An escalator is a moving staircase.

I wasn't clapping, fool, that was self high five-ing.

Taking kids to school is annoying. It is far too much to accomplish with a smile on your face before 10am. But I do. Mostly because I am perfect. Mostly.
The byproducts school has a rear car lane drop off entrance that everyone must follow (stupid yellow brick road), that leads through a meadow, over a hill and far far away and THATS where you let your chubby faced, rolly polly, shit machines off in the morning (thank you, Deb). But before you get to the entrance, right in the front of the goddamn school is a four way stop, complete with stop signs and a crossing guard. You don't have to work too hard this morning seeing where I am going with this one. Some parents urge their kids to get out of the car at the stop sign, so they do not have to travel to Morocco by way of Iceland just to deliver children into the hands of publicly funded education, that, if it were up to Texas, would teach that Evolution is a "Theory" and our founding fathers were all Christian Bible Thumping Sky God lovers.
Fuck you, Texas, we are not all suffering from heat stroke, do your research, listen to an actual History professor.
So yea, some parents urge. Do I urge? No.
As I imagine no other parent has to do, every morning, I used to argue (ARGUE) with my kids to get out of the car. It saves me 20 minutes - 20 MINUTES - in the morning, which means I can spend far more time being awesome and far less time sitting in snotty-nosed, infectious disease traffic.
Arguing like my client was headed for the gas chamber. This - this is my life.
Now see, let's explain: My little babies of love and light, well, they are allowed to argue their point if we happen to disagree on things. I hear their side and do take it into consideration. A lot of times, I completely change my mind as a result of new information these gorgeous bundles of cognition offer up. I can respect a good point of view. Increasingly, I have found that we can come to agreements when we have a difference of opinion, and this works out BEST for me, because as much as I am required to agree to said terms, they are to as well.

And now you may refer to me as Captain Bunny, as I uphold all rules of this ship and make ye walk zee plank otherwise, HAR!

Byproducts believe that they should be let off in the car line. It is weird to hop out at the stop sign and somehow embarrassing because everyone looks. I get it.
I believe byproducts should jump out and save me time. Period. Help a mother out, geez.
Agreement (after much debate): We shall let chance deal with the decision on a daily basis. Any day that we pull within 2-3 cars of the stop sign and the crossing guard blows her whistle, IF any other children directly in front or back of us get out of their cars, mine have to as well. Two fist pumps, self fist bump, a self high-five and cheers - we all celebrate victory in our own way.

Since the agreement was made:
Every day we pull up to the stop sign and I will other children to leap out of their cars.
Every day we pull up to the stop sign and the byproducts will other children to stay the fuck in their vehicles.
We chant at each other, loudly explain prayers to the universe, promise the heavens sacrificial lambs ALL TO GET OUR OWN WAY... and today made 3 days in a row the byproducts have had to leap out of the car at the stop sign and right now I feel like... I feel like God.



I use habit and routine to make my life possible.

Oh my freaking hell - my morning routine is in a heap of fire at the bottom of a cliff.

I usually go to this small corner store on the right as I exit my neighborhood. I go for coffee. Only coffee. Every morning. Exit the car, 95 cents in hand, enter the store, set the money on the counter, smile at store clerk (sometimes I wave), get coffee, "Have a good morning" I say, "You too" he says, exit store, drive away. The clerk rarely speaks to me but always smiles. We acknowledge each others presence but he has somehow figured out I am incoherent at this hour. It might have happened during some rambling moment in the AM when I tried to talk. Didn't work. No need to try young lady, I am here with smiles, silently says the clerk. We know our roles and play them out every day the same way. I stand at the coffee counter and listen to his radio tuned into NPR news while I stir the sugar. I fumble with the coffee lids. I occasionally miss the wastebasket and must clean up after myself, because I am not a rude patron, just a clumsy one. I even know the contents underneath the counter as I have to replace items used up every so often. I can help; I like to help.
I enjoy this ten minutes of monotony; our casual coffee customer clerk exchange, sets forth my day, every damn day.


Last week I walk in and there was a new guy standing behind the counter. He is young and I can't understand a fucking word coming out of his mouth. How do I know I can't understand him, ooooooooo because new guy is chatty with questions. Who asks questions at 7:15AM, WHO?! New guy does not smile at me. New guy charges 1.06 for coffee. New guy rearranged the cabinets and does not like the same coffee cups MY GUY used to carry. New guys does not listen to NPR.
So I have been trying. Trying HARD to adjust but every morning I stand at the counter trying to come up with a new game plan for exiting the store amid the hollow echoing of my own thoughts. I can only manage to fumble spurting out various groups of words in response to New Guy, who must think I am a retard with Tourette's for the nonsense I have spoken already. I mean, my brain tries to answer logically but my mouth says things like, "red pandas" and "fascism fucking hurts". I wish I were joking. There is no other store on the right side of the road on the way to work. This is it for me. This is my store, so love it or hate it, I have to go there, for to turn left and go to 7-11, well thats madness. I am not going to last through the summer, I was sure of it.

And then it happened. The thing that changes everything.

I walked in this morning to New Guy having a heated discussion with some Random Customer. Random Customer was not happy, angrily gathering his change from the counter, while mumbling things only he and New Guy could hear. I instantly felt like yelling "ADJUST MOTHER FUCKER, WE ARE ALL SUFFERING!" when Random Customer screamed he would never be back and stomped out of the store like a child. Dick. Something in me cried for New Guy and as I stirred the sugar, I made my mind up to try harder. What was I going to do, 7-11 is OUT of the question, I can't wake up early enough to make coffee nor bother to learn the individual settings that allow a pot to brew as I am getting ready for work (please), they are not going to build another store on the right hand side of the road in between me and work, so me and New Guy - we are in it for the long haul.
I thought "I got your back my new friend", smiled twice as large at him and walked out of the store so elated I almost executed a Judd Nelson Fist to the Sky in the parking lot.
Almost. It was still too early.


Tokyo Belle Logo

New Logo I created for Tokyo Belle.

Kayla "Tokyo Belle" Willis
Performer, Craft Czar, Model, Zombie Slayer

I don't know about London or France but yes, you can totally see my underpants.

I found the Rules of the Internets. They exist.
Can't tell you where because they watch.
BUT, one in particular caught my eye and made me.... research.
Internet Rule 34: If it exists, there is porn of it.
Experiment conducted. Conclusion: FACT.
Seriously. This is a DIY project of epic proportions which will probably leave you whimpering in the dark.
You have, been warned.

Only amongst degenerates do I thrive.
Total lie from Satan, sorry.
It burns.

I love porn. Yes, that is where we are going today, aren't you glad you tuned in.
Porn is a really funny once you have seen too much of it, especially if the story doesn't flow right (and it rarely ever flows right unless you are watching amateur clips involving South American or German women) i.e. knock on the door, look its a cop who has come to investigate noise X, GASP, lady, please bend over, you are going to need to be frisked. Fondle fondle, dick, mouth, sigh, oh baby, money shot, next scene which also involves another knock on the door.
What I never understood is why they don't write the scenarios to be more realistic. It doesn't involve anymore time really and I think the female audience might enjoy watching with their partners a hell of a lot more, instead of bitching about its existence or critiquing bad boob and dye jobs (well, ok, THAT part IS kinda fun).
Well. Maybe. The reality in my head is always 75 degrees.
Rewrite of the scene:
Cops (2) knock on the door and yell that they have a warrant to search the premises. A woman answers after racing to throw something appropriate on, bra less of course because most of us are once we reach indoor areas. Once inside, they start telling the woman to be calm, and then start commenting on the disarray of the room, asking her to go ahead and offer up any information concerning possible hidden narcotics or weapons, lest she go to jail for concealing something from an officer of the law. Then they start casually searching the room for who knows what (cops need no reason, nor warrant anymore, but never you mind that, this is a porn blog post, not a political one, and its business time, so lets get back to business). Then they find... some paraphernalia (isn't it always some damn paraphernalia). They hassle her a bit, they tell her she's going to jail. She starts crying, saying she's scared, she'd do anything to stay out, please please please.....
Cue: Music
A Judge, a stenographer, and two lawyers burst out of the adjacent room and everyone breaks into a choreographed Full Monty strip routine undressing the sobbing woman, singing some kind of show-tune about how "Mary's Case Would Only Serve To Clog Up the Legal System, ShaBa! Sexual Bribery Saves Our Tax Dollars for Better Education!"
Fondle fondle, dick, mouth, sigh, oh baby, money shot, next scene which involves the Landlord (who kinda looks like Mr. Roper), a bounced check and a operatic song sung by the Banker, while this sobbing, mascara smeared woman is violated in the background by the property owner now unzipped and harmonizing the chorus.

It's now 85 Degrees.


I miss you guys!!!

Star Me Kitten, Kitten, and Cue the Applesauce

A gorgeous tattoo this weekend, Amen. Nothing says I love you quite like the repetitive poke of sharp needles and blood.
Except maybe a real penguin but the jury is still out on that one.

Friday night I had crawfish for the first time - weird. Very, very weird. I am used to eating shellfish: crab, lobster, shrimp, fish fish fish fish fish... so I am not sure why I am so bothered by the crawfish but I am, I seriously am. My sister swears it is the butter's fault; they gave us this yellow liquidy stuff for the crab legs (supposedly butter) which must have been the same oil they were cooking the crawfish in, or something just as vile as that. Butter. I require butter for my crab, not used oil from your kitchen of crustacean death. It offset everything and I couldn't get the taste or smell out of my mouth the entire night. Every beer I drank afterward was Crawfish Beer (hurl).
I am also unsure of how authentically NOLA the entire establishment was considering the staff, friends, and every customer in there (with the exception of our table) were asian. The sign outside said it was voted The Best and Most Authentic New Orleans Crawfish in Orlando but by whom? WHO says these things you advertise on signs; this should be backed up with data and sources revealed, WTF is wrong with a little transparency? I regularly poll my friends about random shit but this in no way makes me Orlando's Best Guacamole Chef or The Sexist Armenian in O-Town but fuck all if I shouldn't get my car wrapped with those accolades, just in case you know, they are giving out free money somewhere. I could get sponsored by Jamila Henna Powder or Tazah Grape Leaves JUST for being cute little ol' me.
(INSERT: Palin "You Betcha" wink of authentic retardation.
CUT TO: Child puking her guts out in the corner)

Guacamole To Make You Spontaneously Orgasm

1 medium tomatillo (cut into 3-4 3/4 inch slices)
1 red onion slice (3/4 inch thick)
2 avocados, diced
4 cloves of garlic (1 heaping teaspoon), minced
1/8 cup fresh cilantro, chopped
1/2 lime
olive oil

Coat tomatillo and onion slices with olive oil and grill (char) over flame until tender. Remove, cool and dice. Add garlic, cilantro, avocados and the juice of 1/2 a lime. Salt to taste.

Whoa. Just typing that out sent small earthquakes through my panties (giggle) BUT I am Martha Stewart when my clothes are on, lassies (wink), so next on Good Morning Bunnies is "Getting those gooey white packages of Satan out of your beloved silk, satin and lace". You won't want to miss this (finger point of exclamation).



intracranial hemorrhaging

My cycle sorta looks like a heart attack monitor screen.
I try hard not to think about it (lies) because no matter how much I am aware of it climbing, peaking, plummeting, it never seems to be any different. Knowing is not half the battle, Joe. It's not even 25%.

In the month or so since I have been engaged (I am recently engaged), I have changed my mind about what/how/where/when we are getting married at least ten times. I have gone from private ceremony, to full blown catered wedding, to eloping, to family vacation/wedding, to a red eye Vegas flight and Elvis (which is the only option nixed completely as I cannot take seriously what was made legally binding by a man with muttonchops in a polyester bedazzled jumpsuit). Each time I am SURE this is the way to go and giddy happy with anticipation. Kisses, kisses, kisses. I start planning all details over again, resetting dates and locations, calling around, telling friends and family. Then I stop, panic that its the wrong way to get married, get paranoid, cry, jumble it all up like a pile of legos, rearrange, and slowly build everything back from the wrecking ball just brought through. Rinse, repeat.
Bridezilla comes to mind as I am surely not the only bride-to-be who has this sort of back and forth, except for, this back and forth, isn't confined to wedding plans. It just is. Semi-normal.

Decision making is drawn out three streets short of infinity. It is very stressful for me to make decisions (too much analyzing) so I tend to make them on the fly (or let others steer the train) which is why I appear to friends and family to live by the seat of my pants yet remain largely indecisive. Terminally compulsive out of necessity to get something (anything) accomplished.
EX: Should I work on creating this brochure or hang out and play records? I cannot decide and won't, it will usually be dictated by someone else, until I have no choice because the brochure is due tomorrow, having had make no real decision over the past few days other than "I will create the brochure". I do best when told what to do (don't tell me what to do).
I do not order new things off menus at places I have been to before; if you name a restaurant I have eaten at, I already know what it is I eat there. Forever.
Editing like I have a gun pointed to the base of my skull, Yahoooooooooooooo....
I never said it made sense.
Maybe it is just my time management that sucks ass - except for I am awesome when it comes to planning, organizing and carrying out events (300+ people in attendance).
The core position never changes once a decision is made in scenarios such as, "Yes, I would love to marry you" or "Of course, I would love to go see a movie" or "Awesome, we should definitely hang out sometime soon". The details are just... harder. Yes?
If I am given the option to have it any way I want... well; I am confused.

Functioning is more complicated then I let on.
Depending on what day you talk to me, of course.

So, here I am causing intracranial hemorrhaging in others.
I know.
I mean, I didn't know until it was pointed out to me.
Maybe I am just fucking annoying. I am pretty sure I am fucking annoying.

Fuck it. I can't decide. Too much thinking. Time for lunch - Hope someone knows where we are going.


If you can find it, you can use it.

Kid B: It's like Narnia in here. Jesus Christ, I can't find anything in your purse, Mom. "Can I borrow the lip gloss, Mom?" "If you can find it, you can use it." You have another bag in here, are you kidding me? Is the lip gloss inside a box, inside this bag?

Kid A: And inside that box, before you get to the lip gloss, there is another box and inside THAT box.... is a key.

Kid B: And you have to take that key, to the middle of the woods with the dragon, who is sitting on another box and inside that box, it isn't the lip gloss, no it's.... a clue.


Kid B: Ridiculous.

: /


unscramble: AACDEEHH

I see a bad moon arising.

Yesterday, I quit smoking, started working out and changed wedding plans again (Score: Indecisiveness).
Thats like the most well balanced, evenest trifecta of Jules change, ever.

My lungs pretty much felt like they were clawing their way out of my chest after the gym. Little Alien babies, hatched and looking to sing show tunes in a top hat. Then the headache started as the pain shot its way through my sinus cavity into my skull. Last night in the shower, I pretty much assumed I would also not make it through the night, a blood clot swirling through my brains, eventually turning into a T-Rex shaped acid ball and eating me from the inside out.
Cause thats how it happens, kiddies, take yer fukin' Asprin.
We made plans for my funeral, the burden of responsibility lying on my soon to be widowed fiance of coming up with a super cool scavenger hunt since I dropped the ball on finishing my own. Like you hadn't assumed. Either.
But then *SHAZAM* I remembered I will never die and I control the weather, so I made it storm real hard, we giggled, fucked and fell asleep. FTW!

This. This is how the terminally manic get nothing accomplished.

There's a bad moon on the rise.


beach + L = mah heartz

To know me is to love me, unless you live with me, then to know me is to wish forensic science had never advanced beyond dusting for fingerprints.

I have figured out that messiness is not what bothers me; its lack of organization. In the event that I desire to put something away the fact that it has no permanent home causes cracks inside the reactor. The pencil goes in the drawer underneath the coffee pot. I do not need to put it away right now because I know where it goes. Freakout = Contained. The paintings that have not been hung, leaning against the wall, I hisssssssss at, not for taking up space but for being homeless (instantly, I become a Tea Party troglodyte, the shame). In my house, if you have no permanent place to be, either you find one or you get donated to charity along with last years manic glittery long sleeve shirt purchase (are you fucking kidding me, Bunny?).
Short people included.
Just kidding.

Cleaning supplies come in all sorts of shapes and sizes and I must have them all. ALL! Separate cleaners for wood, stainless steel, floors, toilets, windows, granite, and walls, we don't do that all purpose shit in this house. If it comes in a new package, a different way (instead of a spray we shall give it to you in baby wipe form) I have to try it, to add it to the collection of lemon and orange and bleach scented glory I get off on. I'll lick your glass and stroke your appliances; OCD Princess of the New Millennium makes very little money as a prostitute because she loves sponges just that much.

The Silent E: Pinesol. Hands down, the nastiest, grossest, foulest, stinkiest representation of cleanliness I have ever come across. It's sanitary misrepresentation, since when is a fucking pine forest clean?
Go away, Pinesol.


My Mother Theresa/Godzilla instinct is Pavlovian.

It's always the same. I'll stomp your fucking roses trying to save your goddamn carrots. Where there should be puppies and flowers, there are ants and thorns and furthermore, because I feel as though I deserve puppies and flowers, I imagine they are present and accounted for, even though I full on know they went AWOL and are chillin' in Tahiti drinking alcohol out of coconuts.

I have so many processes and systems for managing my own mongooses, including yours into the system is only give me a 404 screen, every time, mon, clocks are never so accurate as they are in the islands. I try, know that, whether you think I am trying or not, I am. Always. No matter how epic my failure might be the time before and fully knowing no one in hell should trust me with the scalpel, much less the saline solution, I run into surgery every time screaming, "I can save him!!!" because, well, I am Superman and I know what's happening. Except for (RIGHT!) I am just a little bunny with an oversized cape and a basket of candy that everyone wants until they find out its laced with cyanide and contains concealed razors.
The only one I am saving is myself which happens Bill Murray-like, same bat time, same bat channel, today we shall learn how to Quilt and better appreciate the cactus.

What you see as curt, distant, angry, frustrated, judging, complacent, or (fill in the blank) is not consciously directed at you. It's for me, scrambled eggs. A random dice roll of emotion when the coding sequence dictating the face is missing a line or two. Grab bag of inappropriate responses to stimuli because restoring order is Priority Numbero Uno; the head is in the game, coach, but the rest mighta took a wrong turn back at Albuquerque. This was croquet? Shit, I have a 9 iron.
You can hand me my papers any time, doc.
I know where I came from. I know who I am. I know what I do. I know the mechanics of this duct taped head better than any wooden legged pirate, liquor soaked and talking of salvation. We needn't call it names, for purple and Texas are just as appropriate, its not the WORD, its the definition and with that batch of logic applied, we shall use "cake" from now on. Or Vagina because vagina is not used in enough sentences.

I can't help you. I can't fix you. My antibiotic may be your Kryptonite. In fact, it probably is. You may also hold my life preserver but never my anti-venom. Ride the tide. Damn the snakes.
What good - what is good? I distract. It's my job, I dig it, I am skilled at it and if you let it happen, you may be reminded of how unimportant the unnecessary really is and how good I am at actual classification; what matters is the moment, because in the end, its all you really ever have, the now. The then is unchangeable and the will be, may never ever come.

If I am largely unapologetic it is because I am sorry for more than you will ever understand or that will ever truly be my fault. It can be confusing to interpret when to speak, when you desire the words that fall from your lips to never ring hollow. It is not an excuse, it is a reason. It is as much as I can do. If the moon is late on your horizon, I wish it godspeed the next evening, whether the prayer is vocalized or chanted within my head. These are my wishes, always. Sometimes I imagine the thoughts trailing from my ears on a silver string to dance in your space, readable, decipherable, gilded with best intention. It would make everything so much easier. It will never be, though I'll still hope, like I do for my tiny monkeys in the backyard tree.

Tomorrow the Pope will still be Professor Pedophile and volcanoes shall continue to spew ash. We can donate to Save the Babies or Whales, or the random charity of your choice. The record player could desire Primal Scream. Maybe the next batch of beer will be made. I am planning in my head, all the ways to kick your ass at dominoes, whilst wearing a fedora and drinking wine. Baby cat, still sucks.

I can tap dance, wanna see me tap dance?