"Sorry I blew off our appointment, I was getting laid"
Seriously? This was my conversation with my 9am appointment at 9:15am this morning. She is at a casino somewhere in Cali getting her dentures rattled by a caregiver(at least I think that is what he is. I couldn't make out much of what she was saying, she was so blissed out on cock and weed). The thing is: she is in her 70s. No joke. My irritation at hauling my ass up to work super early(for me, my next appt. is at 2) was tempered with amusement that I was being blown off for getting blown. Oy vey!
I also think I poisoned Scott and myself with fish last night. We're having full fecal evacuation since about 2am last night. I'm ok, just crummy tummy. Scott came home early from work and is holed up on the couch with the PS2 and his bong. God love him. The diet is hit and miss at best this week. I made cookies a few days ago, and last night I baked the last two Fresh and Easy $1.99 desserts (his was pineapple upside down, mine was triple berry blossom). There is one piece of feta sundried tomato pizza gently cooling next to me right now, the only survivor of a mini pizza I wolfed down before my next appt. No it isn't on my diet. It's my moon time, my hips ache, I worked out 4 days in row this week, washed a fuck ton of dishes trying to cook healthy, and I am OVER IT.
Let the children starve, let the trees burn, let the rain forest be razed to the ground while sad faced endangered monkeys watch with classical music wailing in the background, let the Gaza Strip explode, and let a 12 point fuck me earthquake hit this state right now, and I wouldn't care. Over it, over it, over it. I want to tattoo that on my forehead right now. Thank Goddess for Pamprin. Seriously. I can fake a good day for having took one. And hoor-fuckin-ay that I took iron this morning.
This installment of WTF? brought to you by Da Da is squalid little attempt at the confessional style of writing that is so popular these days. Apparently, I need to really explore the poopy side of my personality for my true voice emerge. Can't remember what writer was being interviewed about writing an award winning NYT bestseller. She said no one wants to read about normal well-adjusted people, they want a fuck up living next door to the psycho who's humping a neurotic who forgot to take her goddamn meds that morning. Or some such nonsense. She said that if you write a book your friends and family like...you failed.
I get what she's saying. I read two NYT books recently by the same author, and I liked NOONE in the books. Sharp Things, and Dark Places by Gillian Flynn. Hell I think I'm quoting her, actually. I really recommend both books. Hateful awful people leading fucked up little lives in small towns. Little lives poisoned by big emotions. She trumped my first imaginings of Dora's Couch being a southern family drama. I got to work on my ugly writing skills.
My friend Anna called it "Dark Eda". She would laugh and clap her hands when she caught me saying something cutting. In Tejas, I used to party with drag queens and skinheads (nonracist skinboyz). It was a crazy crowd that got ugly quick. It was sink or swim, and a deft comment was quite the lifesaver sometimes. I have found that making a vicious asshole laugh was safer than trying to fight them. But I've shut down that side of my personality. I've tried to steer away from openly shitty comments just because they are side splittingly high-larious. I try not to indulge in blah-blah blues, and not give my dark side chance to grow because it isn't a part of my life anymore. It is an outdated defense system dismantled during peacetime.
I think it's time to pull Dark Eda out of the mothballs, and let her get ugly on the populace. My inner punk has been trying to emerge for the past year, maybe Dora's Couch will be the perfect outlet for her. I plan finishing my edits on ROGP by the end of January and work on getting a book agent for it. Dora's Couch is a decade old idea that actually is older than ROGP. It is time for it to be written.
I also think I poisoned Scott and myself with fish last night. We're having full fecal evacuation since about 2am last night. I'm ok, just crummy tummy. Scott came home early from work and is holed up on the couch with the PS2 and his bong. God love him. The diet is hit and miss at best this week. I made cookies a few days ago, and last night I baked the last two Fresh and Easy $1.99 desserts (his was pineapple upside down, mine was triple berry blossom). There is one piece of feta sundried tomato pizza gently cooling next to me right now, the only survivor of a mini pizza I wolfed down before my next appt. No it isn't on my diet. It's my moon time, my hips ache, I worked out 4 days in row this week, washed a fuck ton of dishes trying to cook healthy, and I am OVER IT.
Let the children starve, let the trees burn, let the rain forest be razed to the ground while sad faced endangered monkeys watch with classical music wailing in the background, let the Gaza Strip explode, and let a 12 point fuck me earthquake hit this state right now, and I wouldn't care. Over it, over it, over it. I want to tattoo that on my forehead right now. Thank Goddess for Pamprin. Seriously. I can fake a good day for having took one. And hoor-fuckin-ay that I took iron this morning.
This installment of WTF? brought to you by Da Da is squalid little attempt at the confessional style of writing that is so popular these days. Apparently, I need to really explore the poopy side of my personality for my true voice emerge. Can't remember what writer was being interviewed about writing an award winning NYT bestseller. She said no one wants to read about normal well-adjusted people, they want a fuck up living next door to the psycho who's humping a neurotic who forgot to take her goddamn meds that morning. Or some such nonsense. She said that if you write a book your friends and family like...you failed.
I get what she's saying. I read two NYT books recently by the same author, and I liked NOONE in the books. Sharp Things, and Dark Places by Gillian Flynn. Hell I think I'm quoting her, actually. I really recommend both books. Hateful awful people leading fucked up little lives in small towns. Little lives poisoned by big emotions. She trumped my first imaginings of Dora's Couch being a southern family drama. I got to work on my ugly writing skills.
My friend Anna called it "Dark Eda". She would laugh and clap her hands when she caught me saying something cutting. In Tejas, I used to party with drag queens and skinheads (nonracist skinboyz). It was a crazy crowd that got ugly quick. It was sink or swim, and a deft comment was quite the lifesaver sometimes. I have found that making a vicious asshole laugh was safer than trying to fight them. But I've shut down that side of my personality. I've tried to steer away from openly shitty comments just because they are side splittingly high-larious. I try not to indulge in blah-blah blues, and not give my dark side chance to grow because it isn't a part of my life anymore. It is an outdated defense system dismantled during peacetime.
I think it's time to pull Dark Eda out of the mothballs, and let her get ugly on the populace. My inner punk has been trying to emerge for the past year, maybe Dora's Couch will be the perfect outlet for her. I plan finishing my edits on ROGP by the end of January and work on getting a book agent for it. Dora's Couch is a decade old idea that actually is older than ROGP. It is time for it to be written.
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