Eeyore's 44th and it's dire repercussions

I’ve been sick all day with liquid shit, short lived and sporadic, yet severe stomach pains, body aches and a head ache. It’s been a feat for me to even get to the bathroom from my bed, and as anyone who has been to my house knows, that ain’t far.

Yesterday was Eeyore’s 44th birthday. Needless to say, plenty of weed was both smoked and eaten, loads of beer consumed, and work was skipped.

The Tiffers and I went out in our bikini tops and skirts, in an attempt to blend with the overwhelming scantily clad hippy atmosphere. Soon, said bikini tops were traded in on free abstract ‘booby paintings’. We both now know what it’s like to be a celebrity, if even only for our bared breasts.
Every couple of minutes, someone would approach us asking to take our picture, followed by at least 3 other opportunists, who had been too chicken to ask in the first place, but were inspired by the first brave stranger’s foot in the metaphorical door. Eventually it occurred to me (I am slow) that rather than asking, “Can I take your picture?” they should have been asking, “Can I take a picture of your tits so I can either a) go home and wank off to it, b) post it on my soft core porn website for a meager profit, or c) all of the above?”
But alas, no one was so forthcoming.

So Dayvan Cowboy just came on, magically, and now I’m thinking, despite today’s intensive diarrhea and friends, I probably should go to work tonight, to not only make up for the past two nights I’ve missed, but to also pay myself back for the $50 I borrowed from my savings. I hope I don’t shart on anyone.
Holy fuck the guilt is setting in.
I have to get out of here. I’m working every day from now on.
I will write during the day, obsessively check my email, exhaust the dog by taking her on some sort of walk or adventure, drink coffee, maybe bathe, and probably not clean my house.
Sounds like a plan.

OH MY GOD ADVIL WILL YOU PLEASE WORK ALREADY MY HEAD IS IMPLODING!

So The Tiffers is out with some guy named Billy who she met yesterday at Eeyore’s. He’s from either LA or NY (same dif, both initials), here for, I dunno, a Free Hugs campaign. At least that’s what he was doing when she met him.
And so, I am stuck at home, internet-less, and car-less. Also, Curry pissed on the mattress pad thing in the living room, twice, and so I am depriving her of love. Living things should not be allowed around me.

Who has a hot tub I can move into?
I’m pretty sure that, if someone were to agree to bring me food and water, I could, quite happily, live out the rest of my days soaking in one. Especially considering that I am fully comfortable stewing in a warm vat of my own piss. (Note: I will poo over the side, into a receptacle provided by the owner of the hot tub. Or not. Whatever floats your boat.)

Okay I had a rest, and DanActive, and there’re some tasty and nutritious Ramen noodles cooking up on the stove. I am brand new! Can life possibly get any better?

Question: Why does my stolen internet no longer work, ever?
Question 2: Why am I sweating like a Jew in Germany?
Question 3: Was that offensive?
Question 4: Do I give a fuck?

I guess that if you like me, you have to learn to embrace my more unpalatable qualities, such as indiscriminate bigotry (oxymoron), a grievous hated for children, and a complete lack of manners or courtesy regarding my nauseating flatulence.
Also, the endless discussion of shit.
But trust son, trust, the rewards are totally worth whatever trauma you might endure.
Por Exemplo: I often make up really hilarious lyrics, inspired by what ever I happen to be doing at the moment, or poo. That is entertaining. I’ll probably never ask you to borrow money. Also, I’m always willing to help you out in whatever way you need/I can, providing it’s convenient for me. I’m a true giver. And lastly, but not leastly, I know the difference between ‘your’ and ‘you’re’, ‘to’ ‘too’ and ‘two’, and also ‘there’ ‘their’ and ‘they’re’. In my book, that is a priceless quality.
Now the decision is in your hands, and I’m sure that, despite any of the many racist jokes I tell or laugh at, you’ll follow the lead of 97% of Earth’s population, make the right decision, and choose to adore me. (It’s hardly avoidable. The other 3% consist entirely of retards and pedophiles. You don’t really want to join up with that lot, now do you?)

Ramen noodles are soooo good! I already feel a fresh shart coming on! Thank you Asia!

Soon I'll be getting my camera. Begin the festivities!

I’m wondering, do rappers write their lyrics on a laptop, or by hand on envelopes, ala 8-Mile?
So far, the two uni-verse (heh), chorus-less rap songs I’ve written, have been by hand, in sharp black ink from a felt tip pen, in the saddest excuse for an educated adult’s penmanship possible. If you are a/know any rappers, please enlighten me.
Well, one thought leads to another, as thoughts are wont to do, and now I’m sitting here, wondering if all song writers write their lyrics on their laptops. P.s. or desk tops, I’m not one to discriminate. Either way, if it is true that most do, or even some, I feel, for no logical reason, that it takes away some of the romanticism of the musical process.
But I’m a hypocrite, since, although I’m not writing lyrics at present, I am writing something on my laptop.

Topic change.

How am I going to go to work tonight? I am on the verge of suicide (joking, but seriously) and I did 100 lunges and this must be PMS because right now I’m not feeling motivated by either England or a small Peruvian man in a colorful woven poncho, what is wrong with me?
I like to write about completely esoteric things. Things which only I, and a maximum of one other person can understand.

(Completely esoteric paragraph removed for content. Not quite esoteric enough.)

Why do I need a Snicker’s so severely at this moment? I mean, I would probably kill you for one. But then I get to thinking about my 100 lunges and the futility of all that suffering if I succumb to the Snicker’s siren. Fuck you and your candy bar! I’ll kill you for tempting me. You want me to get fat!

Have I mentioned today that I love corn tortillas? It has been proven scientifically * that if you prefer flour tortillas to corn, you will burn in hell eternally.
*See July 1998 issue of Scientific Mexican-Catholic

Jesus (Hey Zeus) Christos, I am Filarious. Time to treat myself with another tortilla of the corn variety. Maybe I’ll throw in a little partially hydrogenated artery clogging butter substitute and some texturally pleasing heart of iceberg lettuce (I can see James cringing now) for posterity.

I’ve discovered that I can effectively stave off my tendencies toward self annihilation by writing constantly. And when I say constantly, I mean with breaks for corn tortilla eating, of course.
If you have a vagina and functioning ovaries, you know what I mean.
And when I say you know what I mean, I’m referring to self/other than self destructive inclinations. Like every thought is wretched and leads to another thought, at least equally as wretched, and they all connect together like a web with a giant frothing demon spider sitting smumpously in the center, or the circle of life from the Lion King, only really extremely sucky. Also, you want everyone to die. And you want Snicker’s. And, oddly enough, some cock, really, really, really friggin’ badly.

So this is my present state, and I’m supposed to go and make $300 tonight. I can do it. I’m a big brave dog.
If I make $300 tonight, then I’ll have $500 for England, and if my calculations are accurate, that’s roughly ¼ of what I need.

You couldn’t be a better playa than me, even if you fucked everyday of the week.
Holla!
Suddenly I’m feeling inspired. Like, ‘yeah, hello, I am a playa, and a skilled pimp to boot. Life is better than it was 1 minute ago.’

Also, I’ve quit my job at Embassy Suites. They don’t know it yet, but they will when I don’t show up ever again. The only thing I worry about is how I’m going to get my phat paycheck (I’m only half joking) and retain an iota of my dignity. Fucking hell, I should have left that note yesterday.
The thing about real jobs that I just can’t manage to wrap my superior and quite capable mind around is the whole giving a fuck thing. People there actually give a fuck about whether the salt and pepper shakers were collected from the tables the night before, or if you’re wearing 5 non-functioning wrist watches. They care enough to work 1 million (70) hours a week. Okay people, it’s a hotel, it doesn’t fucking matter, why don’t you go and do some soul searching and find something real to do with your life, instead of worrying whether I’m delivering food to a table in the manner you prefer. Go on a spirit vision quest or save some leatherback turtles for fucks sake. No body should care about what some sauced up douche bag business travelers think about their place settings, or whether there are 30 sets of rolled silverware at any given time.
Oh my god I think the mind numbing ‘dumb’ infection I got from that job is actually starting to clear up.
Writing, you are my penicillin and my probiotic.

Compulsive Eaters Anonymous (Your secret's safe with us.)

In my post work, residue of smoke and sexual frustration removing shower last night, I accidentally washed all of the jotted ideas from my left hand on purpose. I just wanted to be clean of it all, but as a result, I’ve left myself orphaned to the Siberian wasteland of early morning idea desolation.

Don’t worry, I’ve devised a plan:
Since in the last two days, I’ve become inordinately fond of bullet points, here’s is a list of what I’m pretty sure was on my hand.

-Heart of Darkness (Wanna read it.)
-Something Wicked This Way Comes (Ditto.)
-Raunchy (this was a t-shirt idea, contrived while high and drunk. While I do believe that this word is highly under used, as a t-shirt slogan, on second thought, I reckon it falls into the annoyingly sassy “Brat/My boyfriend won’t care because he won’t know” classification of shirts worn by early adolescent girls who, despite any legal repercussions, you’d cream your pants to punch in the face.)
-Robo Man (This was another high/drunk thing, which I don’t recall the context of, so it was probably also a t-shirt idea. I am basically just a walking well of, mostly retarded, unmade t-shirts.)
-Little Monsters (Have you seen this fucking movie!?! I haven’t since I was roughly, I dunno, 10, maybe 12, but T-rust me, I do intend to see it again, and soon. Here’s a brief refresher: Monster world under bed, protagonist is taken into it, deceived into believing that it’s nice there, antagonist turns out to be bad (duh) with ill intent toward the protagonist. Good shit. Trust son, trust.)

That’s it. Maybe I’ll turn this into a blog composed entirely of bullet points listing words scribbled on my hand.
I know you just wet your panties.
Don’t be ashamed. So did I.

p.s. The bullets did not translate from Word. That, combined with me being too lazy to want to retype everything again, equals dashes instead of the bullets I profess to love so much.

I haven’t really written in about 2 weeks or maybe more (fuck you Embassy Suites) and now I suck at it, I’m going to put my head in an oven.

I am so fired

Oh my Holy Bejeezus I am such a loser since I haven't written anything in infinity years.
It looks like I'm going to have to bring you all up to date with only the most essential of anecdotes and facteloids.

• Right now I'm at Kerbey Lane, post breakfast, and need I mention, post coffee. A few minutes ago I had to go and drop my customary coffee induced deuce, and would you believe, one of the two stalls in the ladies room in this shithole is 'Out of Service', so I was forced to perform a veritable symphony of flatulation and splashes for the next restroom patron, who was kind enough to wait, very quietly, just outside the stall door. Whilst in this situation, I was faced with a dilemma of cosmic proportions. Do I go ahead and do the, trust me, very necessary courtesy flush, and give myself away, or do I fore go the courtesy flush, and pollute the restroom with my noxious shit vapors, and give myself away? I'm sure you're quivering with anticipation to know which I chose, which I'll tell you right now, was the former. Trust me, it was the most altruistic option. I was not finished.
• Goddammit what the fuck am I talking about?
• I went to New York, lost my luggage on the way there, was stuck with only highwater jammy jews to wear, became deathly ill (i exaggerate), and had to spend the night in the Atlanta airport, coughing and sweating on everyone, due to weather delays (what the fuck is a Northeaster, holy mary mother of god, I'm from Texas for fucks sake). Needless to say the trip was a success. Seriously, it was great. Seriously. Le sigh. Shout out to Joey da Briz.
• I just had an acid flashback.
• I am gay for doing a shout out. Literally homosexual.
• I am a bargain hunting expert, since I got tennies (orange and blue awesomeness), 6 t-shirts, and a belt, all for $9.20. Genuflect at my perfectly formed feet.

Okay, I also have a blog entry which I wrote on the airplane to Cleveland, sitting safely and patiently in my very attractive journal which I made, but I am too lazy to do all dat bull shit.

So now I may go home and brush my teeth.

I am disgusting.

I’m finding that already, the mind numbing repetitiveness of the ‘normal’ working world, is affecting the tenacity of my neural connections.
Since I’ve started my new job(s), about the only sentences I can think in, are in question form, and they all invariably have to do with the retrieval of a food or beverage for some ‘guest’ or another.

Here are fabricated conversations to demonstrate my current predicament:

The Tiffers: “I’m hungry. What do you want to do for food?”

Me: “Well, the steak is very delicious, but my personal favorite is the smothered chicken.”

or

Ba-rett: “Come over to watch The Office. I’m making sushi.”

Me: “Well, would you like to start off with a cocktail, or maybe a coffee?”

or

Cashier at the Chinese people store down the street: “Your change is $1.68.”

Me: “That’s it!?! You greedy cunt! What did you want me to do for you? Suck your cock? Look, why don’t you just keep this… obviously you need it more than I do?”

Cashier at the Chinese people store down the street: :::looking quite perplexed::: “what the…”

So I’ve decided that I need to be more efficient in spare time usage, in order to counter the intelligence eliminating effects of the service industry. I’ll probably start reading philosophy or something.
Don’t worry, I won’t talk about it. Except to Martynez. I know how much he enjoys that.

I wrote everything prior to this as a prologue to what follows:

My brain is stupid.

One funny thing. I met Ba-rett and his sister Lauren at the Elephant Room a few nights ago for audio/visual jazz observation and beer enjoyment. Some how, as always seems to happen in jazz bars, the movie Spaceballs came up.
Turns out, it’s an old favorite of both Ba-rett’s and mine. We were rehashing over some of our favorite parts, which means, since I’m have an abnormally deplorable ability for movie line retention, even for a girl, I was basically listening to Ba-rett, saying, ‘OH YEAH!’ and laughing. But that’s beside the point.
The point is, one line we (he) remembered was when Dark Helmet says, “Evil will always win, because good is dumb.”
That’s hilarious. I’ll probably be getting it tattooed on my rippling bicep, just under the picture of Rick Moranis’ glasses laden face I had copied from the ‘Honey, I Shrunk The Kids!’ VHS cover, a couple years back.

I have a period pimple on my right cheek which is changing the landscape of my face, so now I have one really high and distinguished cheek bone. You are halfway jealous.

Also, I now have a 9 week old puppy named Curry, who is part Chow and part mutt, and also a spaz. She is being crazy in my house and she wants to bite everything, including me, all the time, puppies are stupid. I would post pictures of her, but I don’t have a camera or money anymore, so c’est la vie, and it sucks, sometimes. Just trust me, she is the cutest puppy that’s ever existed.

Ugh, it’s freezing and rainy and it’s April. What the fuck, is this England or something?

Note: To any English readers, sorry but your country is known to be cold and rainy. We know that this is the reason that, in general, despite their more serious dispositions, English people are more smarter-er than Americans. You have more time for reading by fires and drinking tea.
(See how dumb my brain is since I’m both a server and an American? I said ‘more smarter-er’. Case closed.)

OH MY HOLY FUCKING HELL! ICE IS FALLING FROM THE SKY AND LANDING ON A VARIETY OF THINGS IN, NOT ONLY MY YARD, BUT ALSO OTHER PEOPLES, AND IT’S MAKING NOISES! ARMAGEDDON!
Either that or sleet.
Must I repeat, it is April. What the fuck?
It’s been in the 90’s in January here before. This is wack yo!

p.s. I’m sick and I’m pretty sure it’s either typhoid or strep throat or the weather, but my neck is hot and my throat hurts so much that every time I swallow, it’s an event. I’d like to add here that Chloraseptic is DA MAN! I probably need to sleep.

it's a ginger bread MAN you cunt

So I’m pretty much the most productive person in the world.

I did indeed get a job which I’m going to start in about an hour. I’m studying algebra so I can spend less money at school than I have to on topics unrelated to my area of study. I acquired the new Air album, Pocket Symphony (Thanks Ba-rett), which I’ve been dutifully, and happily listening to for the past couple of hours.

Yesterday was my Auntie and Uncle’s 20th anniversary. To celebrate, the Tiffers and I drove out to Leander (a.k.a. BFE) baring gifts of Elgin Sausage and flowers, and were very helpful and productive, punctuated with country music video watching (you suck Auntie!) and napping.

Diverging from the normal cooking, followed by gorging, followed by ‘vegetating in front of the boob tube’ (thank you Grandma for that delightful phrase), we had a lovely interactive evening of decorating the porch with borrowed Christmas lights, cooking up a ‘real nice’ Southern style BBQ feast, feasting on said feast, all topped off with a delectable (if I do say so myself) tres leches made by moi.

Also, my sister Melody, with whom I haven’t seen or spoken to in at least 6 months, was there, and we had a nice catching up time, and the exchange was equal and riveting, we are both very awesome in our lives as different as they are, and she was lovely, and I helped her very nominally on her English paper. Like always, we reminisced about the good old days.
And when I say the good old days, I mean the days of our adolescence when Mel would revel in torturing me in a variety of minor yet effective ways.

Por exemplo: Imagine a baby pink, satin hemmed, fuzzy blanket, under which you have slept since near infancy.
Imagine you are 13, and very interested in only yourself, writing depressed, pre-suicide/obsessed with Craig teenager poetry, and reading.
Imagine you have a sister, a mere month and two days younger than you, who is completely intolerant of your need for solitude and the pursuance of the arts, who needs attention in order to cope with the boredom of your home life situation.
What do you think follows?

Right you are. Your sister pulls tic tac size pieces of your baby pink fuzzy blanket, balls them up, sticks them, one at a time into her nostril, plugs the other nostril, and pushes her air out with such force in your direction, that the snot contaminated fuzz ball has no choice but to land somewhere on your person.
Now imagine this happening daily, multiple times, and then congratulate me on how well adjusted I am, considering.

Exemplo numero dos: Let me begin by enlightening you with some vital info about me of which you were probably unaware; I cannnot poo unless I am reading something. I will not. Even if I'm touching cloth, having to employ every gluteal muscle in order to stave off immediate pooing, I will, until I have something in my hands to read.
Sometimes this presents problems, like at restaurants or in public restrooms in general (I can't tell you how many times I've read my voter registration card, even the parts in Spanish), but I usually suss something out, even if it means resorting to counting bathroom floor tiles.

That said...

This has been going on for my entire literate life. So again, imagine you are 13, and you've just spent 45 minutes, post-defecation, unwiped and on the toilet, reading (or rereading, I should say) The Far Side Gallery 3.
Imagine that, true to form, sitting for an extended period on the blood-circulation-hindering toilet seat has, once again, rendered your legs asleep and useless. You know that as soon as you make any attempts at movement, you will be incapacitated with pins and needles, shooting and tingling throughout both of your legs.

What do you do? WHAT DO YOU DO?

You run to your bed as quickly as humanly possible, lie as still as humanly possible, and tell your meddling sister as sternly as humanly possible (considering your current predicament) that if she touches/moves you or the bed, she will suffer the consequences. The keyword being 'suffer'.
But both of you know, and acknowledge with a shared look, that you are in no position to 'administer justice'.
So in another attention getting attempt, your sister does what any turd of a sibling would do, which is to repeatedly poke your legs, whilst laughing maniacally.

I just have to say, it's not only a miracle I survived, it's a miracle I'm able to consort with this monster of a woman, and reminisce, in good humour, about those darkest of days.

So, I'm a Quack's right now, and I just eavesdropped something which I absolutely HAVE to share.
A woman, picking out baked goods with her kids, just called a ginger bread man, a GINGER BREAD PERSON!.............. TWICE!!!!!
THIS WAS CONSCIOUSLY DONE!
OH MY HOLY FUCKING GOD WHAT HAS THIS WORLD COME TO WHEN YOU THINK CHILDREN'S PERCEPTION OF GENDER EQUALITY WILL BE DAMAGED BY CALLING A 'GINGER BREAD MAN' A 'GINGER BREAD MAN'? I WANT TO VOMIT, I'M ACTUALLY DRY HEAVING, I'M SO SICK WITH POLITICAL CORRECTNESS INFECTION I THINK I'M LITERALLY GOING TO DIE! I WANT TO GO PUNCH THAT HO IN THE HEAD UNTIL SHE SCREAMS FUCK AND CUNT AND BITCH AND OTHER GENDER OFFENDING SLURS!

So fucking gay, I swear to god.

There are probably about 17 total minutes in any given year when I regret living in Austin. This took up about 3 of my annual allotment. The other 14 or so are usually reserved for August, and have to do with my cars a/c not working.

Of the Gummy Bear debacle

If you eat one red and one green gummy bear, simultaneously, it is an oral-gasm. I’ve just considered the possibility of eating two reds and two greens at the same time, and while as far as proportions go, this still works, I think the achievement of oral-gasm would be impeded by the difficulty of mastication. The effort is too distracting. The out come of any numbers higher than this is too obvious for me to even bother describing.

By the time I’m done writing this entry, I will have officially polished off an entire 5 oz., 3 serving, 450 calorie bag of Haribo Gold-Bears gummy candy. That is, within a 4 hour period.

p.s. Yellow gummy bears are gross. They taste like lemon fresh floor cleaner but I ate them anyway since I am a glutton.

A bit ago, I had a midday nap dream about saltwater taffy, and when I woke up, I knew I had to have gummy bears. So, I actually got up, and walked all the way (3 ½ blocks) to Walgreens to procure some.
Not only was the sating of the craving everything I had imagined it to be, but I got a free, bonus jaw muscle, iron pumping session. I’m gonna be so ripped up!

I was just thinking, and this is important…if I were drinking a refreshing and tasty cold beverage of the flavored-with-packaged-powder variety, and it was really delicious, and my thirst was very quenched by it and I was invigorated, and then someone tells me that instead of mixing the powder with water, they has mixed it with piss and added ice, I don’t think I’d be mad. I don’t even think I’d stop drinking it. (Note: please don’t ever do this.)

In the previous paragraph I was demonstrating how laid back and carefree I am, and also how I’m funny and don’t hold grudges longer than my inebriation lasts, and I always let things go after I’ve scratched the shit out of your drivers side door with my key, consequently stabbing myself under the fingernail with a chip of said paint. p.s. it really hurts when that happens.

As that old guy said in Way of the Gun, “Karma’s only justice without the satisfaction.”

The message there is, don’t just sit around and wait for some one or something, i.e. the cosmos, to take care of your shit for you. You have to be proactive in your approach. So get off your ass and go, in the words of my buddy Martynez, ‘administer some justice.”

Eating so many gummy bears made my tummy yucky. I feel vomity.