Sunday, July 31, 2005 

Fiction I (updated to include an ending)

Jaime loved women so intensely most people had to take a step back to breathe. The air seemed to get muggy around him and others thoughts slowed to the pulse of his heart.



The first time he made love he was sixteen and in the back of a pickup truck with a girl named Caitlyn that he liked to call Katie Luhlynn. He kissed her temples, smelled her hair, wrapped his arms around her and tried to breathe in the essence that was her soul. Just when she thought he had fallen asleep he made love to her with such a strange combination of curiosity and intensity that even 40 years later she would be able to recall, with astonishing clarity, that the moment she came he kissed her mouth, swallowing her joy, like a man starving.

Ex-girlfriends would often find themselves pressing their hands to their chests, searching for a lump, a scar, anything to prove that their suspicions were true. They would think back to their nights and wonder which night it was that he had stolen a piece of their heart, grafting on a piece of his own in return. They felt invaded in ways no one could explain or deny.

Jaime was the kind of man that wanted to slip into your skin, speak your tongue and wear your soul like a winter jacket in the middle of a snowstorm, bundled up tight. Women did a double take when they met his eyes, deer caught in headlights; they were paralyzed by an impending sense of doom, as if who they were would cease to be at any moment. Most women were right to be scared. Jaime was looking for something most men never find.

All of his girlfriends made the mistake of thinking they knew him like a mass produced book written into a screenplay. Verse for verse they completed his sentences and filled in his blanks. They knew his schedule, his birth date and most importantly, they knew he lived to please them. They were filled with such a heady feeling of empowerment they never realized how easily he bended them in bed, maneuvering their legs, positioning their arms. Jaime took what he wanted with such skill no one realized how little he gave. Hands on skin like Braille, he drank their happiness, absorbed their memories, ate their dreams. He memorized every scar, every freckle, made a map of their body and connected it with their history.

Vicky had a burn in the shape of a heart from learning to cook. Home Ec. 10th grade. Ms. Henderson. She failed that year and never did learn how to bake pie.

Lisa’s sporty limp was from BMX racing. Her brothers offered to teach her and she was always trying to fit in. She broke her leg twice and arm once. Down heartened, she gave it up at 14, but her family still liked to call her Crash with impish grins.

Sally was having chemo when her husband left her. She keeps all of his letters in her dresser, third row down second drawer over, next to her unpaid hospital bills.

Jaime drove them to airports, fed their cats, and brought them soup when they were laid low by the flu. They were so grateful that they answered every question he asked, confessed every dream and when he had heard their last story, Jaime did what Jaime does best. He left.

The women were fat and drunk with the joy of being discovered. So disoriented, that it didn’t occur to them until much later that perhaps, just perhaps, Jaime was trying to fill some great gnawing hunger. The kind of hunger that can never be satisfied, appeased, the kind that just keeps rumbling, more, more.

Jaime was 37 the morning the hunger woke him up from a dead sleep. Overpowering it felt like his flesh was being consumed. When he stood up he felt light and inconsequential on his feet, he buckled his belt three loops tighter and when he went to inspect his appearance in the mirror he saw nothing staring back. Jaime closed his eyes and rubbed his face but when he looked again he saw someone else’s image and his head was filled with the whispered confessions of women’s sorrow. He wondered why he had never asked about their secret joys, their triumphs, their accomplishments instead of their heartbreaks. He wished he had read their yearbook entries instead of their diaries, made them laugh in bed instead of cry.
Getting up from the bed he strode over to his closet determined to finish dressing, but when his shirtsleeves were too long for him he called in sick to work. The receptionist was a nice woman, a single divorced mother, he knew that her ex husband never sent money or showed up when he was supposed to. “Jaime” she exclaimed, “Oh what’s wrong” and he realized he didn’t know.

Lilah died when she was twenty-three and Jaime was four. A strange cancer took her body and made her into its puppet. She had lovely blonde hair that fell out in clumps and the girl who used to push her son on the swings found it difficult to get out of bed everyday. When the doctor gave her a time frame of six months she asked him what she was supposed to do? She was twenty-three, divorced with hardly any nearby family. She leaned down, felt the softness of her son’s hair and thought, “Maybe this is my punishment for never believing in God. Maybe this is how he spites me.” And so she said a prayer to a God she hadn’t spoken to in ten years or believed in since she was eight years old, waiting for a daddy that never came home.

Her father was a police officer, shot in the line of duty. At school the teacher’s treated her differently and the children asked too many questions. Lilah stared at Jaime and wondered what his particular heartbreak would be.

In the hospital room her mother stood on one side, gray, washed out. You could see that life had handed her a plate she didn’t know how to eat. In the other was Daniel, antsy and edgy to leave, his brain was furiously trying to figure out how he had had the misfortune to meet such an unlucky girl. She had gotten pregnant on their first date, talked him into marriage, parenthood, and now this. This. The boy didn’t even look like him. Other than his hair, his eyes, and the way he held his shoulders. Daniel looked again, blinked, no, definitely not that big of a resemblance. He looked relieved when his parents arrived, as if they might somehow save him. Which, of course, they did.

They looked at Lilah’s mom, took note of her worn clothing, her aged skin, they saw their son, irresponsible as the day he was born, and of course there was Lilah. Paler by the day, no one knew if she would survive the week. Janice opened her arms to her grandchild and when he hesitated she had to hold back her tears. She saw the relief on her son’s face and thought, “this time. This time I’ll get it right”.

Janice decorated Jaime’s room with baseball bats and dinosaurs. She joined playgroups and learned about the best little league teams and soccer practices. She made all of his sandwiches without crust or mayo, and then one night, when he was seven, she was hit by a drunk driver on the way to her monthly cribbage game. Blindsided she had only had half a second to think, “Oh”.

Henry was watching football when the local police came to the door. “Henry, ahh Henry. We don’t know how to tell you this…” and Tom, who had known Henry and Janice since they were high school sweethearts, started crying right there on the porch while moths got stuck to the light and Jaime realized his grandmother was dead.

That night Henry put Jaime to bed and while he was tucking him in he thought of how distant his relationship was with Daniel. The boy showed up monthly when his rent was due and neither one could quite conceal their mutual dislike. He used to think that this was, if not normal, acceptable. Boys were prickly creatures, there was sure to be a certain amount of tension, especially in the young years. But all of Henry’s friends had sons that were returning home now. Age had tempered them and now they came over on Sundays, had a beer, watched a game with the old man. Only Henry’s living room remained empty and quiet. Every weekend football had flickered across the screen while Janice took Jaime to church and Henry stayed home, enjoying the silence. When the tears fell down his face he told himself that they were only for Janice and not for that thing called regret.

Henry took Jaime to all the games his wife had signed him up for. He played catch with him in the fields, and when Lilah’s mother showed up he told her he would be keeping the boy. No sense in changing things and upsetting Jaime, his voice went hoarse and he stared at a point just above her shoulder until she agreed. When he closed the door behind her he locked the deadbolt and stood by the window until he heard her car pull away. When he was sure she was gone he went upstairs and took Jaime fishing. At the lake he taught him how to bait the hook, to stay quiet so the fish didn’t scare, and how to reel the catch in without breaking the line. Jaime jumped up and down in the boat, dropped his pole in the deep part of the lake when a fish tugged, and asked his grandpa if grandma liked it in heaven. Henry thought about all the conversations he had never had with Daniel and so he told Jaime that grandma loved it in Heaven because she could see them all the time now. Jaime looked up warily, “Pops… ALL of the time?” and Henry laughed so hard he lost his pole too.

Jaime was thinking about Pops when he called in sick that day. He was remembering the way the old man smelled of cigars and cedar and how he had smiled the day Jaime had graduated from college. When he moved away he thought Pops was going to start crying, his face had gotten a splotchy shade of red, but instead he had just smiled and clapped him so hard on the back the room had echoed with the sound of it. Daniel, his father, had merely looked on, blinking, as if he still didn’t know quite who Jaime was.

There, in front of the closet, Jaime bowed his head and breathed deeply. He counted to ten and thought of everything he had to do that day instead of everything he had lost and everything he had squandered. He slipped on his shoes and when they were too big for him he changed his plans. Jaime grabbed his fishing pole and keys, headed to his car, and drove into his future.

Julia was a stewardess, turned teacher, turned decorator turning into something else. She had black black hair that had broken every comb she owned and blue eyes that could see right to the blueprint of your soul. Everyone had secrets and Julia’s secret was that her dreams decided her future. They always had. Today’s dream had told her to take her daughter, Anna Bell, to the lake, stand in the middle of the road, wait, see what came, and accept it with open arms. She was 28 and still believed in fairy tales, so when Jaime appeared on the horizon she was not that surprised, she just smiled.

Julia’s mouth burned Jaime’s skin like fire and he found he was afraid to touch her. Her hair wrapped itself around him, worked its way into his mouth, his car, his bed. When she wasn’t there she was always there. Hair ties left in the bathroom, shoes in the hallway, she tore through his home and destroyed all sense of order. When he asked her questions she changed the subject, laughing. She made him red. She made him stutter. One day she traced the outline of his spine with her ring finger and asked, “What was your mother like?” and Jaime, for once, didn’t make up a story about home baked pies and bedtime stories, instead he simply replied “I don’t know”. He felt her hair trace a path down his bare skin, felt her hands turning him, guiding him, invading him, and in the free fall he was discovering all the memories he had lost. He remembered his mother tucking him into bed, Janice’s hand in his the first day of school, how it had felt to bury two mothers, how much it had hurt. He asked Julia if she believed in love at first sight and when she said yes he found all his clothes fit again.

Anna Belle was four with light curly brown hair and a vivid imagination. Until Jaime came along she had told everyone that her father was a fairy prince, now she changed her mind, “Never mind. You’re my daddy” and then she had asked why he was crying. At night he placed his head on Julia’s chest and listened to her heart beat. He assured himself that she was young, healthy, that she would never die and leave him. He made her take a physical, bought only lean meat, and one day asked her if she was a lucky girl. She said yes, and just when he was breathing a sigh of relief she said, “Of course I am. I found you”.

The night before their wedding Anna Bell slept between them while Julia dreamt of sunny kitchens, children laughing, and hope being redeemed when you least expect it. In the morning she woke Jaime with a kiss and whispered, “we live forever”.

And they did.


Thursday, July 28, 2005 

Random Shit That Happened Today

The cat walked into the house with a baby bird in it's mouth, still alive, which prompted me to wonder, "Why in the FUCK can't that goddamn worthless piece of shit cat eat the motherfucking bird that's been keeping me up at night!"

Then I kicked that stupid cat in it's face.


I joined myspace,, if you're on add me as a friend.


I have no friends.


I'm a loser with a lot of sleeping pills. Add me please



I finished a book that made me want to cry and now have decided to sue the author for emotional trauma. God I love being an American! WOO HOOO!


I got a W#$%%$#T%$#RQET@ETH$T@$#!$TT$@FGV speeding ticket. Fucking unmarked stupid sedan. Whatever. I don't care. It's not like I showed him my real license anyway.

Here's what kind of pissed me off though, when the cop pulls me over he turns on the BIG flashing lights and throws on his high beams and spot light! You know, the kind that they usually save for gang members, drug dealers, rapists and minorities? What the fuck man! I'm only one little girl and I pulled right over! I couldn't see SHIT! When the cop saw me up close you could tell he felt a bit bad, but did he turn off the light? NO. EVERYONE WAS STARING!

So this is what I did:




I’m so fucking neurotic. No seriously seriously neurotic. I once killed a houseplant for revenge. It was an Aloe Vera plant and while watering it a big giant black spider leapt out at my face waving a knife demanding money for crack.

Ok, maybe he didn’t have a knife. Maybe it was a gun. What the fuck ever, all I know is that I stopped watering that goddamn plant right away.

I would walk past the yellowing plant and think, “Hah! Take that you motherfucker!” Plus the more I thought about it, who the fuck did that plant think it was anyway? Making me water it!


So yeah, I’m a bit neurotic. Let’s face it, I got into a power struggle with a PLANT! To say I’m independent and stubborn would be a bit of an understatement.

So lately my friends have been making fun of a lot of my quirks and I never realized until now how freakin weird I am!

1. I can only eat at two fast food restaurants.
2. I don’t drink coffee.
3. I have a horrible time going to the restroom anywhere but home.
4. I can’t sleep over at other people’s homes.
5. I REALLY REALLY have a tuff time using their bathrooms. Showers? Definitely out.
6. I can’t take baths. They freak me out.
7. I can’t swim in water I can’t see through. Freaks me out.
8. I won’t date or be friends with anyone named Bob.
9. I don’t like girls named Tara.
10. I can’t eat at other people’s houses.
11. I can’t take a drink from someone else’s cup.
12. If someone takes a drink from me I wait a polite ten minutes and offer them the remainder of my cup.
13. I can’t share silverware.
14. Meat occasionally makes me throw up.
15. Poultry makes me throw up 50 percent of the time.
16. I’m allergic to sugar.
17. I’m allergic to grass.
18. I’m allergic to milk.
19. I check my shoes and pillowcases for spiders.
20. Scary movies scare the SHIT out of me!
21. I can’t hide it when I hate someone and will usually tell them flat out.
22. I have a really hard time lying.
23. Regular conversations always remind me of songs and so I’ll burst out singing at them most random odd moments.
24. I’m a horrible flirt but terribly shy.
25. Lots of luggage/people in the car with me will cause me to flip out.
26. I can’t wear sneakers unless they’re solid white or solid black. Do you know how hard this is?
27. I can’t wear sweats. EVER.
28. I can’t go pee if I think you can hear. Fuck. GO AWAY!
29. I can’t learn anything new if people will be watching me. Which is why I haven’t been able to go skiing, snowboarding, skydiving, or surfing. I freak out with everyone looking at me.
30. I can’t drive with a new guy in the car. I think for the same reason as 29.
31. I flip out every time a guy asks me to be exclusive. One time I started hyperventilating.
32. If you point out any of the above, I will go to EXTREME lengths to avoid you, or the situation, ever happening again.
33. I hyperventilated during my driving test, every physical, and other odd events.

Now, reading this, you may think, “oh that’s not so bad”. But actually, it makes a lot of things hard. Every time I get invited to eat at a friends house I have to think of a million reasons why I can’t, or why there’s food left on my plate. Same as when I’m invited over. If, somehow, I’m roped into staying over, I have to figure out how to get out of there before I really really need a shower. First dates? Horrible. “Hey Terra, let’s go get some coffee.” I’ve tried saying yes to avoid the awkwardness but it just get’s horrible when I order water. I can’t drink anything at a coffee shop! Everything there makes me sick from caffeine and sugar. New boyfriends always want to teach me how to snowboard, how to ski. Yeah. I can’t. I will freak the fuck out if you are staring at me, fall down the mountain and break my goddamn neck. Seriously. I’ll die. “Oh ok. How about camping instead?” Umm. I’m allergic to grass and deathly afraid of spiders. Next. “Ok, why don’t we go away for the weekend instead?” Sure… but. How will I go to the bathroom if you’re always nearby in a small ass hotel room? Where will we eat because I refuse to eat at 70% of the restaurants out there? How long will we be gone? Will I be forced to take a shower somewhere else? EWW! Also, can we bring our own blankets because hotels only wash sheets, nothing else. Oh, and, how in the fuck am I supposed to get through two to three days without you noticing how fucked up I am? Shit, umm, I’m busy that weekend.




HNT Virgin's First Time

My back, my tattoo and, if you look close enough, my scar.


Wednesday, July 27, 2005 

The Reality of Reality Television is that it's Fucking Stupid

If I were an Evil TV Producer I would put stupid crap on like, “So You Think You Can Dance” and “What’s Up My Bum” and call it TV.

I would run around town wearing a beret screaming, “where’s my Evian! I need my Evian”, which would be code for “bring me my vodka you bitch”. Everyone would look the other way because I’m a TV Producer and they would be afraid that the next thing up their bum would be my foot.

Also, since marriage is already such a sham, I would add to the hilarity by employing fake ministers and then catching up with the couples years later saying, “Surprise! You were never married!”. Drama would ensue. Some couples would be happy, “Ha, I never loved you cheating fat asshole!”. Some couples would be devastated, not because their children were illegitimate bastards, but because for years they’ve been filing as married and I have now seriously fucked them over with the IRS. Some people would try to punch the host, so I would hire Fred Durst as the host. Who doesn’t want to punch that guy?

Halfway through the season I would have an episode called, “you are a fucking idiot” where I would inform the viewers that they are fucking idiots and that my shows have stolen at least 30 IQ points, 15 of which were needed to change the station.


Tuesday, July 26, 2005 

The Conversion

If I were Will Ferrell I would take great pleasure in making people laugh until they threw up. They would grab their sides, snorting with humor, screaming, “Please Will, please stop!”.

But I wouldn’t. That’s the kind of sick sadistic bastard I would be.

I would roam the town drinking and when someone tried to get into a fight with me for grabbing their wife’s boobs and yelling out, “Wow I lost that bet! Those are definitely NOT real” I would make them laugh until they forgave me. Then I would make them laugh some more and buy me a drink, because I would like to drink, no matter who I was, and then while they were still laughing I would punch them in the stomach.

Everyone knows getting punched in the stomach when you’re not expecting it knocks the wind out of you. They would fall on the ground and after I took a nice satisfying swig of scotch I would say, “Not so funny now huh?” Then I would walk off with my drink in one hand and their wife’s boob in the other.

Of course eventually I would come across the infamous Blog Ho, and I would, once and for all, turn him gay.

“Blog Ho” I would say. He would look around, stunned that Will Ferrell was on his doorstep at 7 in the morning with a bottle of scotch in hand. I would be up so early because I would stay up all night drinking, preparing myself to convert the Ho.


“Ho, kiss me you fool!” Realizing that I probably taste like sweet sweet scotch the Ho would jump at my face eager for a taste. Here’s where I would like to say that I would be gentle and sweet to the Ho, but I wouldn’t. Truth be told the Ho would be bleeding after and unable to walk for a couple of weeks.

The Ho likes it rough.

After I left the Ho would crawl over to his diary, leaving a trail of blood and semen, and shakily write the following entry: Today, today the Ho was turned Gay. Gay like the blue jays, gay like my son one day, gay like the fags who wave their flags in the gay gay parade. Oh yes, the Ho loves being gay.

Ho would leave his family and follow me around for the rest of his life, but I would never make sweet sweet love to him again, or share my scotch. Instead I would sit inside, watching him camp out in my bushes, tortured by nature, and laugh. Laugh the long slow laugh of a person who has peed in those bushes.

I would make lots of movies and get paid lots of money and when I got a bad review I would call up the critic and tell him how much money I had, then I would ask him how much money he had. Of course he will have no money. Critics are angry because they make twenty cents a day and I will tell him how children in Ethiopia eat better than his children. Then I would offer to buy his children for five dollars.

My agent would be mad at all the bad press I received so I would tell him to go fuck himself. Then I would make him laugh until he threw up and while he was busy cleaning up his mess I would fire him.

Eventually the doctor would tell me that I would have to give up drinking or die.

That, my friend, is when the laughter would end. I would smash my liquor bottle against the doctors head and throw his nurse through the window. No one takes away Will Ferrells liquor.

No one.


Monday, July 25, 2005 

Popcorn Time

Movie Review: I don’t usually write movie reviews, why? Because I don’t really give a shit. Also, I don’t watch that many movies… or TV. Except this last month. The end to late fees means I now enjoy renting brand new movies and not returning them for a month. HAHA.

Hitch: This movie was actually pretty funny. Light on story and low on thought. I like that in a movie. Movies that have morals make me want to shoot random strangers and leave them in an alley with their wallets intact, just to baffle everyone. Anyway, yeah, no real moral. Point one. Will Smith, point two. When the fuck did the dorky Prince of Bel Air become hot? HUH? Anyway, now he’s been hot for years but it still makes me scratch my head. The girl though… she was so NOT cute. I was all BLECH! And then, she was a BITCH! I laughed all the way through the movie until Will becomes a hairy unshaved pussy and cries all over her doorstep! If I was him I woulda slapped that bitch upside her head. Seriously, who the fuck does she think she is? I wouldn’t fuck that whore with my enem… oh. Hehe. Ok, I think you get my point. Everything else about the movie was pretty cool though! That guy from King of Queens fucking rocks. I was glad that he had such a huge role, it made me have to listen to the bitch in the movie a lot less.

The Lady Killers: Yeah yeah yeah. This movie is from last year, but fuck man I told you I don’t watch many movies so lay off already! I remember seeing the previews for this and thinking, HA, that looks funny. I don’t know why though. Maybe I was drunk because this movie was NOT funny. It sucked. I fell asleep twice watching it, and even though I was on a lot of benadryl that day, I still blame the movie. Plus, Tom Hanks is all pervy looking and the end sucked ass.

Miss Congeniality 2: I rented this for my mom, seriously, otherwise… ok. Fuck. I probably woulda watched it anyway. So no big surprise, Benjamin Bratt was in the first movie but not the second because dick wad breaks up w/Sandy in the first five minutes of the movie, after like six months of dating where they’re not even technically official yet, and THEN she proceeds to cry about it for the rest of the goddamn movie! For crying out loud woman get the fuck over it! Luckily by the end of the movie our heroin has moved on and is, from what I can tell, now a dyke.

Mr. And Mrs. Smith: Oh fuck I loved this movie. Guys this is like the perfect movie to take your girl to because not only is it a romance but it’s got guns, violence, car chases, and sex scenes with Angelina. How can you beat it! This movie kept me laughing, well, when it wasn’t slightly annoying me.

Here’s the thing, you’re a paid killer, and you’re a damn good paid killer too. As a paid killer I imagine intelligence and deductive thinking would come up somewhat high on the list of necessary skills, yet throughout years and years of marriage neither one figures out that the other one is a killer as well? Huh? I mean, there are a couple of tell tale situations that they get caught in that really shoulda tipped them off. Whatever, so apparently they are DUMB hired assassins. Sure. Ok. I’ll buy that. What I can’t buy is the ending. It makes absofuckinlutely NO sense! For revenge I threw my soda at the screen… but I throw like a girl so I hit the couple five rows in front of us.

Umm. Other than that I rewatched Ron Burgundy Anchorman, which made me laugh and laugh because… I like stupid movies, and there’s nothing stupider than Will Ferrell throwing a burrito in a motorcyclists face. Ahh. Good times, good times.



If These Walls Could Talk They Would Say, I Cried During His Vows, His Brothers Cried During The Toast, and While Everyone Danced...

my heart bore testament to something I can never describe.

Yesterday, we gave away our little boy who became a man while no one was looking.


Thursday, July 21, 2005 

The 411

Did you know I'm a contributor on another blog?


Ok, here's the info Stream of Consciousness.

I posted there today, so if, for some reason you actually find my words amusing, you can check me out over there.

In other news I do have a post in draft mode, debuting soon... but... I'm in a wedding on saturday. It involves a pink dress and me choking on bile.


after saturday "I'LL BE BAHK" said in Terminator voice. I finished my work project! YAY! everyone clap and cheer! One more day Terra is gainfully employed.

Translation, job = beer money.



Tuesday, July 19, 2005 


I don’t have time for this post. I really don’t. I’ve got a major project sitting on my desk in addition to all of the personal projects I have going on at home.

But I digress, and just so you know, I’m passing over other prospective posts to take this time to ruminate, rant, theorize, and… well, basically ramble.


I hear you got married.

And I wasn’t invited.

Hmm. Well.

Fuck you too.

That’s okay. I didn’t really expect an invitation, especially since we haven’t spoken in over a year. That’s the kind of friends we were I suppose. Still, you were married, and I wasn’t there.

Which seems odd.

We’d been friends since we were twelve and throughout high school we were “Very Best Friends” we had keychains and shit to prove it. I became goth for you. For YOU! You think I liked that black heavy metal head banging shit? No. It just allowed me to fade into the background, which, being terminally shy as I was, helped. You became an aspiring writer for me. See? We were friends.

I sucked at goth and so gave it up in favor for spring colors. You hated writing and so gave it up for.. well. Something else that didn’t involve reading I suppose. For christ’s sake it took you a year to finish “The Bell Jar”. Mensa material you were not.

Still it came as a shock to me that as we entered our twenties your sense of competitiveness never let up. You were always trying to be prettier than me, smarter than me, more put together. You pointed out that when you finished your BA we might not be friends any longer, as educated people didn’t often associate with the uneducated. However, you mused, surely our friendship was strong enough to survive.

I pointed out that surely it was, since I had already completed my AA and was into the third year of schooling, whereas your uneducated ass had never even taken one college course to date.

We both were quiet and the words “fuck you” reverberated over the telephone lines.

You were dating a big time engineer that owned his own house and you thought, surely, you were headed for marriage. I, thought otherwise.

You told the engineer that his taste in carpet was shit. You advised he clean his house and said, and I quote, “It’s a health risk. If you had children they would be taken away by the authorities.”

I liked the engineer. He was funny, smart, and the only engineer I’ve ever met that I didn’t want to stab in the eye with a pencil. You told me this cattily and I winced for his pride.

Poor poor Engineer: I cried for you when she made you cry. She was such a bitch, really you should have shoved her down some stairs and run for your dear overeducated life.

So, Bitchy Friend, how did we come to the end? If I remember correctly, I asked how you were doing and you said, “Fine”. This, I know, is girl speak for “I am doing fucking awful and am thinking about becoming either a nun or prostitute.” And so I pressed on into dangerous territory where eventually I said, “I think you are looking for marriage. Which isn’t right. You should be looking for someONE. You should be looking for love, worry about the rest later.”

Which is when you pointed out that I drink too much, party too much and sleep around too much to tell you how to run your life. I asked how I was supposed to meet anyone and you said that my last boyfriend had left me with bruises and you would never have dated a piece of trash like that.



That happened once… and I left… and I’d cried for hours and weeks and months over my stupidity. But it doesn’t matter anyway. I am still shocked that someone I considered a friend tried to make me validate myself.

Fuck you. God. That one stung.

But all that stupid shit aside, hey. You married this guy in under a year of meeting him and I am hoping, fucking hoping, that you married him for love, real love, and not for the ring and some big fucking party that the two people in the world you call friends could not show up to.

But I don’t think so. You always wanted to marry a police officer, and he is a police officer and everything you ever wrote down on your short list of requirements which was: police officer, wants to get married.

Wow. What a recipe for success.

You know, none of my other friends ever liked you. They always said you were a frigid bitch, ugly and uncomfortable in your own body, they said you kept me around because no one else was willing to put up with your shit. Which might be true. But I remember you calling me on your thirteenth birthday making your own birthday cake because your Dad couldn’t be bothered with a thirty minute drive, your brother didn’t care and your mother was on vacation with her boyfriend. On your birthday.

For Christmas your father gave you and your brother identical wallets that his secretary had picked out and your mother gave you nothing.

When your brother got married he neither invited nor told anyone.

Every birthday and holiday I came over, arms brimming with gifts, random packages falling down the stairs, and sometimes, I guess I’m still afraid of how you will fare in this world without me.



Wednesday, July 13, 2005 

Where Have All The Cowboys Gone and Where Are All The Jocks

Ok, never mind the freakin cowboys. I know exactly where they are and if I head on over to The Saddle Rack I'll find at least a hundred pretending they can dance, tippin cowboy hats, wearing boots with heels and still shorter than me. Fuck man.

I hate The Saddle Rack and I swore, the last time I got kicked out, that I was never coming back.



The other day I was having lunch with my friend Jimmy and I told him that if he wanted a new car my friend Jon was selling his Mustang, and although I had been thinking about buying it, I've pretty much decided to pass. Jon's a great mechanic, the car is sound (I've been in it driving through canyons doing 140) but... I just can't do it.

It's a Ford, man.

And a fucking stang to top the whole shit off.


I. Cannot. Do. It.

Jimmy was like, yeah, I always hated Mustangs too. Fuck, I used to race Mustangs on purpose just to beat the shit out of them. Smug stupid motherfuckers.

Then Jimmy pointed out that the jocks don't drive them anymore.

Yeah. Come to think of it it's always young ghetto looking bitches drivin em nowadays. Young ghetto bitches that can't drive for shit but try to act like they can. I got into a fight with one one day. Fucking stupid bitch.


Come to think of it, old classy broads drive the camaro's now, which was always the classic jock alternative.

So I asked Jimmy what the jocks are driving? He didn't know. Which seemed odd because we always try to keep an eye on the block heads.

Then as we pondered this life altering question we realized, hey. We hadn't seen any jocks recently. Where the fuck have they gone?

I'd give this question more thought but I'm too busy rejoicing.



I Feel Better Today

Me = Like... a million

Dead People = 0

Ha take that you decaying motherfuckers!!!!!!!!!

Question: Why do people pour forties on graves? What a fucking waste of liquor. I mean, it might be shitty liquor, but still. Gangstas are fucking stupid.


Tuesday, July 12, 2005 

I Once Knew A Guy Who Said

"I'm a cognitive person...

That means I'm a very deep thinker."

I killed that guy.


Monday, July 11, 2005 

I Need a New Hobby

On Saturday I slept in late and when I woke up I was bored with nothing to do.

Nothing to do on a Saturday? Fuck that! So I got dressed and headed to the cemetery. There’s always something going on at the cemetery.

At the cemetery I played for hours. I danced on my relatives graves shouting, “Ha Ha! I never liked you!” and then I found some people I didn’t know and danced on their graves singing, “I feel so ALIVE”.

I was having a lot of fun, and getting a nice work out too, when I started to cough.

Hmm? What the hell?

I kept dancing until it occurred to me that maybe I was breathing in dead people germs. Who the fuck knows where these dead people have been? So I kicked some flowers over and headed back to my car.

On Sunday I drank a bottle of benadryl and upon waking four hours later I thought, “maybe the dead people are getting their revenge!”

Which, if you ask me, is kinda fucked up. I mean, just because I danced on your grave doesn’t mean you should fuck with my health.


Saturday, July 09, 2005 

I Wanna Hide Love Notes In Your Back Pocket

(click on picture to enlarge)


Friday, July 08, 2005 

I'm Trash, But Not White Trash and That, My Friend, Makes All The Difference In The World


I hope.

My cousin called me up yesterday and said his hearing is coming up, could I write him a letter saying that I don't think he'll kill any more people in the near future?

"Huh? I didn't think you had killed anyone."

"Oh yeah... I meant rob."

"You robbed people?"

" I said launder illegal drug money."

"Did you rob people?"

"No, look I'm just busy. Sometimes I say things I don't really mean."

"Like you're a murderer that used to rob people?"


"Hey E... try not to fuck up in court"


Anyway, so here's my letter:

Dear Powers That Be,

My cousin has changed a lot in the past week... I mean years. I don't think he would beat people up or smuggle weapons just because he was bored. Now he has a hobby. He plays scrabble...

.... alot.

I think he stole all my cd's last week... but I forgive him.

Because he has a knife to my neck.






Friday, July 01, 2005 

Layin Low in the L.V. (or, I just gotta post)

I'm wearing these shades so people don't recognize me... I've committed a lot of crimes.