in my pink room, but I am sitting on the couch in a pink wig listening to RICHIIIEEE (Valens) and touching up my pink makeup every so often when I've disturbed it via shoving Ritz crackers in my face.

I hate starting the week off with mountains of crap beside my bed. I mean I hate starting off the week anyway. So maybe it doesn't even matter if I wake up and slide on my lazy pants and faceplant into my vanity before I head to the office. I still have to go to the office in the dark and procure for 10 hours until it's dark again. Plus it's the building Christmas party which goes nothing like say, the Mad Men Christmas party with sexy ladies and men doing the conga w/ martinis in hand in their sexy profesh mid-century clothes.

No it's not like that here. Tomato Bully threatens your life into bringing vegetables and then makes passive aggressive comments about chopping the vegetables on state time mere moments before the event, which she has prepared for by stuffing fake flowers from the unisex bathroom into a used gift bag as her white elephant gift. "I hope you will chose to have fun at this year's party" was the mafia Santa Clause-esque email that went around last week. And if we don't? Last year I stuffed some tritip and bread rolls into my white puffer jacket and dashed to the parking lot to get to my Toyota to eat them in solitude. Years of bringing glittery Bath and Body Works lotions and chocolate-stuffed dollar Starbucks mugs to the party only to receive the bathroom flowers or alternatively a framed photo of Tomato Bully has left me bitter and unwilling to attend. If I end up swimming with the fishies, well, I've lived a long life. It feels like.


I spent maybe 90 minutes picking out and personalizing a e-card for my dad for Thanksgiving because I'm not there this year only for it to ask me to enter payment info before I could send it. ARE YOU EVEN SERIOUS RIGHT NOW, I googled *FREE* e-cards you sons of bitches.

I'm off work this week, at least. My last morning there I turned on my new bluetooth speaker and, no joke, blared Korn's 'Faget' into the 7:00 AM government office atmosphere. I panicked and was unable to do anything but fumble around with the volume up button and made it ten-times louder.

"That's my jam," Jewish Guy said from the other aisle. Finally I managed to just turn the speaker off and it screamed "BLOODOODOOP" as a final fuck you to me before shutting down. I reached for my Pipeline Pink Monster and threw my head back to swallow 2 Vivarin caffeine pills so that I could experience the horror of the situation in full. My anti-depressant or possible the anti-psychotic make me lethargic as fuck, so I take caffeine to compensate. At night, I writhe around in unspeakable pain from the heartburn the caffeine has caused me until I'm knocked out by my Ambien, which occurrs less and less frequently as I've developed a tolerance for it over the years.

"Why do you take uppers and downers together like you're Elvis?" my mom had asked me once.

I ruminated over this question as I sat on the toilet one evening. I already looked like fat Elvis with my dyed black muttonchops. Would I die like him? On the toilet eating a ham sandwich? Or was that Cass Eliott? I frowned. I didn't want to die on my toilet at any rate. And certainly not with a pork product in hand.

Black Heart Retrospective

Happy Day of the Dead. I arranged all my skeleton lady figurines and colored candles in an altar on my dresser and offered pumpkin-shaped Reeses peanut butter cups up to any well-behaved souls hanging around who wish to visit. Lit some incense that smells like "Old Catholic Guy" (says boyfriend) and am listening to an old Suicide Girl's goth covers compilation album I was gifted by management when working at Tower Records so many years ago.

I took yesterday off to recover from seeing Odesza Halloween night. I was definetely the oldest person there. Not the only one in a unicorn horn by a longshot, but definetly the oldest. I love Odesza and flashy lights, but I could do without the drunken, high, nearly nude unicorns windmilling about the night.

Hair been growing back for 5 solid months now. It looks dreadful. But it's nice to not be bald. Still super fat though. Field Guys (guys in the field) came up for training and spooked me in my cube. I was busy stuffing Halloween candy in my mouth hole and smearing my supposedly non-smearable matte lipstain all over my chin(s).

"OH MY GOD" I exclaimed, hurling the mini Mounds bar behind my monitor into the partition wall.

"What was that?" Jesus Guy asked, which, Thank his Lord, took the attention away from me and onto him. They started chatting with him while I hastily pulled my way too snug jeans over my buttcrack and desperately pawed at the pink lipstick on my face. Several sets of eyes lingered on me like I was a manatee in an aquarium pressed up against the safety glass.

Thanks for the warno.