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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.

Mornings with the Lord

Every day Doreen Virtue emails me for some reason. Not sure how that happened. Anyway, today she said I could spend mornings with the Lord for the low price of $39.99.

Aren't mornings with the Lord free? I mean I like the pic, though he seems slightly overdressed for the beach.

I just came back from getting coffee from a hut and I have to pass a church and a popular mimosas and brunch joint to get there. So then I look at all the families in church and the young, hip profeshes at the mimosa joint and deem myself a failure at life before I have even gotten back to my house with my lemon bread. I shouldn't be eating lemon bread anyway, because I am fat. I am so tired of being fat, but like my Mom pointed out while I was raging out on her via email one day, I refuse to commit to making any changes I need in life.

I hate being fat so much. I hate my psychotic haircut so much. I wish it would grow down and not up. Yesterday I put some Suavecita in it trying to tame it, but just ended up looking like a guy that kills prostitutes in Wisconscin instead of my usual fat Robert Smith. If it would grow down and cover my ears, I might have a fighting chance at looking pretty again. I guess I'll keep not pulling it out and taking Biotin. And Silica. And Gelatin.

I get so depressed about it and my inability to *do* anything about it, I just want to lay down and sleep it away. That doesn't burn calories.

They say you become what your subconscious believes you are or deserve on a...subconscious level. That your mind is just the greatest of all computers and it's programed like the opening credits in the Matrix. I have tried so hard to reprogram it. To wipe it's harddrive clean. Therapy, counseling, pills, affirmations, hypnosis. But I guess my subconscious still believes I'm a piece of shit.

Implements of Hell

Remember that girl that was over in my area thundering around with Gay Manager because her boyfriend had gotten down on one knee at the end of the marathon they were running not to have a heart attack, but to ask her to marry him? I don't remember what I called her.

Anyway she's getting married finally and I'm supposed to stuff money in an envelope for her celebratory work cake and go to Target to shop her wedding gift registry. Um, was I invited to the fucking wedding? Why would I go to Target and buy her a wedding gift?

Architect - memba him? - is back in the building and separated from his wife. Yes now that I'm fat and hideous and "engaged" myself.

He did ask me a rando totally unnecessary question the other day when we were in Active Shooter Avoidance Class together. (Yes, that's a thing).

I turned around and looked at him emotionlessly. I do everything emotionlessly now, unless I'm having a midweek meltdown which I do like clockwork, rather emotionlessly in itself. Maybe he had just wanted me to move because my mullet and pomp were blocking the slideshow.

He smiled and asked something about the generator I'd been trying to procure for the last year. His bloo eyes flashed and I remembered all the imaginary moments I'd had with him in 2010. Through my wall of antipsychotics and depressants, I felt the disappointment I had always felt then rise up to the surface of the vast dead sea that is me.

I muttered and shrugged and turned back around to watch someone get shot at work.

The Valley of Unrest

It's Saturday. I have been working really hard at work. Like George W. Bush hard. As a result, I'm drained and just want to sit on my couch and listen to my "endless personalized music" stream on Youtube which occasionally contains a rogue Iron Maiden song from the BF.

Hair has grown back enough to not wear a dead-cat lookin-ass wig to work or anywhere anymore. I'm grateful.

Weather is nice. Starbucks cups are orange. Caramel pecan marshmellow pumpkin candles are available at Bath and Body Works.

I cancelled my Comcast cable and made it a life-event on Facebook. *&^%ing pricks. I neglected to pay my bill one month (because I am trash, according to my brother) and they hit me for twice the bill plus some late fees the next month with a finale of emailing me a new bill for 250 dollars to be paid by the end of the same month. Like vegetables, I'm bad at math, but I think that's like 750 dollars for cable and my Bratz lips phone that looks like a vagina which is always off the hook and on my floor for in one month? Oh and internet, but I left that on because I have to memorialize all this on the world wide web somehow. 

Hot Topic sent me a credit card out of nowhere. I was not aware that was a thing, but I'm happy to rebuild my credit with unicorn snot and fuzzy poof chokers. Thank you, Hot Topic. You won't regret this.


I just said last night that I do not tolerate dickery towards me, but I feel like I have been experiencing on onlslaught of dickery lately that I really can't do anything about due to my position as "peon."

Having yet another potluck, this one marking the end of summer or something, and I hadn't bothered to sign up for it, becuase I always end up sitting at a table by myself picking pubic hairs out of the chili.

So this person in a position of power — I'll call them Tomato Dick — approached me in my cubicle and backed me up against my monitor.

"I see you aren't signed up for anything."

I squirmed. "What do you need?"

"3 large tomatoes."

I thought it strange Tomato Dick was so specifc about the quantity and size of the tomatoes, and had a sudden flash of the 36 pieces of flare conversation in Office Space.

Fast forward to the next day, half hour before the potluck. I'm standing at the sink fumbling around with the tomatoes in attempt to slice them. I'm not good at vegetables, so I enlist the help of Barb when I see her come to the fridge for her lettuce.

Barb and I proceed to rip lettuce apart and slice tomatoes together when Tomato Dick approaches for seemingly no reason.

"Hi," I say to Tomato Dick, who simply glowers at me like I am a rotting carcass in the local river.

"I'm surprised we're doing this on state time. I would've thought this could be done last night."

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