Thursday, March 30, 2006 

Diving Into The Glass

In the morning Pete brushed his teeth at 7:15 am on the dot. In the mirror he fixed his tie, gelled his hair, tucked in his shirt and headed off to work with time to spare. Pete was a good guy in an abstract sort of way.

He called his mother dutifully every Tuesday afternoon and every Friday night. He asked her if she needed anything and then he sighed into the phone while he listened to the long list of complaints coming from the other line. His answers were always spaced out and even,

"Yes mom. I'm fine."

"Of course, everything's great."

"No. I know. Of course I won't forget. Yes… you helped me and I didn't deserve it."

"Everything's different now."

Sometimes when he hung up he lay down on the bed and his spine screamed in outrage. He had sat so long with his shoulders slumped that his body ached at the thought of correct posture. Pete bought bibles and told his friends that he was a born-again Christian, "Pete. You are definitely a born again something" and he laughed along with them even though his fist was clenched tight.

"Go ahead, you laugh. But I'm getting my life right with God. You'll see, you'll see" and Pete nodded his head in such a way that they thought he might just be on to something.

Pete got a job selling sports cars to men in tailored coats wearing steel watches with insignias denoting wealth and power. When he helped fill out their application there was the faint taste of steel in his mouth as he wrote down their income and filled in their occupation. He asked the men what color leather interior they preferred and was blinded by their whitened smiles. In Pete's glass office the men never sat, preferring to stand they paced around the office using wide hand gestures and never quite looking him in the eye. Pete wanted to put his pen down, lean forward with his elbows on the desk and say, "Hey. All bullshit aside. How do you get to be you?"

But he didn't. He wrote down their bank account numbers instead and dreamed of a better tomorrow. At home Pete threw away his bibles while listening to his many failings as a son and put the phone down while he went to the bathroom. When he came back his mother was still talking, completely unaware of his absence and somehow he felt this to be a reflection of his whole life.

So he hung up.

He pulled on a sweater, a pair of loafers and headed down to the local bar. The place was crowded even on a Tuesday night and Pete wondered if they all had mothers they secretly hated. He ordered a jack and coke and stood with his back to the wall. Pete never goes to bars for women. He goes there to get lost in the bottom of the glass and for the feeling of anonymity, which always pervades places like these.

"Do you mind buying me a drink?" the girl standing in front of him is holding out a five and offering a hesitant smile.

"Excuse me?"

"A drink. It's like I'm invisible. The bartenders always take the orders to the left and right of me and when I lean forward they act like I'm not there."

Pete laughs, "You're fucking gorgeous. I'll bet the guy bartenders run right up to you with every drink on the house."

The girl rolls her eyes; "I wish," sticks out her hand "I'm Marilyn by the way."

"Pete" and now they are shaking hands, two strangers no longer so strange.

"Nice to meet you Pete. Now how about that drink?" She waves the money around and Pete feels like the world has been turned upside down and been shaken like a snow globe. He waits for the glitter to fall and when it doesn't he sidles up to the bar and orders two drinks paying with money from his own wallet.

Marilyn is so beautiful you don't want to touch her. She is not centerfold beautiful or girlfriend beautiful, she is classic beautiful. She screams money and breeding and when she talks her vocabulary enforces every possible preconceived notion you could have about her. When they go out Pete sees people look at her and then through her. Marilyn travels through life in this bubble and so she doesn't see what others see. When she looks at Pete she smiles and it makes him feel like he is one of the special people. He feels privileged. At work he doesn't sit unless his clients sit and if they don't look at him he stops talking. When his mother calls he lets her go to voicemail.

"Wow Pete. God must really be good for you."

"What?" Pete and his friends are sitting outside, enjoying the sun and having some beer. Well, actually they finished the beer hours ago and have now moved on to the vodka and rum bottles.

"Jesus. Don't you even remember the big God kick you got onto?"

Pete's not thinking about God. He's thinking about the way Marilyn looks in the morning before she wakes up and the distance between her house and his. He's wondering how much convincing it would take to get her to move in and imagining the look on his mother's face when she meets her. Marilyn is just what he's always needed, always wanted. He's wondering if this is love but finding it hard to come up with a definition.

"Pete. Pete!" Steve's waving a hand in front of his face. "Jesus man. I think you've had enough to drink. No more for you."

"Well fuck. I think we drank everything anyway. There's nothing left to drink." And everyone's laughing, even Pete who has no idea what the joke is about.


Wednesday, March 29, 2006 

Oh Tell Me A Story

about stardust and praise. Make it unending with children that play, mothers that cook and dogs that run away.
translation: this is one of those weeks/months/years/lifetimes when i feel completely uninspired and hopelessly out talented. TA DA! that was my magic trick of the year.
You don't know what the trick was?
Well, me either. So shut the fuck up.
Last night I kept smelling pee. Everywhere I went, pee. it stunk so bad. i got down on my hands and knees but the smell kept coming and going randomly. Finally, when it was it's strongest, i noticed that the dog was sitting next to me with a nice yellow slash on his forehead.
Kudos cats.
I don't know which one of you done it, but... kudos.


Tuesday, March 28, 2006 

Dear Flu

Please go away. I don't know what I did to piss you off. Frankly, you're acting like I fucked your girlfriend.


Friday, March 24, 2006 

Suprise Suprise

being the kind of girl where you hate other girls is a strange thing. for instance, your own femininity sneaks up on you. one day it's no where to be found, the next day it's screaming in your ear, "oh.. my... GAWD!! look at that cute PURSE!"
you just want to strangle the bitch.


Tuesday, March 21, 2006 

L is for the way you looked at me


Tell me we were beautiful, when really we were ugly and gray. The wind making our skin dry and pail, cracked and red, how did our eyes get so rimmed with black? How did our hair get split and frayed? How did our hands slip from one another's until we stood cold, shaking, with them shoved into the pits of our arms? We wore black coats and black boots, stood on opposite sides of the train station, but neither of us were going anywhere.

Did you slip down the staircase and rush out to the waiting street when the train blocked you from my view?

Or did you wait there, anxious for me to reappear, only to find my spot empty?

Tell me that we abandoned each other simultaneously.

I didn't expect to see you here. Not here, in this brightly-lit family restaurant, proudly showing me pictures of your offspring. I thought we'd be drunk in a dark shadowy bar. I thought it would be a place where we could confess broken hearts. Our smiles, out in the real world, are stretched too tight and our teeth are unnaturally white.

We ask, "How much was your session?" and compare receipts. We don't ask if we were the source of all the hang-up calls, the anonymous late night door knocks, we don't confess regrets or the number of nights it took to fall asleep next to a new body.

I don't say, "I didn't give up on you, I gave up on me." And because of this I am spared your response.

Later I will think about the healthy glow of your skin, the stains on the lower left corner of your shirt, and while I am doing this I will try to relax.


I will open my hands and release the folds of my own skin, held tightly, in some insane attempt to keep it all together. I will forget that I used to be effortless.



It' All Tuesday and Shit

Today my boss asked me if we had any superglue, as opposed to these glue sticks.
As he said this he waved around the glue sticks as if they were offensive, or subpar, or something else somehow my fault.
So I said, "No. I'm almost positive superglue is an office safety hazzard."
Then we just stared at each other.


Monday, March 20, 2006 

My Monday Poem

Fuck You
note to self: find out if this is a poem or just one of those general cry to the God's.


Sunday, March 19, 2006 

My Name Is Candy, But You Sugar, Can Call Me Anything You Want

I accidentally dyed my hair red.

I'd post a picture... but I'm too busy tearing my eyes out.


Friday, March 17, 2006 

My Friday Poem

Thank you friday for lasting so ever fucking long.
We both know my true love is saturday morning.
Thank you for paying me every other time
Like a man with bad aim and quick on the trigger
You keep my satisfaction levels to 50 percent
Thank you for reminding me poems don't have to rhyme
And they can suck as much as I want them
Thank you for my boss always canceling our one on ones
We both hate each other and dread them, so why do we even fuck up our calendars with discussion time we never intend to have?
Thank you Friday for NEVER being casual day
I glare at my jeans on the way out the door but always wear my sweats on Saturday.


Thursday, March 16, 2006 

It Is What It Is, And It Ain't What It Is Isn't

"How do you know he's a pervert?"
"I know what I know... it's what I heard."
And other fucked up convo's you have while completely drunk and don't even remember once the video tape's replaying your dumb ass funny comments.
"It's what I know."
Okay, so here's what really pisses me the fuck off about yesterdays bitch fest over me having my dog in the car.
It was at work.
And for the record I would just like to restate, he was in a parking GARAGE. Fuck man. I know I'm a bit defensive, but here's the thing, how do I know that one of these bitches won't be upset that building management isn't reading me the riot act and complain to the SPCA or some other policing bullshit that will come by my house and threaten to take my dog?
I mean.
I paid a lot of money for that fucking dog.
I'll kill it before I let someone else play with my new toy!!!
So here's the reason that I brought (and occasionally bring) the puppy to work. About once a week I have to head off after work to either San Francisco or Hayward. This, for me, is an hour trip. From work. And I CAN'T leave the puppy at home alone for 24 fucking hours locked up in the goddamned fucking bathroom without food or potty.
So I have to bring him. Not a problem. EXCEPT, I live a half hour away from work, so that adds an additional hour to my commute time, which would bring me to a total of three hours on the road, plus nine hours at work, etc. etc. you get the fucking point.
So what do I do? Bring the puppy to work anyway and risk SPCA showing up on my fucking doorstep because a bunch of fucking liberal bitches don't understand one fucking thing about biology and are INFUCKING capable of understanding what REAL dog abuse is?
Add on ANOTHER fucking hour to my already HEINOUS commute?
omg. right now i am so mad that i want to kick in those bitches teeth, grab the shards out of their mouths, smash them into the pavement, then cut off all their hair. i'm so fucking evil and i don't give a shit.
Or, and this was the last option suggested by my friend last night, pay 35 fucking dollars to the doggy day care next to my work so that I can save myself the hour commute time AND the spca complaint.
35 bucks a day means 140 bucks a month.
140 bucks a fucking month.
I have never, ever, wanted to kick a female in the crotch so bad before.
The worst part of this? Izzy loves it when I bring him to work. He goes for a walk at lunch time. He sees me every two hours. He rides on my lap to and from, sticks his head out the window, and plays in the empty part of the parking lot on my break. It's like fucking disneyland to him.
Darling. 2 am. 70 mph on the freeway and I am ddrunk drunk drunk. Reminiscing. Which is always the worst. I didn't close my eyes, but still you were there. Freeway signs passing, memories flashing. 70 mph and you were there.
Ang got a DUI. You don't know Ang, and that's not the point. The point is that I don't erratically shift lanes right now. The point is pools and decks and bikinis and me dancing erotically across the backyard while you said, "I didn't know you could do that."
That's the point.
All the times you wouldn't dance with me.


Wednesday, March 15, 2006 

Note to: umm. All the Stupid Fucking People

Goddamnit,  your stupidity pisses me the fuck off!!!
You bleeding heart IDIOTS!
jesus fucking CHRIST!
You'd think I had him chained to a hamster wheel that powered my engine! fucktards! Look, it's like, 50 degrees outside. Translation? Not hot! Not freezing!
What does this exactly mean?
The fucking dog is in no fucking danger whatsoever!
you fucking piece of trash morons.
And also?
I left the fucking windows cracked!
AND, he's in a COVERED parking lot!
AND, he's only been there fifteen fucking minutes. If a dog can die within fifteen minutes in 50 degree weather in a covered car with the windows cracked then we better give a call in to mother nature and tell her that she's doing a fucking shit poor job of ensuring that anything survives the elements.
'Oh, he's shaking, he soooo cold.'
Um. Yeah. You stupid bitch, of COURSE he's shaking! He wants you to pet him! He wants you to let him out of the car! He's excited! He's a little non yappy dog!!! What do little non-yappy dogs under 20 pounds do? Lick you to motherfucking death!
'oh he doesn't have any water'
Um. why in the FUCK would i put an open container of water in my car? so he can jump all over it? so he can get wet and knock all of the remaining water on the seat?
I know my dog. I know my dog will knock that water over before he drinks any of it.
Also, i know he had water this morning, this afternoon, and any other fucking time he wanted it when i walked out to the fucking car to check on him a million fucking times.
But mostly, mostly what i know is this: I FUCKING HATE YOU.
jesus fucking christ i cannot believe how asinine people can be and still manage to speak without making themselves throw up.



Quickie (or, what i've been doing while i was supposed to be working)

They say, 'seeing is believing,' which has always confused me, because believing has always been based on some sort of faith and people are always urging others to take a leap on 'blind faith.'

You said you saw me lose my faith.

Which made me stop.


Did you? Did you really? Can you tell me the time, the hour, the day? Can you tell me if it left in a flurry of gray smoke or describe the way my chest rattled from its death cry?

I'm sorry.

So sorry.

Didn't mean to scare you there. I'll let go of your shoulders now, smooth the bunches out of your jacket, pick up the packages I scattered in my haste. It's just; I don't remember it now. Only the memory. And it haunts me, that feeling of being larger than I was.

Look at me.

All wild hand movements and exaggerated facial gestures. What must you think? A crazy girl gone crazier, that's what… but, here, take my number, call it if you remember anything. Even if it's in the dead of night. Don't worry, I don't sleep that well any more. I sit up finding monsters in the shadows and wrinkles on my face.

Yes, yes, of course you must go. You have places to be, people to hug, loved ones to check up on. But… call me, whenever, tomorrow,


Tuesday, March 14, 2006 

Cindy Is An Evil Ass Drunk

which is probably why i love her. BUT, it's also why, when all my IT problems began, I NEVER EVER asked her to post for me.
yesterday, while apparently being drunk and desperate, i reversed my decision.
hence the "i am so fucking hot" post.
Nice Cindy.
This round definitely goes to you.
HOWEVER, just for the record, you drink a lot of patron with me. Revenge will be mine!!
Like i'm smart enough to get revenge.


Monday, March 13, 2006 

I just want to make sure you all know

how fucking hot I am.

Seriously, I am teh hotness.





I'm So Excited

and I just can't hide it!!
I'm about to lose control and I think I like it,
oooh yeah!
So email posting IS working!!!!!
Holy fucking jesus shit on a stick!
Okay. calm down terra. although spontaneous orgasms are AWESOME, they are NOT always so appreciated at work.
work spontaneous orgasms = fired.
Anyway, so here's the lowdown. I CAN POST NOW!!!
BUT, i still cannot look at any haloscan comments, or post any haloscan comments, or think about posting them because when i remember i cannot i go, well, post-al. hehe.
I can read blogger comments though, strange huh? But it's a moot fucking point, because not only does no one comment via blogger, my IT team has also blocked me from blogger commenting as well.
I love giving off the impression that i don't give a shit about your comments. But i do! i really really do! I'm an attention WHORE.
when i'm at cindy's house i check all of your comments and keep them close to my heart knowing that at least someone, anyone, pays attention to me. your comments are the only thing keeping me from going all thelma and louise.
one of them got to fuck a roadside stranger that looked like brad pitt.
you people are keeping me the fuck down.



i ain't mexican but i still love me some pinata

If I wrote songs they would be filled with blood and violence and
maniacal laughter, or maybe violins and weeping angels and clouds full
of harps or some other shit and… and… this is NOT writers block, this
is NOT I'm too busy too think, this is NOT, every fucking thing under
the sun and on this planet is annoying the shit out of me day.


I do not give a fuck.


Even though when I went home on lunch I had to clean up the entire
bathroom that my puppy had diarrhea in.

Even though when I get home tonight I'm going to have to clean up the
entire kitchen that my cats threw up in.

Even though I keep getting memo's about shit I already did, or can't
possible fucking do, and I've been up since three am.

Even though lots of other shit that you could care less about. PSST: me either.




I am soooooooo the nicest girl you shall ever meet.


Don't make me come over there. Don't make me feed you candy and beat
you with a stick.



Saturday, March 11, 2006 

blah blah POST

I don't have access to blogger.... AGAIN.



I hate hot spots and starbucks and lattes and a bunch of random shit that I could list off if I had the patience, you had the time and/or a hearing aide that you could shut off on will.


Just had mental image of me gesturing and talking wildly on mute. Yes. Yes, life would definately improve for a lot of people if that were possible.

anyway, ages and fucking ages ago I saw this cool little feature on blogger, posting through email. I don't think it worked though. And I doubt it will work today. But fuck it, here goes yelling into the abyss.