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No Cars Go

Whilst sitting on the backed-up onramp to 5o East this morning from Tulare and Tehachapi back to my Mom's to pick up Yoda, Maxence Cyrin's No Cars Go cover came up on my Spotify.

The sun was out in my hometown after apparent days of storming and streaming down through my windshield onto my face. I leaned forward and gazed at the BMW in front of me.

The song was so gorgeous, it was hard to feel anything but appreciation for life or notice anything but the beauty of the day around me. Very seldom do I ever feel that way, so I wanted to express it.

Here it is in case it makes you feel similar:

https://youtu.be/MxKLyzLj4QQ

The Snow Moon

Tehachapi was prettier and less dismal than I expected, but it was colder than a well-digger's butt (a late Grandma-ism) and raining. I know of no better weather to stand next to a prison sludge pond in. As a result of these harsh conditions, my sign-in sheet got smeared and now there is really no proof that I was ever even there. I do have a Tehachapian Del Taco receipt from earlier that morning though that I can produce if necessary. 🌮

Going back home tomorrow morning. I miss my cat who is currently terrorizing my mom. She managed to clip his claws somehow, which is good news for the fluff in my bedsprings that he pulls out with them nightly. A video I once accidentally managed to sit through on Youtube says that to be closer to God or the core of the Earth or I can't remember what, you should sleep on your floor. Pfffft! I will be there after a couple more of Yoda's fluff-removal sessions anyway. 🐱

Super full moon this Tuesday. I ordered a sick-ass moon coven box (watch https://lucidlivingco.com for the next one in March) and I'm psyched to do a moon dot with Yoda that eve. Even though my Pusheen moon intentions journal is falling apart which I don't appreciate, Hot Topic, we can still do the ritual. 🌕

Blessings to you, reader. Speaking of which, reader, I made it so that sexbots can no longer continue their reign of terror in the comments sections of my entries from 2007. So if you want to say something in response to me, you will have to have a valid, non-sexbot account.

PS. If you're a like the replicant sort of robot from Blade Runner and are capable of falling in love with Harrison Ford or Sean Young, it's okay to post on my entries. You'll just have to make a Livejournal account.

Pink Plague

I am ill at home. Not that I'm ever *anywhere* but work or home, but now I'm ill at home exclusively. It's probably not cool that I'm self-medicating with Super Stuft Oreos and Orange Crush.

I have to go to buttfucking Tehachapi on Valentine's Day for a romantic stroll through prison for a purchase I'm overseeing. Today whilst resting, my manager's manager called my cell to say that her manager said I was asking for too much money in mileage on my travel expense claim? I'm not sure if I remember the convo correctly because I was delirious with fatigue and the plauge, but I think that was the gist of it.

I need to work for a department that A1) doesn't require me to go to prison on Valentine's Day, and B2) well fuck it, A1 is enough logic and reasoning. What's next, Guantanamo Bay on Easter? The more I think that phone call, the more outraged I get at my manager's manager's manager as I sit here all snotty and holding my Himalayan salt healing crystals mentally preparing for my journey into Hell next week.

But that isn't going to help me recover. Positive mental attitude, right?






It is time for stormy weather.

Today I went out into the storm to get sustenance from Raley's. And not the new nearby Raley's either, becuase it is terrible. It is supposed to look like a Sprouts or Whole Foods or one of those places where you can only buy foods that are made from almonds. Blurgh.

So I drove through the harrowing wind and rain down Folsom Boulevard to get to an old-school Raley's where they still sell things I'm not supposed to eat that probably give me kidney stones. I had them over Thanksgiving, beeteedubs. Kidney stones. And they were so awful, I drove myself to the nearest Catholic hospital at 2:00 AM and asked the intake lady to inject me with something lethal. "WHY YOU CRYING?" she snapped at me as she scanned my insurance card and dumped a litany of forms to be completed in my lap. I murmered that "it hurts" and "I don't want to live anymore" while I tried to remember which drug it was that I was allergic to that had blown my lips up outside a Med 7 Urgent Care one night. "WHAT?" she glared at me.

Mercifully, the doctors and nurses who cared for me the 3 days I was admitted were more pleasant. Even the one I projectile vommed potroast and Norcos on after developing a migraine fueled by caffeine withdrawal. A chaplain who was under the impression that I was dying, I guess, came by and offered me a bible and left a card with a prayer by St. Francis. It didn't occur to me until discharge time that I might have acted a little saner to avoid being relocated to psych ward. I started weeping again when I was informed that I shouldn't have parked in the garage lest I wanted to pay hundreds of dollars to get out of it. The nice nurse wrote me a note for the toll-guy and they let me out free of charge.

But now, here I sit eating orange chicken from the Raley's Sizzlin Wok that is probably so high in sodium it could kill me on a bad day. It's not a bad day though. I *do* have to go back to work tomorrow after a few days off over the new year. I hesitantly logged into my work email this morn and was relieved to find that not an awful lot had gone on in my absence that I'll have to deal with upon my return. Just several hundred emails about a blood drive I'm always deemed too gross to participate in going on in a "bloodmobile" in the parking lot.

I *have* made a deal with the DMV and my fam to donate my dead self to science and to anyone who may need my organs (if they are not also deemed to gross for distribution). I figure I will probably end up in that travelling dead body science circus that makes the rounds every summer or so. I just hope I do not retain any resemblance to my former self so that randos attending will look up and go, "I think I remember her from Long's Drugs."

Ah, Longs Drugs. My legacy.

Talking to the Moon

New moon in Capricorn and a solar eclipse this cold & stormy night in January. I haven't done a new moon "dot" or "line" if you count my cat sitting beside me in, well, many moons. I call it the dot or line because it's just us. I used to go to new and full moon circles but just can't be arsed lately. Plus I had made a friend there and she just deleted me one day after we'de done coffee and she'd dragged me to a belly dancing class where I'd nearly lost my life trying to belly dance. I am not sure what I'd done to warrant the deletion aside from dance badly with heavily labored breathing. I think maybe she thought we were dating and we'de failed to make out after a few "dates." So, I don't really want to see her again because awkward. I shouldn't let that ruin moon circles for me, but really I can light candles and sage and resolve to let things go and do new things from here. So:

I intend to (although may not):

  • walk on my breaks instead of work through them

  • drink water in the mornings instead of soda

  • eat lighter at lunch so as to avoid losing all will to be conscious from 1:00 - 4:30 PM.

  • measure out food for myself and my cat so we aren't shoving pasta and Fancy Feast into our faces with reckless abandon

  • leave my hair alone so that it can continue to grow back and out

  • rely upon myself and not others for contentment

The best thing we ever did in a moon circle was plant a sunflower seed in a plastic cup and bless it with love and prosperity. To my surprise it flourished at home for a few months until I somehow managed to kill it. Here it is on the right with my fairy house and garden gnome (who later died during a battle with a gigantic wasp nest in the awning when he was stepped on and crushed in the chaos).



Maybe when the Spring rolls around again, I can get a new gnome and a new sunflower seed and they will actually live.

Dude, I'm Getting a Dell.

My cat knocked my ASUS laptop off the dresser a couple months ago, and it was destroyed upon impact with my hardwood floor. I ordered an old Dell laptop of ebay so I could write more this year without hunching over the Ikea endtable PC in the corner by the drafty window. Maybe I'll have more positive things to say from my position on the couch, or in bed, or maybe one day I'll actually put on pants and go to a coffee shop with my laptop and drink chai and study. Jaykay jaykay, I don't drink tea and I can't concentrate on anything longer than an Onion.com headline (if it has an accompanying picture).

Trying to drink water at present. Got some Arrowhead thinking it might taste better than my "Big Win" water from Rite Aid, but no. Not really. It still is missing corn syrup and red dye and I literally wince when I take a swig like most people would do taking a nasty shot of something alcoholic. "Big Win" reminds me of something stupid our current president would say about meeting with the supreme leader of North Korea. This morning I heard he may not be president much longer, mercifully. I never thought I would miss George W., but now I do. Trump makes me look back upon 9/11 with great fondness.

A Year in Review

2018, like many years before it, pretty much sucked ass. I got more kidney stones over Thanksgiving, 5 years since I had them last, and likely because my doc changed up my meds and put me on Wellbutrin, which, as far as I can tell, is the PCP of antidepressants. I don't think he wanted to hear me complain about being fat for one more session, so he thought we'd try bath salts, I guess. Not only did it make me about 75% insaner than I already was, but it gave me (or brought out my) kidney stones and put me in the hospital for 3 days. I didn't go down to a pier in Florida and eat anyone's face off though, mercifully, but the hospital stay wasn't pleasant for me or anyone else who had to deal with me projectile voming in the hall while tethered to an IV of morphine.


I became a cat mother over the 4th of July, which I do enjoy. Yoda is a good friend and fur companion. He just needs to learn to use the toilet and refrain from going apeshit in the springs under my bed at 5:00 in the morning every morning.


I also dropped my laptop from a lofty surface this year, reducing the touchscreen to deadly shards of glass. So, recently pulled my desktop out from under the IKEA end table I had so intelligently stored it under and hooked it back up. I write this missive to you from it in the corner of my house by the drafty-ass window in December.


I don't remember much else of the year aside from continuously fucking up my hair royally and making very poor dietary choices. 


I'm trying to drink more water because according to science, I'm made from it mostly. I think my veins may actually run seafoam green with Mountain Dew Baja Blast (available exclusively at Taco Bell and Colleen's body) but trying to change that in 2019. 


Wish me luck.

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 like 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.

Alas.

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. 🎃

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