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Hello, it's me.

It's October now. The most wonderful time of the year. It is my day off, so I'm lounging contentedly in bed with Squeakers the chonk and Yo (my kitties) laying out tarot cards and trying to interpret them. I got two sick-ass major arcana ladies and then the 'stop fucking yourself swords' I always, always get.

I am looking at doing just that this month via putting some money in savings and seeing if I can let it sit there for awhile, instead of running myself into the red and living off Lil Debbie Downer's peanut buddy bars from Dollar Tree and driving on fumes because I'm clinically retarded or something. "What the fuck is wrong with me?" is not so much my burning question any longer as "What the fuck can I do about whatever the fuck is wrong with me?" has become.

Doc told me about a motion-sensor bracelet that will shock me when I reach to my hair out and ruin my life again (life currently ruined by my striking resemblance to a Monchichi doll, but at least it's grown in enough to ditch the sweaty, tangled wigs). It's $145 more dollars than I have right now, but could be worth it next month when my hair has gotten long enough for me to care to pull out again. It's called the Habit Aware Bracelet and looks like a Fit Bit. I can't wait for the office conversation with Ronda about how many steps I've walked today wherein I reply, "No, Ronda, it's an electrocution device to prevent me from difiguring myself." Yesterday I asked Manager Caitlin if any of the field guys she'd trained on using a state credit card for purchasing steel toilets were cute, and nearby Ronda chimed in with "aren't they a little young for you?"

I crushed the Dixie cup full of chocolate milk I was holding and glowered at Ronda as she sauntered back to her cubicle, fliping her long highlighted hair across her fat little back. Caitlyn offered me a nearby government napkin seemingly made of cardboard to help clean up the Nesquik running down my arm. I thanked her and returned to my own cubicle to plot my revenge.

But I watched a documentary last night on the near-death experience of a Columbian marine biologist who insisted that we are all one. "If you frown into a mirror," she said, "why would you expect it to do anything but frown back at you?"

So I have been pondering this the last few hours and decided to light virtual candles for Ronda's rude ass on www.gratefulness.org in lieu of sticking pins in the ass of the portable voodoo doll I bought years ago.

I think this ties in nicely with the "stop fucking yourself swords" tarot I received from the divine this morning. I intend to honor this missive from the Universe.

PS. Here is a Monchichi doll for reference:

August and Everything After

I'm going to *try* not to dwell on the fact that the last week fuckin blew or that today, I was stood up at a coffee place in midtown by a total pussy of a douchebag. I have never stood anyone up in my life, nor has that ever happened to me. You couldn't just cancel? I bought myself a 'Kerouac' (soda and espresso) and waited patiently by the window against the squeaky wall cushion the entire 15 minutes I was early, and the following 20 minutes after I had texted him that I was there. By the way, this was not my idea, or my suggestion that we meet. I gave the shop back their glass, deleted his number and my profile, and walked back to my car.
I could celebrate the fact that I have not had a headache lately. I don't know why. I guess it's because I've been trying to drink more water and that the once blistering weather has cooled down a bit. I can sit on the bench outside work on my lunches, or in the evenings on my front porch and feel the breeze in my...wig.

Easier said than done, but I think I will not solicit anyone into my life (or be solicited) until my hair grows in and my finances are not so upsidedown. It is lonely in my world, but it's lonelier at the coffee shop waiting for a turd, after having spent what I had for gas money on my own beverage.

I wanted to see James Van Praagh, the medium, at the end of this month. He is in Sac doing an 'Evening of Spirit' with audience members. I wanted to hear that Bobby and Matt can still hear me when I address them in all the fat little birds that linger on the cable wire outside my bedroom window in the mornings. I wanted to, but I don't have the fun money. Maybe they still read my journal here.

If so...I miss you both.

Electronic Waste

Ashamed in advance 
for what I might do
to gain your affection
for you to approve

You're chatting with me
and I'm falling in love
I feel a connection
You're sent from above

But that's not the case
It isn't the truth
You're here to exploit me
I'm here to be used

I see the blue ring
of my webcam light up
I tell you hello
But you say hurry up

Say that you love me
Say that we'll meet
Say that you'll drive here
Or buy a plane seat 

Your wife's in the next room
Your kids are asleep
I feel like a whore
And you're just a creep

I'm electronic waste
Hard drive can't be found
Press escape to restart
But I just spin around

I'm only an android
About to expire
Like tears in the rain
Like flames in a fire

A 404 error
I'm seized by the Feds
I'm discolored and rusted
And laced with cobwebs

But one day you find me
And you dust me off
And you go to kiss me
And feel such a shock

Because I have a heartbeat
And I am not dead
A current runs through me
Despite what I said

Because I am a human
A real live girl
And since you can't see this
You must leave my world

Summer Bummer

Amberly Goodwin spent 1 hour and 30 minutes this morning giggling like a phone sex operator on her work line from 7:00 AM through 8:30 AM with who I *suspect* was Roger.

The problem with this, other than the sheer annoyance of her stupid shreiking laugh, is that Roger is *my* favorite field guy and the thought of him spending 90 minutes yucking it up with AMBERLY GOODWIN's dumb ass is just thoroughly repulsive to me.

Amberly did not even show up to the bid opening that Roger attended because she "forgot" and called in sick that day. It was my SCHEDULED day off or I would have gone to the lobby and let him in and escorted him to the bid opening, at which point he would have noticed that I smell like roses and am a vision in my v-neck floral blouse and Express Editor pant.

If Amberly HAD showed up, Roger would note that she looks not unlike the pile of stegosaurus dung from Jurassic Park.

So what is there to discuss with Amberly about this bid for an hour and a half!? She is not only negligent in her duties but woefully uniformed about prison roofs and the procurement thereof. Also she is not attractive. To me. Or Roger.



Now it's June. Today is pleasant. It's a clear, breezy Saturday, so I have the windows open. I'm watching the kitties stretch out in the sun patch in front of the window as the sheer curtains blow across them. I am grateful to have some time to recharge from work.

This month there is Father's Day, a Full Strawberrry Moon, and then of course, Summer Solstice - the longest, lightest day of the year.

I'm going to try to look at the positive attributes of summer this year instead of just waiting for Autumn. At least I do not have to wear socks or sleeves for a few months.

Sarah wants us to go to Disneyland in October. She has some sort of Costco deal for it, but obviously I would have to put away some money, and I'm not adept at that. I'm not adept at even getting through the month with the money I do have.

It seems to me that most well-rounded people have been to a Disney Land or World at least once, so possibly that is what is wrong with me. I could be healed upon arrival. Maybe all it takes is a guy in a Jack Skellington costume to do the trick.

I have been reading a psychiatrist's book about her experience with hypnosis, and she subscribes to the theory that demons and ghosts get all up in your shit and make you more miserable than you might be normally. She says they account for many mental illnesses and less than stellar behaviors. She doesn't believe in yelling 'The power of Christ compells you!' and flinging holy water at them, but in transmuting their energy into that of God's and sending them back to Him.

I gotta say, I take umbrage at the thought of any person, place or thing encroaching upon my personal space. Basically, every being ever, anywhere, is to stay at least 3 feet away from me whether they are disembodied or not. This applies to the humanoids behind me in line at Target, and also any dead jerks who want to get their ya-yas out via me drinking Fireball whiskey or buying another BH eyeshadow pallet from Ulta.

Party is over, folks. Move along or I call Ghostbusters.

That Sunday, That Summer.

This weekend started out poorly, but improved considerably. I started Thursday evening out eating Oreos and wanting to pull out my hair (literally), and ended up back on the MyFitnessPal app and sore from Yoga class today.

My hair is intact and I already feel less bloated and massive from restricting my food intake the last couple of days.

In part I credit my Mom, who told me to think of these urges as a force outside of me, and my dad for coming over today and helping me to understand that it is human nature to indugle in the interest of numbing. My brother has also tried to help me realize that is a marathon, not a race. I think he gets exasperated with me, though.

Just now, I asked myself what I could do to alleviate boredom besides eat, and two things came to mind: I could write, which I have chosen. Or I could sit and feel it, which is next on my list. Supposedly, if you allow yourself to experience the feelings that you obliterate with food or drugs or alcohol or gambling or spending, you will be able to make it through them safely in that moment, and in the future.

I also feel motivated by the changing moons. Although it rained all weekend (which I enjoyed) there was a full moon in Scorpio last night. Scorpio is my moon sign, I've learned, and probably responsible for all the wild emotion to my more rigid Virgo sun sign. Scorpio is a fluid water sign (Virgo is solid Earth), and this last moon is about putting into practice what you have been contemplating and dreaming of previously.

These are illustrations from an artist and intuitive I love on IG (@moonandcactus):

Confessions of an Addict

Lately I've discovered my hands wandering up into my hair. That's the way it starts. Next thing I know, I'm bald.

I've worked so hard and suffered so mightily through growing it back the last 9 months. The last four years, I've been falling short of my one-year anniversary of pulling every time. I can just undo and ruin it all in minutes. I'm so fucking terrified of disfiguring myself again. What goes on in my mind is so overpowering, I end up with no control over my own body parts.

I was buying oreos and pink & white animal circus cookies today at the corner market, and couldn't understand why. Why, other than that my own brain in my own skull would torment me until I bought sugar and consumed it.

I don't drink alcohol because I don't have to drink it at all. I'm so disgusted with how it affected me, I just don't touch it. How do I get to that point with food? I have to have food, but do I have to have circus animal cookies? Why can't I turn away from them?

I have a vision of dying around age 40 to 45 from my diet and sedentary lifestyle. I'm not particularly adverse to that because I hate my diet and sedentary lifestyle so much, and I hate that I have no motivation to change it. I sometimes make a tiny bit of progress and unravel it almost immediately.

I recognize that our culture prizes physical beauty over spiritual, and that dropping weight won't necessarily make me content. But it doesn't excuse me destroying my body.

I have to try harder than I am.

I Been Tired.

I want to write something, but I'm tired and uninspired. Laying on my couch listening to new TR/ST wishing I had never pulled all my hair out 1, or 2, cut it short when it was growing back. I can't stand the feeling of the wirey black hairs digging into the back of my neck. Or what passes for a neck.

I was bitching about being fat to another fat girl at work, and I think she took offense because she said she liked being "fluffy" and walked off.

Well, if I thought I was just "fluffy" and not "dying of heart disease" I might not mind either, but I don't think that's the case. 

Today Sis and I went to Evangeline's downtown, and I thought I was going to keel over and expire on the stairs that lead to the chamber of doom or whatever they call the 2nd floor where they keep the goth shit. Of course it wouldn't have been as simple as just croaking, but also taking out my sister and multiple other Evangeline's customers on the way back down the stairs. That's probably "manslaughter." We took the creepy elevator back to the ground.

I love TR/ST so (pictured below).  I think I could marry that dude too, and split my time between Canada and Miami with Trevor Something. I mean I would physically crush both of them, but they might be into that? They could write songs about it on their Moogs or Applebooks or whatever the fudge.

Springtime for Hitler and Germany

Found myself in Fair Oaks Village the other day, so went to the little metaphysical store there, 'Blossoming Path.' A beautiful longhaired shoppe cat with one icey blue eye and one golden eye greeted me. I hope it's deaf, though, because the rest of the inhabitants there are insufferable.

Was trying to purchase a little book ('Goddess in Your Pocket') while a woman named Tenderheart (also a Carebear) shreiked and carried on with the cashier who was not cashiering but rather, conversing with Tenderheart for so long that I almost hurled the book at Tenderheart's nose.

I figured that wasn't a very Goddessy thing to do though, so stood patiently by while Tenderheart told Funshine about why they didn't have a public restroom because some disabled could sue for it not being ADA-compliant and "letting someone pee isn't worth shelling out ten grand."

How dare you sully the names of Carebears? I thought to myself fantasizing about grabing Funshine by her gray braid and slamming her head into the table of rose quartz.

I will probably stick with 'Planet Earth Rising' in Folsom even though the staff there follow you around like you're stuffing lotus candles and sage in your pants and bolting for the door.

The best of the best is 'Garden of Enchantment' in Old Sac, but I rarely get there because of the abundance of motorcylce gang rallies and also cobblestones that hurt my fillings and dislodge my uterus when I drive over them while looking for parking that you have to pay for. By the time I've found a space and walked the 2 miles back over the cobblestones to the Garden of Enchantment, I am missing too many reproductive organs and too much dentalwork to be interested in oracle cards and fairy figurines any longer.

Happy St. Patrick's.

This holiday, oy. On my way to get something for dinner at Boston Market, a drunk guy hanging out of the moon roof of a Subaru wearing a green feather boa scream-slurred something at me. His driver leaned on the horn continuously all the way down Fair Oaks Boulevard. Not sure exactly what moon roof guy was scream-slurring, maybe something about his presumed Irish heritage, although he looked like The Situation on Jersey Shore.

Speaking of heritage, I did that 23&Me thing. It came back today and it's not very shocking, says I'm a pastey-ass white person from the UK (Scotland). I knew that already. Should have kept my hundred bucks.

Ugh the cobbler I had for dessert tasted like a ground up Special K granola bar. Anyway.

On April 4th, it will be six years that I've been alcohol-free. It's weird but lately I have OCD thoughts about drinking the way I have them about breaking my diet whenever I try to diet. Next thing I know I'm Door-Dashing Spaghetti Factory to my house and I don't want to be doing that with booze. I mean, Spaghetti Factory is probably killing me just the same as booze would have given me Cirrhosis, but at least I'm not going to get in my Corolla and run over someone after consuming Sicilian cheese bread. I don't think.

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