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.

YOU CAN'T HANDLE THE TOOTH!

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.

DEMOCRATICA! DEMOCRATICA!

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.
*sniff*
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.
*sniff*
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.

duh.

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.*

MARK THEM.

MARK THEM!

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.
DO IT.

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
5. YOUR MOMS VAGINA

Sorry.

* 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

OK, WHERES MY ROCKING FLOAT, BOUNCING DOWN THE STREET TO THICK BEATS, WHILE DOUBLE CHEESEBURGERS ARE BEING THROW TO THE CROWDS?!

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.
FOR OVER 65 MINUTES.
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.
LATE SPECIALS - AFTER 9PM.
LATE SPECIALS - AFTER 9PM BITCHES - COME IN AND EAT SOME GODDAMN FOOD ALREADY.
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.

"HOW ARE YOUR SWEET POTATO FRIES? I SAID, HOW ARE YOUR SWEET POTATO FRIES?! FRIES! FRIES!!! FRIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEESSSSSSSSSSSSS!!!!!!!!!"
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.