agent provocateur

No Cop/No Stop/I Don't Care.

Been riding on the back of Platonic Joe's Harley on Sundays lately. The helmet he lets me wear is way too heavy for my little eraserhead, so I find it difficult to actually look at my surroundings without Dark Helmeting it and falling off to die, but I do my best.

This morning, we left so early the half moon in Taurus was still up in the sky all the way to wherever it was the Donners ate each other way back in the day. Dead, yellow Sacramento disappeared, the temperature dropped 20 degrees, and all the trees grew lovely, dark, and deep.

The worst part is definately the platonic driver situation. I started out with my hands on his shoulders, because I'm not going to straddle him - he's Platonic Joe. You don't straddle the driver on a Harley anyway, you sit up high behind him. I do dream of of clinging to KBong on a Kawasaki in Hawaii but that's not the case here, so now I just put my hands on my own thighs unless we're going around some sharp corner. Platonic Joe doesn't really go all that fast anyway, probably for my safety.

I like how dudes in Sentras and Priuses look over at us longingly. Like they wish they were Platonic Joe or something. I assume I look hot. I know I'd look hotter on a crotch rocket with my ass up in the air (I have a nice ass), but alas(s). They also don't know my hair and makeup have devolved to absolute shit under that helmet, so there is some level of mystique.

I try my best to Eckhart Tolle it up and live in the moment, but Mercurial me thinks of ways to communicate via the written word every bit of what I see the whole time. I'm not doing that great in this particular instance, I know, but it's because I developed heatstroke upon reentering 102 degree Sacramento on the way back. I'm still recovering brain cells at this moment.
  • Current Music
    Filter - The Best Things
agent provocateur

Living in a Dream

It's been a weird 3 months since I left my boyfriend. I left him shortly before Venus went into retrograde. I sat in my backyard with the recording of the natal chart reading I had commissioned from Sloan of the last that she completed before her son died. It was a full moon in Scorpio that day.

As she painted a picture of the heavens the September 3, 1981 that I was born, I reached up to draw a machete with my finger in the sky. When it was whole, I pulled it down to me and held it to my heart and listened in quiet fascination.

These are men disguised as friends, adversaries masquerading as lovers, carefully constructed power struggles designed to hold you down - subjugate and mute you, consume you and confuse you, ultimately abuse you. You had wronged them in incarnations past, or so they perceived, and you were to pay for it in this one. When you finally realize your own worth, when you see what's going on - you will be free to end the cycle.

I stood up and swung my machete, with a touch of tai chi and a bit of ballet, and so swiftly cut it all off and out and away.

In the following days, I noticed beautiful KBong from Stick Figure looking at my IG stories all day every day. What the fuck? I asked myself, remembering my boyfriend would put KBong on Youtube when I got so thoroughly annoyed by all the metal pedal review videos he would watch nonstop that I would begin to lose my absolute shit. KBong happened to be in the "Similar to Stick Figure" playlist or something, so that's what he would put on to appease me. He (KBong) would so happily sing about smiling and vibing as I stood there in a rage looking at my boyfriend do nothing while I tried to get ready to go to work.

So fast forward seven karmic years or however long we were together and now I'm alone and KBong is looking at me. I look back at him curiously each morning, and then enter into a full-blown, month-long, Amélie-esque (except she ends up with the dude) schizoaffective episode in my head wherein KBong is in love with me. I don't really know how to actualize this, except to order a shirt from him and hope he'll drive it to me personally at which point I'd invite him in and we'de make wild, sweet, love tangled up in my Target Circo unicorn bedsheets.

But that didn't happen. I just got a tiny little package in the mail one evening as I was arriving home from a particularly shitty day in the office. Squeakers managed to escape and sashay down the driveway as I tore the package open with my teeth on the porch to see if it contained some sort of missive of love. It did not. And moreover it was basically toddler-proportioned, which isn't really cool. I mean I've lost and am losing weight, but come on. I didn't want KBong to know I needed an x-tra large, didn't figure that would be super attractive to him. I sighed loudly and walked down to retrieve Squeakers and shut ourselves back inside our tiny duplex forever.

Alone again, naturally.
  • Current Music
    KBong 🤷‍♀️

Happy Fourth

Last night before I fell asleep, I had an inkling that today was going to suck, and it did. It's not even over yet, it could get suckier, too. You see, I don't really like holidays because I have no real life. I have a rich, inner world. That's fine most of the year, but I get a little lonely on holidays.

So today's the fourth. Independence Day. Nevermind that I live in California and it's still on government lockdown in prep for a complete New World Order overthrow under the guise of this Covid horseshit. Just nevermind that for right now.

There was a classic cars and food truck party in the park at the end of the cute community I live in, so I walked down there around noon. I stood in line at the shave ice truck for a few, got up there and ordered a chili dog and strawberry pineapple snowcone, and walked over by a tree to wait for that.

All of the sudden, I started feeling dizzy and the scenery began spinning around me as I stood there. Oh no, oh shit, OH SHIT, I thought to myself as I gripped the tree. I noticed the families around me start to stare, and the last thing I remember was asking God to PLEASE not to let this happen. Give me strength, give me protection, give me guidance, give me knowledge, give me insight, give me the same shit I pray for each morning. But I guess it wasn't enough. I should have specifically asked Him not to let me black out and pass out in the party at the park on July 4th.

A very kind man caught me, sat me down in the bark, and brought me a water and an ice pack, and an angel of a woman who happened to be a physician sat with me until the attractive young firemen came to look at me. They didn't find anything overtly alarming I guess (other than the blacking out and passing out). I didn't want to go with them, however attractive they were, so the angel physician lady took me back home in her white Rav4. I ate my chili dog and snowcone in my kitchen and came back to my bedroom to lay down with my kitties.

I don't know what's wrong with me other than I haven't been eating much lately and it's really fucking hot here in Sacramento all the time (except when it's freezing-balls cold in the winter).

I guess I'm okay now. I have a slight, dull headache, but when don't I?

Happy birthday, America.
  • Current Music
    Stick Figure - Cocoa de Rock
agent provocateur

Avenged Sevenfold

My work managed to destroy both my laptop and my desktop, possibly intentionally or maybe just via the overwhelming negative overlord software I had to install, I do not know. But at any rate, I threw up my hands when Winblows finally shit out on the PC mid-Thursday and drove back to my office in my sundress without a bra and proceeded to procure in my cubicle like olden times.

Pretty sure this threw #stayinside and #wearamask Karen, who is in office Thursdays, into a Covid19 tizzy. She did keep it to herself, which pleases me. Thank you, Karen.

I want it on the record that I am now a #Covid19Hero on the front lines, because I sit right on the aisle at work. I am thinking of going up to the (what I suspect to be Satanic, now, as is custom with masonic temples) masonic temple on the corner tonight to borrow their giant "Thank you Covid19 Heroes" banner to hang up at work (referencing myself, of course).

Speaking of Satanism, I retweeted a cat today who said "Who cares what he thinks?" about a Melinda Gates article. It made me lol, so I retweeted it. That's what I do. Now I cannot see said Tweet on Chrome here on the laptop I resurrected today. If I want to say Melinda Gates is a Satanic lady dude, I will. I guess I will say it here on Livejournal and to anyone who happens upon me in the third dimension. Right now that's looking like Karen on Thursdays. Get ready for this conversation, Karen.

So today, I was off. I woke up to the City of Sacramento delivering a new Yard Waste can to me, because, get this: my next door neighbor filled MY Yard Waste can with some sort of excrement or possibly even human remains, and then placed it in front of MY house, at which point someone or multiple someones in my community were so very horrified by the stench and all those murder hornets hovering over it as they walked by, they contacted the city and who knows who else.

This gentleman has been away from his residence for as long as I've been awake today. As soon as he returns, I intend to invite him to an Outsiders-style rumble in the nearest park. I hope he will accept as I feel this is highly noble death for me if it results in that. If not, I simply plan to phone 911 the next time he looks sideways at my Yard Waste bin. I have also informed my Landlady, whos legalese knows no Earthly bounds.

Oh, and I'm also prepared to die calling Melinda Gates a Satanic lady dude. And if I don't report back, bet that I will be haunting someone's ass like Patrick Swayze on Whoopi Goldberg to say as much.
agent provocateur

Going the Social Distance

Good evening.

My duplex neighbors are currently standing on their porch with company, shrieking with laughter. I am not afraid they will give me the Covid, but I *am* quite concerned they will inhale and suffocate on the maxi pads and boxer briefs they look to have strapped around their faces while carrying on like this.

They're not even standing 6 feet apart, but it's okay. I'm cool. I'm not going to do what everyone thinks I'm going to do which is go out there and blow my Rolf whistle, signaling Bill Gates himself to come to East Sacramento via Elon Musk's personal Tesla or Epstein's old plane and plunge syringes full of sterilization vaccine into all of them.

If I had any friends I would be doing the same thing on my porch. And he can go ahead and stick me with that shit because I made the decision not to procreate a long, long time ago. IN YOUR FACE, BILL GATES.

And even if I wanted to be a modern day Nazi, I couldn't because my Rolf whistle is on my desk back at the office that I haven't been in since last Tuesday. That does remind me, though: I think tomorrow is Tuesday again.

I guess I should go to bed before 4:00 AM tonight.
  • Current Music
    george michael - freedom
  • Tags
agent provocateur

Climb Ev'ry Prison Roof

What an interesting week its been. Working from home pretty much full time except for Tuesdays. And this past Tuesday, en route to my *one* public appearance, I celebrated this day - this day that marked my 7 years of sobriety - by stone cold soberly driving up on the median on Fair Oaks Boulevard in the midst of turning left onto it. My driver's side tire exploded upon impact. Somewhat unaware that this had occurred (although maybe suspecting it deep down inside) I continued driving on the rim for half a mile until I started to smell burned rubber. At this point I pulled over, in front of my psychiatrist's office actually, and got out to inspect the damage. Wasn't cute as you might expect. It is possible my psychiatrist saw me from his window and shook his head. Maybe not though because he's probably at home Zooming with his crazars online these days.

So I was waylay-ed from my destination for a few hours by dropping 500 dollars on tires and alignment at the Les Schwabb by my office. Who in the hell is putting 500 dollars into their vehicle right now so that they can sit in their kitchen in their underwear all day every day? Oh, me.

So I finally get to the office and promptly receive a cryptic yet hilarious text from my boss. He was nice enough to take some Covid for the team and conduct my mandatory prison roof site visit on my behest. That is his word btw, behest, he kept saying it to everyone who asked if I was still going to have the roof walk. Not sure if that was passive aggressive dig at me for being too pussy to travel or what.

"Made it out of prison. Couldn't walk Roof E - it had Covid. Sent Rodger to take pictures. Talk later."

I set my phone down in my lap, distressed. Roofs can get Covid too? And your response to this bit of information is to send Rodger, my favorite Field Guy, into the Covid-afflicted building like some kind of sacrificial lamb to take pictures?! Did Rodger have a super long photo lens, maybe? I called Rodger in a slight panic, but it just rang. I started sweating, which I think is a symptom of Covid and then got paranoid that the one other person that had to come to the office (under the ruthless regime of one mid-level manager who I have previously written about - see entry in which she forced me to bring tomatoes into the office and then reprimanded me for dicing them on State time) would catch me sweating and stand up and blow his little whistle we all get in case we're taken hostage in a prison like he's Rolf from The Sound of Music and I'm the Von Trapp family hiding in the abbey.

Eventually I did get ahold of Rodger and he reported that he's okay. To determine that was my main objective for the day, but decided to try and procure his roof from my position at home in my kitchen in my underwear anyway. It's going okay so far.

After logging out today, I got up and went to Savemart for some cat litter and a 6 dollar gallon of milk. The lady at the checkout counter was my first real human interaction for the week and she was really nice, I think. I don't really have any worldly idea of what she was saying through her mask. I told her that and she laughed. I also kind of karmically socialized on the return trip home with the UPS truck driver guy that nearly took me off the planet via his driving like a drunken lunatic. I don't think he was actually drunk though, just unionized. It's okay to murder people when you're in a union, I know because I'm in one and writing shit like this.

karin coma

Love in the time of Covid

Monday. Sitting on my porch, possibly unlawfully. Unsure. I will attempt to explain (in case some day some really young person stumbles upon this) for historical purposes.

There is a global pandemic going on. Let's do I put this without too heavily inserting my opinion on the subject (even though it's my journal)? Seems a rather impossible task given that I believe neither the origins of nor the solution for the pandemic, but here goes.

Supposedly a highly contagious respiratory virus - Covid 19 or Coronavirus - is out there,
everywhere, killing en mass. Hospitals are overflowing and people are dropping dead like flies. Creamatoriums can't keep up with the bodies.

To prevent the spread of this, the powers that be have implemented a global lockdown and social distancing policy wherein we all only go outside for groceries & some exercise provided we stay 6 feet away from each other at all times. Each day is more severe. I shit you not!

This has unfolded rather quickly, although some saw it coming and knew to prepare for it. They bought all the toilet paper and paper towels off the shelves.

I have been working from home (or trying) 3 days a week on my old Dell laptop and cell phone. The other 2 I go into the office (because that makes sense?) with 1 or 2 other people and try to order things from a market which has absolutely been crushed for construction sites which have also been shut down. I consider myself very lucky to still have a paycheck.

The sun keeps going behind a cloud which is very representative of my wild mood swings (a Cure reference, yes). I will say though that I've been so distracted by all this I have not been arsed to either 1) overeat, or 2) pull out my hair in 2020. If this is not in fact end of days, I supsect I will come out the other side of it looking more attractive at least.

Sympathy for the Devil.

I disguised myself in sequined devil horns and stuck a glittery pitchfork in my back pocket for Halloween this year. Within an hour, the plastic headband, and presumably the work of Satan, were giving me a wicked awful migraine in my cubicle.
Once 11:30 AM hit, I stumbled into the potluck and sat down next to Karen, who had removed her blue wig and tossed it onto the table. "Karen, I'm gonna barf and I haven't even had your quiche yet," I said laying my head down on her soft wig.
"I don't know how you wear these fucking things," she gestured toward the wig. "I can't go 4 hours in it."
I though that a welcome comment compared to Peg's earlier one, which was that there are "so many beautiful wigs out there" she could "not understand why I stopped wearing them." I guess was to imply that my own hair looked like shit, which to be honest, it does. Thinking about going back to stupid fucking highlights or whatever else might make me look less like Gene Simmons. I am still grateful to have hair covering my head to even look bad, Peg's shitty comment aside.
Now it's November. The holidays. More potlucks. More peg. Hopefully fewer awful migraines. Trying to manifest that this upcoming full moon on the 12th. EVEN THOUGH Target was out of tealight candles for the ritual today.
  • Current Mood
side skell

Let your feelings slip, but never your mask.

I am thinking maybe there is a mammoth load of spiritual shittery leaving my body today, because I have a gnarly pink eye and a massive cystic zit in my cupid's bow. It's all very gross and I can't be seen in public, so I'm just sitting here on my couch watching the breeze kick up mini leaf tornados in the front lawn under the slanted sunrays of the season.

Doctor said unless I rub eyeballs with coworkers I should be okay to go to work, but I disagree. Rarely do I rub eyeballs with anyone, but I'm not taking the chance of showing up and infecting Peg or Jen or Jesus Guy. Jesus Guy seems to have zero qualms about coming to work with his football team of children's mutant flu germs, but *I* have moral fiber, must wait.

Halloween potluck and costume contest at said work next week. Before I became afflicted with the above named unsightly ailments, I went to Target and looked at unicorn onesies for consideration. Ultimately decided against it, as the onesie did not look to be designed for unicorns with hips. Probably just stick to my Etsy unicorn horn that is currently strapped around Cheer Bear's head in my closet (because a Care Bear can never be too magical).

In the interest of being magical too, I have rounded up all of my Rachel Hillary (visit her, she's amazeballs) guided meditations, reiki sessions, and tarot readings and am listening to them one by one while in quarentine here. It is not 4:00 PM and my blood is running platinum with majestic diamond sparkles as I transcend space and time on a pegasus whilst somehow remaining grounded into Mother Earth.

However, I just checked and I still have a huge zit above my lip. Damn it.

side skell

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 disfiguring 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 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:

  • Current Mood
    good good