It took about 24 hours before she went in for the hit. Have you lost a TON of weight?! You look like you have lost a TON! A TON! I may in fact still be bleeding from the eviscerating.
Bitch, please. Don't you know that I no longer suffer from *that* kind of body dysmorphia? Where you see a beached manatee, I see one skeeeeeeny mama. You reminding me that there are 10 extra pounds laying around does not endear me to you. In. The. Slightest.
Monday, November 23, 2009
Sunday, November 22, 2009
One more time
The problem is that since I have been talking so much (to such rapt and attentive audiences) I don't have a whole lot swimming in my brains that I need to squeeze out onto the keyboard and spray across the internetz like amniotic fluid after the head delivers (that was for you; and YOU know who I'm talking to).
I love to write. Love, love, love it. But with my perfection complex and all, if it ain't gonna be great, it ain't gonna git done. I used to make a lot of proclamations. I called them MY UNIVERSAL WISHES. The one I have now is for all the ladies out there to be expunged of their need, their drive to do every.thing.fuck.ing.right. It's a goddamnned ball-buster of a chore to drag around, let me tell you. And after a day of falling short, the last thing we want to do is give someone a blow-job (ironically, a task that even done poorly, is received with standing ovations). Can I get an amen?!
Fuck.
So usually, once the three kids are asleep and I'm reasonably certain my other "services" won't be required and I ostensibly have *time* to write, I'm so flippin' tired that all I want to do is pour a drink and settle in to a few hours of "Say Yes to the Dress" reruns. Either that or I'm snoring by 9:15.
Ten years ago, if anyone had told me this would be my life, I would have sneered in their eye and ordered another Wild Turkey on the rocks. Bitch.
Anyway, if you're lucky enough to catch my live show now and then (best seats @ 3am, 3rd floor of VBMC) tip well. I have a lot of kids.
I love to write. Love, love, love it. But with my perfection complex and all, if it ain't gonna be great, it ain't gonna git done. I used to make a lot of proclamations. I called them MY UNIVERSAL WISHES. The one I have now is for all the ladies out there to be expunged of their need, their drive to do every.thing.fuck.ing.right. It's a goddamnned ball-buster of a chore to drag around, let me tell you. And after a day of falling short, the last thing we want to do is give someone a blow-job (ironically, a task that even done poorly, is received with standing ovations). Can I get an amen?!
Fuck.
So usually, once the three kids are asleep and I'm reasonably certain my other "services" won't be required and I ostensibly have *time* to write, I'm so flippin' tired that all I want to do is pour a drink and settle in to a few hours of "Say Yes to the Dress" reruns. Either that or I'm snoring by 9:15.
Ten years ago, if anyone had told me this would be my life, I would have sneered in their eye and ordered another Wild Turkey on the rocks. Bitch.
Anyway, if you're lucky enough to catch my live show now and then (best seats @ 3am, 3rd floor of VBMC) tip well. I have a lot of kids.
Thursday, October 1, 2009
Dusting off the keys
So I took off the last three months. Sue me (and while you're assembling the documents for trial, can you please tell me wherethefuck all the time went?).
That's it. That's all I got right now.
That's it. That's all I got right now.
Thursday, July 2, 2009
Happy Anniversary, babe
I haven't looked at the picture in a long time, but I see it clear as day in my mind. I look fucking GREAT in it. All American Apparel ad meets Kubrick meets Gabriel Garcia Marquez-ian tragedy.
Me, in my nude underpants, my first pair (but certainly not my last) of high-end "granny panties" & raw silk, bright red bra. The motel was tacky, but I loved it. The cheesy bedspread laid out underneath my butt and open thighs (one hand behind me, planted onto it to keep me from falling over). I was tanned and just before I took the photo: blissfully happy.
You can't see my face behind the camera and the flash is perfectly reflected in the floor length mirror in front of me. It's a sexy shot. Trust me. Exactly the way I wanted to be remembered on my wedding day, the day I was abandoned by my fiance.
Turns out he didn't leave me that morning. Well, he did leave. Took my flip-flops and said he was going out for a bottle of Wild Turkey so we could toast our marriage. He was gone for 2 hours and this being Virgina Beach in the middle of summer, I knew a liquor store couldn't be all that hard to find. When it settled in that he was gone, my rubber sandals on his feet to keep me close, I sat down to take the snapshot. I refused to put on my wedding dress. REFUSED. So in my skivvies it was.
When he walked in the door 10 minutes later, sweating, frantic, GORGEOUS with a dozen roses in his hands (the bourbon, too, THANK GOD) I felt like I was floating out of my body. He was saying something about getting lost finding a florist and how he didn't want me to get married without flowers and and and and and if I wasn't so fucking perfect in my underpants, we'd have consummated the som'bitch right there.
Me, in my nude underpants, my first pair (but certainly not my last) of high-end "granny panties" & raw silk, bright red bra. The motel was tacky, but I loved it. The cheesy bedspread laid out underneath my butt and open thighs (one hand behind me, planted onto it to keep me from falling over). I was tanned and just before I took the photo: blissfully happy.
You can't see my face behind the camera and the flash is perfectly reflected in the floor length mirror in front of me. It's a sexy shot. Trust me. Exactly the way I wanted to be remembered on my wedding day, the day I was abandoned by my fiance.
Turns out he didn't leave me that morning. Well, he did leave. Took my flip-flops and said he was going out for a bottle of Wild Turkey so we could toast our marriage. He was gone for 2 hours and this being Virgina Beach in the middle of summer, I knew a liquor store couldn't be all that hard to find. When it settled in that he was gone, my rubber sandals on his feet to keep me close, I sat down to take the snapshot. I refused to put on my wedding dress. REFUSED. So in my skivvies it was.
When he walked in the door 10 minutes later, sweating, frantic, GORGEOUS with a dozen roses in his hands (the bourbon, too, THANK GOD) I felt like I was floating out of my body. He was saying something about getting lost finding a florist and how he didn't want me to get married without flowers and and and and and if I wasn't so fucking perfect in my underpants, we'd have consummated the som'bitch right there.
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Can I just eat my soup? Please?
Took my mother out for her birthday today. 3 weeks late. With all three kids and my mother in law (yes, that one). I knew it would be weird but not even I could see this one coming: After a decently lengthy conversation on the differences between AMOUNTS & TYPES of medication (and how they are NOT related), she asked me if I knew how Farrah Fawcett acquired her particular type of cancer. My mother, a breast cancer survivor, has an acute interest in such matters.
Anyway, I go: I don't know what kind of cancer she had. She goes: I do. I go: OK, I don't. And then she's all: *anal* Whispering the shit across the table at P&G's with Ruby, Penelope and my mil in the firing line.
Motherfucker. What did she expect? That I'd lay it all out there that old Farrah must have been taking it up the ass from Ryan O'Neal all these years?
Anyway, I go: I don't know what kind of cancer she had. She goes: I do. I go: OK, I don't. And then she's all: *anal* Whispering the shit across the table at P&G's with Ruby, Penelope and my mil in the firing line.
Motherfucker. What did she expect? That I'd lay it all out there that old Farrah must have been taking it up the ass from Ryan O'Neal all these years?
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
I wanna be... so high
The pleasure I get from taking care of this baby! I have often wondered how great a heroin high would feel; cooked down & main-lined, straight to my CNS. These days, I'm conjuring up main-stream mommies hawking pure oxytocin at PTA meetings...
Friday, June 5, 2009
Random Part 1
Characters in my books will drive around for hours killing time by cruising drive-thru-s & one dollar cheeseburger at a time, fill the minutes till they go home and purge. They will dis-impact their own stool in the shower, pick their noses and smell their pits. They will revel in the gross-ness of their yellowed teeth and stinky farts.
They'll be rude bitches who give the stink-eye when other people's kids eat a banana in the grocery store BEFORE THEY BUY IT! (but only in a minor, barely supporting role). They will drink too much. Yell too much. They will plant gardens with poisonous plants right next to the neighbors fence. Their cars will be stolen and they'll have bodies buried back behind the swing-set. They'll hate their mothers and fuck their friend's-sister's-room-mate's-nieces.
Their dreams will be graphic and they will be vegan. They will be bad kissers, racists, bus-drivers & waitresses who don't wash their hands and serve you salad with their fingers.
The books will be good.
They'll be rude bitches who give the stink-eye when other people's kids eat a banana in the grocery store BEFORE THEY BUY IT! (but only in a minor, barely supporting role). They will drink too much. Yell too much. They will plant gardens with poisonous plants right next to the neighbors fence. Their cars will be stolen and they'll have bodies buried back behind the swing-set. They'll hate their mothers and fuck their friend's-sister's-room-mate's-nieces.
Their dreams will be graphic and they will be vegan. They will be bad kissers, racists, bus-drivers & waitresses who don't wash their hands and serve you salad with their fingers.
The books will be good.
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