Problems? I find solutions. It's my job. It's what I do.

Answering phones at any business these days is kind of like being an exclusive club's doorman. You are hip tossing more douches to the curb than you are letting through the door. So many people vying for the chance to sell you something, requote something, get you a better deal, offer you a special promotion, anything and everything to get their foot in the door so that they can get the money that you are spending.

It is a skill. There are some people very well talented, very well versed, and very cunning in their approach and methods. That is also why it is a business. They hold seminars, give classes, write books, there are companies set up to teach others how to do only this. I have read more sales books on the matter than I care to discuss but it my experience as a bartender that provided me with the unique filtering ability needed to recognize phone sales people posing as current vendors, clients, old classmates, and even, the occasional friend (if one day someone were to call here professing to be the owners grandparent, I swear to all that is holy this would not surprise me at all). Bartenders have bullshit radar like superheroes on spinachB12crackmeth. You get something by them and you can probably bust into Fort Knox.

98% of these daily calls never reach my ears because Heather, our angelic office presence of love and light, who represents all the gloriousness behind this company by being the first face the first voice the first person to warmly cuddle you into the fold as a client, blocks the majority of the "bad guys" like a championship fighter with 2 million wins under her belt. Today however, the other slippery 2% slimmed their way to me and after it all, I was left staring at a very large camel lying on the ground moaning in pain and I had to help that camel, I did, I swear it to you now, I had to HELP. THAT. CAMEL. I had to slip into my Cape of Creativity and save our office from the evils of Solicitor X because GOD DAMN IT TO ALL HELL, I am tired of hearing about how much fucking money I can save on my car insurance.

Things that do not work: Logic. Reason. You cannot simply say, I do not want your product. They call, they call again, they keep calling, they keep calling, oh wait, there is a call on the other line, and its them again surprise. They can tie you up evading questions like: What is the purpose of your call? Who are you trying to get ahold of? What is this regarding? Can I help you with something? One guy calls on Monday, a girl on Tuesday, on Wednesday its an automated service (Thursday they give it a rest) and for Funtastical FTW Friday they bust out the overseas call with special special deals designed to knock your socks, shoes, bra and panties off!

The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results.
The consulting company I used to work for spoke this as a MANTRA (stfu consulting brain damage, please get out of my head, its been years, go the fuck away, please, omg I seriously hate yoooooooooou) and now regurgitated here, I feel a little unclean and kinda douche-y. Just kidding. Not really. Sorry. Rewind.
So far we have employed wrestling and boxing as tactics. No more. Now, we dance. This afternoon, around 2:25pm, I created a fictitious Purchasing and Human Resource Manager who goes by the name of Britnee Schultz (BS, if you want to get right down to it). She is now in charge of reviewing all proposals prior to any decision making for the company in terms of copy paper, printer ink, office supplies, new medical or dental insurance, software purchases, dog fighting, gun control and imported Chinese heroin. EVERYTHING. SHE IS CURRENTLY REVIEWING IT ALL. We set her up an email account and are now going to put everyone is contact with HER, because its her fucking job now, not ours.
"Oh yes, Office Supplies, you need to speak to Britnee." "New printer catalog you say, the person to speak with would be Britnee, let me give you her contact information." "Oh, you don't say, fantastic rates for dental insurance, amen, we were just reviewing that, in fact, Britnee is your go to girl."

Did you hear that?
That's my horn, bitches.

Game on.


Post apocalyptic shirt, you my only friend.

"Why were you late for work today?"
"Uh. Because I was mending my shirt."

I bought this shirt for 4.99 two weeks ago. The shirt is awesome by my standards, which means it is plain in color, fits and doesn't make me look fat (to myself, I might still look fat to other people but I don't give a fuck what anyone else thinks. Total lie.). When I put this shirt on for the first time, I knew it was going to be one of "those" shirts, the kind I wore until it fell apart, the kind I passed out still wearing after a hard night of sex drugs and rock n roll, the kind I shoved deep into my vagina pre-coitus (anal sex, obviously. Half lie). This damn shirt, even at 4.99, should not have started falling apart within a day but fuck it naysayers, I am going to save this shirt with my bare hands, because if there is one thing I love to do, it is proving my worth post-apocalypse.

The problem area is a seam right below my right breast. Both materials on the separate panels are some sort of hybrid nylonish cottony something. It pulled apart not in the way one could simply sew it back together without having to remove the entire seam running the length of the shirt, then re-stitching on a machine. Uh, no. I didn't want to Frankenstein it, so hand sewing was out of the question too. My solution was stitch witchery magic. This invention is the mack daddy and the daddy mack. You place it between two pieces of cloth, heat with an iron, and WA LA, it acts as some sort of fantastical cloth glue. Problem here is that I didn't have two pieces of cloth to glue back together so much as I had a bunch of shredded fibers I needed to miracle into cloth again. Whatever: we shall overcome, we. shall. overcome. The seam that shredded is tiny, the material already pulled taut. So I figured, I might try and use the stitch witchery to bind it together by mimicking a layer of thinly applied glue to the back of the whole seam burst. Genius. Yes, thank you. I placed the two pieces of material together as close as I could get them, put a piece of the stitch witchery behind it and behind that, put a piece of wax paper. Be the glue. BE THE GLUE. Yes, this can work. This will TOTALLY work!
Iron. Heat. Wait. Inspect.
My shirt is now glued to the wax paper.
Try again.
Same result.
Flip the wax paper over?
Try again.
Same result.

One might say I had wasted half an hours worth of time, but I counter that by saying a scientist's time is NEVER wasted (I am not a scientist). My fingers are tacky, the iron is pretty much ruined, the shirt smells a little like burned but fuck all if I don't look totally awesome having done all this experimenting while: bare foot, topless, wearing jeans and also a very nice hat. FTW! All you really need sometimes is to just feel like a fucking badass. Aw yeah, fuck you post apocalyptic shirt, I still got my smile.

Looking like Michael Jackson on his tippy toes, I grabbed my hat, leaned my head back, looked to the sky, my other hand reached into the air, and summoning all the power of GreySkull: I turned back to the garment, issued a soft high pitch sound like "YEEEEE", took the seam, added more stitch witchery, SHAZAAM went my fingers as I smushed it together (!), BLAZE went the iron as I blasted heat in its general direction (!), WHAM, BAM, ZIP ZOW ZOOM!!

Inspect. Uh. Ok. Right.
My shirt looks worse than had I Frankenstein-ed it with needle and thread, yea, and probably a torch too, but I got a cool hat on, so I totally put the shirt on ANY WAY.
I am gonna wear this bitch till it falls off me and blows away on the wind, like a frail leaf. One day, if you happen to be staring at my right breast and see a fucked up seam, you would be meeting my post apocalyptic shirt. Say hi. Patches? You bet. Frankenstein stitches? Hell yea. Next week it might require a tracheotomy. I intend to give it a quadruple bypass when necessary. This shirt may outlive your children.

I love you 4.99 shirt.
There is not a god damn thing I won't ever do for you.

Other things that make me handy at the End of the World.
1. I know how to properly select, chop and split wood.
2. I have built many tree houses, forts, and shelters from found material.
3. I have little morals, so killing in the name of defense or food is A-OK with me, pass the hammer boss.
4. I can catch, clean, and cook fish.
5. I know how to filter and sanitize water.
6A. I can sew cloth (+).
6B. Blood, guts, ooze and burns don't bother me, so if I needed to, I could probably sew your skin (double +).
7. I have teeth like a beaver.
8. My skin seeps a high caloric sugary substance.
9. I breathe fire, so we wouldn't ever have to worry about starting one by rubbing sticks together FUCK THAT I'LL COOK UP OUR MEAT AND KEEP US SAFE FROM BEARS!


Score: 1 : 1

Fire: i have not eaten.
Fire: i want to eat.
Gasoline: i just had a hot dog
Fire: you bastard.
Gasoline: but i guess i could come down there
Fire: no.
Fire: i will just die here.
Fire: thats fine.
Fire: fuck it.
Fire: i will just DIE.
Fire: don't mind me smelling up the joint.
Fire: probably why i am in danger of murdering someone.
Gasoline: not really selling me on lunch here
Fire: i gotta sell lunch?
Fire: jesus.
Fire: help.
Fire: me.
Fire: stay.
Fire: alive.
Fire: its.
Fire: cold.
Fire: and.
Fire: dark.
Gasoline: ok ok
Gasoline: i will come down but no murdering
Fire: don't tell me what to do.
Fire: your chances of survival are high though.
Gasoline: i'm not telling you what to do
Fire: i give you 86% survival rate
Gasoline: i'm telling you what not to do
Fire: you just said no murdering.
Fire: no murdering is a directive.
Fire: do not murder.
Gasoline: no it's a condition
Fire: if i was in the process of murdering
Fire: which i am in a constant state of JUST ABOUT
Fire: then, it is a directive
Gasoline: no
Gasoline: no
Fire: don't argue with me on this one.
Gasoline: a condition
Fire: a condition if i am at rest.
Fire: which, i am obviously, not.
Gasoline: if you want me to drive down then you cannot murder
Gasoline: if..then
Gasoline: see
Gasoline: the conditional
Fire: its a directive.
Gasoline: no.
Gasoline: a directive is x:=x+1
Gasoline: a conditional is if x=1 then fuck off
Gasoline: see the different format
Gasoline: if..then
Gasoline: your programming skills leave much to be desired
Fire: dammit jim, im a doctor!
Fire: don't tell me what not to do.
Fire: better?
Fire: now, come get me.
Fire: my legs just went numb.

theoretical color mixing fail

Gasoline: I have a problem with The Wrath of Khan
Fire: what problem
Gasoline: two of them really
Gasoline: first up
Gasoline: there's the cheesy coincidence of names
Gasoline: Khan Noonien Singh is his full name
Gasoline: Dr Noonien Soong
Gasoline: is the creator of Data
Gasoline: Singh and Soong are pronounced the same
Gasoline: a little lazy there on the names
Gasoline: but the big problem i have
Gasoline: is that Kirk's son is white
Gasoline: after all the green bitches kirk fucked
Gasoline: why is his son white
Fire: overpowering genes.
Fire: and his mother is white.
Fire: not green.
Gasoline: bull shit
Gasoline: once you go green you aint going back to no plain vanilla bitch
Fire: but his mom is white.
Fire: are you missing this key fact?
Fire: doesn't matter if you dont go back or not.
Fire: if his sperm and her egg created him, he is white.
Fire: not, pale yellow.
Fire: or lime.
Gasoline: but im saying kirk wouldn't have fucked that bitch
Gasoline: that cant be
Gasoline: he would have knocked up a green or purple bitch with 4 tits and 2 pussies
Gasoline: i mean really
Gasoline: if you could fuck a purple dude with two well placed cocks that pushed your buttons perfectly would you ever go human again

LED Cancer Grafitti by The Antichrist

Read this fantastic graphic novel last night by the name of Wormwood.
The Antichrist defying his father, a foul mouth, talking rabbit who harasses Star Wars fans online, Jesus who has a mild concussion and drinks Guinness, God a drooling and masturbating complete nutter... can this comic have been created totally FOR me? I laughed the whole time. Who knew I could seriously get addicted to this. I am geeking out, big time. Wow. Next I'll be downloading Linux and hackin' yourz internets while drinkiing Code Red and torrenting asian lesbian anal porn.

I also researched more urban street art. But not so much the beauty aspect of it. More like the How To's, you know, in the event I want to give spray painting some stencils on the sides of buildings downtown at 3am a try. Key would be to not dress like a criminal or carry anything that looks like a backpack with spray paint cans and such in it, this way if stopped, I am just a mild mannered housewife, walking home from, uh, something (not a crack house), or having stopped on the side of the road, uh, for something else (not crack). I will get one of those super cute beach bags from target, wear a sarong maybe, or a casual dress made out of cotton, flip flops. I work better in these types of uniforms any way, it serves a dual purpose here.
"What do you say officer? Spray paint? No, just a few beach towels and my Cosmo magazine in here."

When you take mania out of the equation, the end result is: I would like to get a couple of pieces of particle board or plywood for the backyard to create on. I tried this in 2006 and it was a total bust. I had no clue what I was doing, my spray paint creations looked worse than paraplegic kindergarten finger paintings.

Note: Since I stopped eating meat five years ago, I have steadily slid down a slippery slope of PC wordplay. I am not apologizing; this is merely an observation.

One of the things I learned last night was how to hook up LED lights to batteries and magnets so one could make them throwable and sticky to metal surfaces. I have been racking my brain trying to think how I can use this to my creative advantage somewhere in the city. Of course I can make and throw a bunch somewhere but that's not really the point is it? Or maybe it is. Maybe some time later I will decide that is the point. Either way, I want to make some. For something. Soon. They look so damn cool at night. Like fireflies.

All of this discussion around the house of bail and bondsmen got me thinking about death (there was some sort of linkage I cant recall at the time of this writing, a more flowy linkage too, not just "hey make sure you bail me out" and "oh about that whole end of my life shit"...). I think that somehow the knowledge that I am not dying of any disease, keeps me pretty much on the train tracks. If I was to ever be diagnosed with cancer, I am not so sure this would remain the case. 2 out of 4 family members agree, 1 family member was absent at voting time and 1 is too young to consider such possibilities of life, therefore one can arrive at a 100%, total agreement: if I ever come down with the cancer, tornadoes will make less messes out of their surroundings. Its almost appealing in a way, to have a set amount of time left, because, why wait to do anything; think it, fuck it, do it NOW now now now.

But I AM dying.
We are all dying.
So yea. Fuck it.
I hope I get to keep the orange jumpsuit and booties when I get released. They still give those out as parting favors, right?


so money.

Who's the big winner today?

Almost finished with two multi media projects I have been plugging away at this month. One involves corks. Three times now I have had to beg for corks after running out and then running out again. Tonight, I am applying the last batch procured and am hoping beyond all hope there are enough to finish out. Who knew I didn't drink ENOUGH.

My hairdresser supreme emailed last night and wants to trade out some design work for some sultry mane fabulousness. The glory of being a freelance designer is the bartering I am sometimes able to do. And product packaging? Are you kidding me? My design on YOUR product? Sweet. SWEET.

I had a meeting on Tuesday afternoon with a key decision maker for a new outdoor festival. Not only was she impressed with the pieces I provided her but she is anxious to give me more projects with which to work magic. It means a lot to bring this kind of business to the company right now. There are so many elements she wanted included. I feel like I kept the designs clean, despite the amount of ingredients in the kitchen.

Who's the big winner today?
This girl is.


Revised movie lines.

You had me at Jello. You had me. At. Jello.


No one can eat 50 legs.

Show me the HONEY!

Frankly, my beaver, I don't give a damn.

I can't believe I gave my panties to a leek.

Say hello to my little blend!

Here's looking at you, squid.

May the horse be with you.

I pre spread people.

Heeeeereeeeee's Tawny!

There's no brace like foam. There's no brace like foam.

If you chill it, sea will come.


A Martini. Bacon, not curd.

I'll get you my kitty, and your little blog too!
Kid A: He was an idiot. I said something like "This really isn't working out" and "I'm moving away anyway". I don't know. That relationship had a definite expiration date.

: |


mush. and not just the necrotic tissue kind.

Once a month or so, I try to email an old friend of mine who's email address consists of her first and last name. First would be Racheal. Or Rachael. Or Rachel. Her last name I can't spell either. Actually, this is only part of the problem. I am also not sure if the email account is yahoo or gmail, or any of the thousand others you can get for free. So all my email messages for the last few years, go to fake people (I assume, or at some point she HAS gotten my email, only to ignore me, which would make this whole story even more badass but how would I know, so. yea.), or people I do not know, with virtually the same name except no one writes me back and I really do think AT BARE MINIMUM one of my messages has warranted a reply. Even from a total stranger. I would have emailed me back, I write fantastically entertaining emails. I would be my own best friend.
Somewhere my new pen pal awaits.
I am patient.
Eventually my haiku's will penetrate someone's hard candy shell. Some soul out there appreciates the humor in cannibalism. My vagina CAN be the hidden source of vitality that saves our ecosystems. We hold these truths to be self-evident; the collective, the buzzing hive, the we that is me.
I am patient.

So I read my first graphic novel this weekend. Crossed. Wow. Sick. I am hooked. I can't get into that whole superhero thing but zombies, insanity and the apocalypse: Jesus has rained down manna, and it tastes like long pig. There is a Vol. 2. Family Values, but I will have to wait until next weekend to get it. I might be spoiled but I am not that spoiled. Meanwhile, I can get started on the Walking Dead, Sandman, and The Watchmen series... this will be a nice deviation from A Book Club we tried to put together with a few friends, which officially failed and became The Booze Club. Hopefully we will be meeting up again soon. Drinking doesn't seem to be a problem for any of us.

Friday night was another enjoyable Family Happy Hour, a monthly ritual we began back in 2000, so that we could drink wine, wind down, and get all the kids together. Saturday brought shopping for Kid B's 8th grade formal, depositing Kid A at the Science Center Youth Volunteer Orientation, shuffling around the little one (my step daughter) and gobbling some awesome greasy diner food at Bananas.

That night we went to the British Invasion at Stardust Video & Coffee, missing tailgating fun and seeing Orlando City Soccer play. The rain sort of kept me eyeing the sky; thinking about sitting on wet bleachers seemed way less appealing than Mop Tops and the Dalek. Took Kid A, hit the photo booth, grabbed some fish and chips and danced to a few Beatles songs. Stopped by Park Ave CDs on the way out to pick up some Sonny Rollins vinyl for Sunday jazz poolside, which was enjoyed with my sister and the Sticky Hand Posse (her brood) after brunch with our mother.

I was unsure whether marriage would ever really suit me long term. The moniker Sybil, is admittedly, not all that far off. Possibly having made the initial decision to get hitched in a full blown manic phase, plowing straight on through ceremony and celebration, to the dropped jaws of all those around me, I had to trust that my intuition and analysis was correct in the end. I have days. He has days. We both have days. But somehow, when logic and reason is present, it is right. For a thousand different reasons. I find myself hanging in despite a three decade history of flight and reinvention (the first time I ran away from home, I was 5 years old - packed a suitcase, took off, retrieved half a day later by law enforcement after a shop keeper tricked me into staying at my favorite soda counter and coloring in a book for her, the bitch, I was not so easily fooled the second time). Compromise was never a part of my vocabulary until now. It is making me a better person, in spite of the occasional bruising that occurs when I buck and thrash.
This weekend was filled with moments of I adore, to include being roughly pinned down because I refused to stop ripping his snap up button shirt open. That shit was just way too tempting not to do over and over and over again. We are approaching our anniversary, and I think I am falling for him more every day. It what I have always wanted.

This, by no means, takes away from the truth that if we were trying to out run zombies, I may trip him in order to get away. Also, if it came down too it, I'd consider chopping off one of his limbs to cook if ever there was a food shortage. There are levels of survival I am willing to accept.

I hope he survives me.
Because, I really, really, love him a lot.



comiko dot pickles at gmail dot com

I might have accidentally gotten myself banned from Facebook today (or very very soon) for trying to change my name to Comiko Pickles (Pickles is my middle name). But how do they know. How do they know I did not go down to the courthouse yesterday and change my name to Comiko Pickles? Is it really necessary Facebook, to bust my balls on this?
Don't think I won't go to bat on this one. Standing at the stern of my ship, I may go down in flames with my fists pumping the sky for vengeance, but mark my words, I will have my name change; now and forever my name shall be known as Comiko Pickles.*



You can now reach me at comiko dot pickles at gmail dot com, by the way. If you send me your email, I will forward TO YOU, the pickle picture of the day.

I watched two movies last night. One called Dear Zachary: A letter to a son about his father. Warning - Gut wrenchingly beautiful tale. You will cry buckets, then more buckets, then right at the end, total waterfall; you'll leave wanting to battle the Canadian government or shoot a moose or something.
Also (!) a National Geographic special on Mara Salvatrucha (MS13): International Trend Setters. They are the machete chopping gang. Every time you hear about someone getting chopped by a machete, it is probably these guys. That's some pretty fear inducing shit to be honest. I am actually contemplating deleting this post in case they google themselves periodically and find MY blog and hunt me down; for fucks sake, I do not want to be chopped by a machete. Ever. EVER.

Five other things I never want to violently come in contact with my skin:
1. Cheese Grater
2. Torch
3. Nail Clippers
4. False Teeth


* Now and Forever or until I decide to change it to something else.


I guarantee I am high on someones kill list

It is Day of The Bunny! My Day! Hooray!
I wish I had known before today so I could have prepared. Last minute all I can really think to do in celebration is masturbate and drink Jager Bombs (BRB).
There should be a list!
There should be a Haiku!
Where's my parade?!

Watched the Movie Edmond last night starring the fantastically talented William H. Macy as a married man who leaves his wife, and wanders into the world to have a few new experiences. Aw. He does. Aw.
Good movie for a Wednesday night.

You cannot fool cops on TV anymore, not that you ever could but its getting even harder these days. They always get you. Hooked and booked, crook.
Forensic Teams with more schooling than God, the ability to recall facts and figures and measurements without the use of any handheld instrument help of any kind, scrape up all the fibers, blood, analyze the splatters, psychics are consulted, bug specialists, bone specialists, monkey urine specialists. The cops are expert interrogators, the criminals halfwits.
Case Closed.
Lets get a beer.

In real life, however, people get away with murder every day. Do you know how many unsolved homicide cases and serial killers operate in Orlando alone? You'd never leave the house thats how many. Or be allowed, as is the case for my best friend who deals with the unfortunate short leash of her husband, an Undercover Investigator who busts child pornography rings operating steps from The Magic Kingdom and seeks much wiser serial murders who have evaded law enforcement for more than twenty years running.
I don't wanna know, I don't wanna know.

Our ride will begin moving shortly, keep your arms and legs inside the vehicle at all times, or someone might come by in a mask, chop it off with a machete and rape a small dog covered in peanut butter with it. Straight to VHS.

In New York recently, they have been finding bodies all over a section of Long Island (just uncovered they say but seriously, its an island, no one EVER went to this part of it, heh, well SOMEONE did...), leading investigators to believe they had a serial killer operating in the area. Further forensics has revealed a much different reality. You know how you have that one secret coffee shop or bar that you go to that only locals know about and when you walk in, its mostly the same people, who may or may not know your name. Yea. The underground Long Island murder sect apparently has a similar place where the prime area has become a virtual "Cheers" type dumping ground for dead bodies over the last few decades.
The truth is always more frightening than one can imagine.
That's Entertainment!

Top Five Places To Stay Away From 2011
1. Disney AREA
2. Long Island
3. Mexico
4. Japan (non murderous reasons)
5. Haiti (dirt pie reasons)

i root for bad guys
extermination HOLLA
you thin out the herd



And just sometimes, this is our life.

Captain Ridiculous and I decided to go to dinner last night. For normal people this might be an easy task of deciding where to go, driving, sitting down, ordering, eating, paying, and returning home.
Fuck all of you and your easy glider lives.

We were both jacked into the wall having spent hours on the phone arguing with a credit card companies. Typical Tuesday night for us, by the way. We enjoy harassing back and are known for calling up trying to get interest rates down to 0.5%, credit limits raised to over half a million and our cats listed as joint account holders.
No we don't.

So we left the house at 8.

[screeching brake sound]
Things you must know about each of us.
I am indecisive but value food quality and quiet.
He is picky about food and selective of establishments based mostly on beer quality and variety.
We are both moody eaters.
This combination of variables has proved both angelic and volatile; barometer readings, level of hunger, location on the planet and unknown cheekiness factor for Wife Subject X can throw a wrench into the works at any given point in time.
In hindsight, last nights scientifical experiment mixture of unknown elements, created black sludge sulfur resin shark teeth pig intestine liquid glass gas. You all are actually lucky to be alive. Thank your God. Sing a hymn. You don't even know how close you were to absolute death.
[car reengages]

We left the house BEFORE deciding where to go. Mistake number one. We were both registering high on the sarcasm meter. Mistake number two. It is my time of the month. Mistake number 3 - 290,844,290.3885.
Arguing the validity of each persons choice of restaurant we passed. Arguing the placement of signage and how it related to food enjoyment. Arguing culture and the culinary experience. Fiddling with the radio. Arguing about music. Arguing about musics effect on hunger and food choice. Arguing about hunger and food choice related to the ontological necessity of modern man's existential dilemma.
In a 30+ mile radius driving all over Orlando we probably passed at least 200 restaurants we chose not to eat at.

By 9:05pm we were both contemplating suicide by 7-11 microwave burrito. The gas light had come on having burned through a third of a tank I thought would last me until the end of the week. It was then that divine light shone down upon Kobe Steakhouse, an unlikely choice considering the time, had it not been for the marquee flashing secret for our eyes only messages.
Who knew.

[screeching brake sound]
We stumbled to the door like zombies on a month long brain diet. Fooooood. Fooooooooooooooooood.
"Yes, Welcome to Kobe, there is going to be a 25 minute wait for our dining room but only a 15 minute wait for our sushi bar."
I cocked my head to the side and shook it a little (I call this move The Boggle, after the board game); the words falling from this persons lips not organizing themselves properly in my head, try again please. Scanning the restaurant and counting the empty chairs, I began to wonder quietly why one would advertise an after 9pm special and then expect patrons to wait another 1/2 an hour just to be served. That sounds to me like an after 9:30pm special.
The crickets smoking cigarettes at the bar, looked over to me and shrugged, "What do we know, lady. That smoking onion tower thing is pretty cool, even after 9:30pm. If you stay we will serenade you PROMISE." And then they all burst out laughing, pointing and holding their sides.

Captain Ridiculous and I paddled back to the car on a river of tears deciding that the very next shopping plaza, no matter what it contained, was exactly where we would eat, even if it meant dumpster diving for cardboard.
Game on.

[car reengages]
At 9:15pm we park. I don't even know where I am at but there is neon and open doors and the faint smell of fried. Fuck it.
We step in and Bubbles, our waitress shows us to our seats, the only unoccupied seats in the entire place because its FUCKING TRIVIA NIGHT WELCOME TO TRIVIA NIGHT YAY!!! Except for its already started so you can't play, aw, bounce bounce bounce and away she goes. The table is "next" to the loud speaker, jacked to 11 and when I say next to I mean on a pedestal, pointed at my head, no more than 2 feet from my ears as I slide into that side of the booth, dead eyes staring at my husband, resigned that somehow I have brought this hell upon myself and will now suffer for the next "how ever long this level of purgatory will last" for having maybe killed small children with bricks or stomped puppies creamy in a former life.

Dinner, was silent other than the booming voice of God revealing Gwyneth Paltrow has a cookbook dedicated to her father and the slogan for Cheese-Its among other small factoids I will never ever ever fucking forget because they are now laser etched on the inside of my skull. I almost hope I die in an accident that cracks my skull wide open, just so someone can walk by and feel like they got a special treat fortune cookie, exclaiming loudly, "Holy Shit, look at that, did you know that the Mordancy is another word for Sarcasm?!?"

We made it home at 10:30pm, bruised, battered, swollen, and with headaches. No anomaly here; Hubbysaurus and I have a habit of busting up on and into all sorts of things while searching for something to eat. Sometimes, this is our life.
We agreed that next time we would at least decide where to go before leaving the house. As for our bizarre experiences while eating out, I fully expect them to continue. We are magnets for something. One day we will figure out what that something is.

The sweet potato fries were good, by the way.


Is This Really Necessary.

Being honest with yourself is hard.
A friend once told me to never write about real life.
I suppose this is good advice.
Eventually I may be brought up on charges.
Or I will disappear and someone will be sad I went away.

I wasn't supposed to reveal my earlier post, which was written more than a week ago. Well. I was advised not to.
Reading back over it, I still feel the same: it is honest.
So I decided for the purposes of history forever on the verge of being erased, it is necessary.

And now for something completely different...

I am officially embarking on the seas of a new mantra. Previous mantras have included the very popular, "NMFP (Not My Fucking Problem)", "Who Has it Worse" and "The Silver Lining". From now on I shall ask/state - Is This Really Necessary? That hat, that law, that attitude, that dog, that extra piece of cheese, that prescription, that mountain, that molehill, that crucifixion.
Is This Really Necessary.
I like it. Very eco. Minimal.

Speaking of venturing, I decided to conduct some personal research into the demographic groups that play Mafia and Vampire Wars. Unfortunately, I am working through a 2 day suspension of privileges set back for having added too many friends at one time on Facebook. Who knew. Detachment and social mutation as it relates to online communities and communication. I find interaction through filter-less means fascinating. Also grotesque.

Other items on my list for the next 4 years (in order):
Online Citywide Scavenger Hunt (in the works).
T-Shirts (four distinct lines created currently).
Personal Art Show (2 completed pieces, 2 nearing completion, and 5 more sketched out).
Finishing School (enrolled for summer 2011).
Taxidermy (staring at dead shit on the side of the road, wondering how psychotic I would appear, harvesting it after midnight).
Fucking Fish Paintings (I still hate you, fish of the world, but will eventually profit off you so, fuck off again, I win).

Maybe tomorrow I will make a bigger list.
Or not. It may be unnecessary.

I am just a guinea pig in a sea of guinea pigs.

I am sure that I haven't been anywhere near sober the last few days; not on cloud nine but I can see birds flying from here. Or maybe they are spiders. Don't remember much of last night, or the day before, dreaming hasn't happened in two days, except for that nightmare I don't want to talk about. Hooray, I think, but not sure, I don't care, or, uh, what. Right. Uh. Sure.
Prior to this three legged cat incident wreck-ta-fying my emotions, I did something unheard of called "Seeing a Doctor". This was not my idea actually, for other than the possibility of getting some medication I will never take as directed, I have little use for doctors ever (exception: severe fucked-up-ed-ness). I have a very bad history with them; misdiagnosis and abuse I probably should have reported to the authorities had I not been on so many tranquilizers at the time.
Currently, I am not bleeding, nothing is really swollen (I'm just fat), no breaks or tears, lesions, oozing, nada, ziltch, I COULDN'T BE BETTER NO REASON TO SEE A DOCTOR. Well, I guess I could be better but fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck you. Self medication was working just fine, now I am just lost again, wandering in the woods wondering where my panties are or maybe in a hole, I can't tell.
Back to the doctor, who was a joke, like most doctors I have encountered in my life.
It went a bit like this.

My request: Prescription for 2 pills.
Her logic: You need 3 pills scripts.
My argument: Why take an extra pill?
Her rebuttal: You would only be treating half the problem with 2 pills.
My retort: But 2 pills DOES THE JOB.
Her stance: You can have 1 pill script.
My resignation: Am I speaking Chinese? I fucking hate you.

Adding insult to injury, she wrote my one script for the lowest dosage possible with no refills and referred me to a shrink who is likely going to take the same three (or four) pill position, unless I find a way to manipulate this in my favor before I even show up and sign paperwork. Ha. What am I going to do, go in and tell the truth? The truth can only be shared with a doctor who deserves the truth, which may take more than the visits allotted on my insurance policy for mental health, oh I guarantee it is gonna take more unless divine light shines down on me (not going to happen). So, since this likelihood is slim, logic dictates I should continue to exploit the system that only wants to skull fuck me anyway.

They are not miracle workers, they are only doing their jobs, just like my car mechanic or the guy who bags my groceries, paid better but still only performing a task.
I am Angry. Lost. Mean. Resentful. Paranoid. Suspicious.

Three Little Birds, baby.
Three Little Birds.