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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.

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.


side skell

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