I thought I'd help my mother out on Craig's List

 

 

$200 LIVE LIKE A KING/QUEEN (NH/ME border)

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Date: 2011-01-29, 12:06PM EST
Reply to: see below

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I know that this may sound far-fetched, but this is an actual posting. I'm not a creep; just a lonely old lady who has an empty nest. My son just moved out and it would be nice to have the company of someone else around the house. Call me crazy, but I'm willing to open my home just to fill the void in my heart. So, if that does not bother you, then finish reading the rest of this posting, Dear.

For only $200 a month! You might be asking yourself: Well, what the hell do I get for THAT? Let me tell you. You get a furnished bedroom in a two bedroom home, you get your laundry washed AND FOLDED every week, you get home cooked meals, you get FREE toiletries, you get FREE cable, FREE telephone access, your own bathroom and all the other things that would make you feel comfortable.

I am looking for anyone who pays their bills on time and cleans up after themselves. Your age does not matter, nor does your gender. Why is this room priced so low? Because it's your lucky day!

If this sounds like something up your alley, then please contact me at 207 475 **** so we can set up a time to meet. I can't wait to hear from you!

• cats are OK - purrr
• dogs are OK - wooof
• Location: NH/ME border
• it's NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests

PostingID: 21866

Yummmmmmmy

I WILL DESTROY YOU, TB3!

LEAVE MY GIRL ALONE!

My Shoes Are Better Than Yours

“-Give me a topic”

-“SHOES”

Guys are like shoes.  They are.  Every female needs a nice pair of shoes to wear.  She needs a pair that isn’t like anyone else’s.  A gal like me (but not me since I’m on relationship lock-down) needs a pair of shoes that she OWNS.  Take that however you would like.  Two things that most females cannot live without are shoes and guys, mainly because they are so damn similar.  For instance, everyone knows that you don’t wear the same shoes to the gym that you wear out dancing.  Just like guys, I (or… pre-relationship Alexis) needs a different pair of “shoes” for different things.  Examples:

Gym shoes (health conscious guys that are in shape)

Dancing shoes (guys that like to paint the town red)

Dress Boots (guys that are flashy)

Snow Boots/Hiking Boots (guys that are rugged)

Flip Flops (guys that love the beach and are free spirited)

Casual sneakers (guys that are low-key and relaxing)

Designer shoes (guys with low self esteem; ones that are easy to knock around)

Barefoot (No guys necessary)

…and the list goes on.

With this in mind, also remember that shoes need to be replaced when they are worn down or when they go out of style each season.  And like most females, closets are full of shoes that aren’t seen by anyone else, but are just waiting to be worn.  These are the pairs that were gifts, maybe purchased on sale or even ones that were left behind by someone else.  Sure, the female has her staple pairs that are the most comfortable, but she always has options.

Oh, and FYI:  NO FEMALE ever buys a pair of shoes without trying them on first.  In order to commit, the shoes need to at least look good and feel good.  Sure, chicks window shop like crazy, but buying a pair of shoes without first walking around in them is like playing Russian roulette. 

Facebook Photos... A New Way To Lie

 

FUCK FACEBOOK

Facebook drives me batty.  It makes me go a little bit nuts inside.  Do I have an account?  No.  Will I ever have one?  Unless it’s a rogue one, the answer remains the same.  NO.  No fucking thank you.  Am I the only person on the planet who thinks that this virtual social connection is a motherfucking low jack?  Seriously.   

I just hacked into someone’s account and saw a bunch of “thugs” posing for their Facebook pictures.  …Just in case the cops don’t already know what they look like, why not help the retards (excuse my French) out.  And while you’re at it, put ALL of your information on your page including where you work, your family members, where you went to High School, more photos, your email, your phone number...  The list goes on.

And is it just me or does everyone on Facebook look like they are having the best lives ever? They primp themselves for their photos, wear stylish outfits and pose in the most flattering positions.  It’s all a sham.  These people RARELY live up to their pictures in real life.  When did everyone in America get plastic surgery and become models?  If I were a photographer, I’d make a killing off of shooting Facebook headshots.  Which vanity case these days would say no to photoshop? 

Peeping Toms around the globe are probably getting their jollies off to this new era of voyeurism.  And I say this with the utmost respect.   If I were to succumb to this purge of social interaction, my photo would exemplify everything that I stood for.  It would encompass the entirety that was ‘me’.  It would look a little something like this:

-OR-

BEFRIEND ME!!!!

Who's The Slave Now?

I hate to admit to this because it sounds like a pussy thing to say, but I have to be honest.  I miss working.  If I worked doing retail, driving a truck or working on Wall Street I'm almost 134% sure that I would never be saying this.  Sure I'd miss the money, but I wouldn't miss the job.  I'm honest though when I say this: I miss my job.  I miss working.  I miss beating the shit out of my clients on a regular basis...

My friend took this picture of me at work in my uniform.  Not one of my best pictures, but...  Eh, whatever.  My favorite thing about being a Dominatrix (besides the money) was the laughs.  I laughed so hard when I was in the zone.  When my clients came to me and asked me to play out a skit and it almost always ended with them being beat up, I loved it.  I loved going to work, being entertained and going home with money in my pocket.  I had slaves that massaged and kissed my feet,

people who just wanted the shit kicked out of them, people who just needed a spanking,

 

people who wanted to be verbally degraded (I'm a pro at that), even people who wanted to dress up.

I could have had the worst day in the world and go to work knowing that even though I might have had to deal with a few bitches, I was going to leave with less anger than I arrived with.  Through my job, I have saved on yoga classes, anger management and acting coaches.  If this world didn't have such a stick up it's ass, I would still be in that profession.  Why did I leave?  Because I find it nearly impossible to lie and I don't think that my uhhh "kid" will appreciate my profession.  And neither would the PTA.  In the words of one of my favorite characters: "This town needs an enema!"

America and your stigmas?  As for you: suck a fat one.

I Did An Uhh Ohh

UHH OHH.  I think that I did something bad.  It TOTALLY wasn't my fault.  I would like to blame this on my ignorance coupled with my general aloofness, which I have mastered.  So here is what happened.  *And just so you know, I feel like a fucking moron for even explaining this little ...mishap

I know when I have to shit.  Yeah yeah, that doesn't rank for my greatest achievements in life, but just so you know, my bowels are pretty regular.  Plus, if you are aware of your own body, you can feel your ascending, transverse, and descending colon (large intestine).  When all of the food is going through your intestine, if you press down enough, you can feel it's mass.  Anyways, sometimes I utilize massage techniques to "help" this process out.  And people?  It works like a charm.

So the other day, I'm laying in bed and I feel this mass of what I thought was shit at the very end where my intestine ended.  The whole time I'm thinking to myself "Holy fuck.  Am I constipated?  Shit!"  So I go to the toilet and take a shit.  Blah blah blah....

A few hours pass, the day is a boring one and so I go back and lay down again.  That is what I do nowadays.  Here I am in bed and there it is again.  The pile of shit that must be stuck in my poor stretched out bowels.  After twenty minutes of contemplating going to the ER for an emergency enema, I say to myself, "Just massage it out, retard."  And that is exactly what I attempt to do.  I start rubbing my belly in clockwise motions.  Slowly, then a bit harder.  My patience wears thin after about 5 minutes, so I start rubbing even harder.  Even harder becomes very aggressive poking and prodding saying to it "Come on, motherfucker.  Let's go!"  By the time I have had enough pain, I go and sit on the toilet again and wait for this monstrous shit to emerge from withing my ass.  And that is when it hit me like a ton of bricks...

Uhhhh, that wasn't backed up shit...  That was my uterus growing bigger, making room for my miniature parasite.  How fucking stupid could I be?  I can't even look at myself in the mirror.  (Thank God I already got dressed and brushed my hair...)

Get This Creep Off The Streets For Good

WANTED

(For being a prick)

Should you see this douche of society, feel free to do the following without fear of prosecution:

*Lure him to you by playing Tears For Fears (he likes that shit) and once he is close, throw a pile of dogshit in his face (make sure it's not human poop because he likes that).

*If he's at the gym, tell him that you would love to spot him while he does his bench presses.  In the middle of his set, when the bar is fully extended above him, charlie-horse his face and run away.

*If you work at a store that he frequents, short him on his change (he's a total cheapskate and will have a crying fit that last for hours).

-Or-

*Loosen up all the screws on his bike and challenge him to a wheely-popping contest.  Watch as he attempts a trick and ends up eating his handlebars.

REWARD

A little NOTE:

DAMN YOU, SASHA!  FOLLOW ME!!!!!

Old Habits Never Change

OOOOOOhhhh SHIT!  I'm allergic (my only downfall) to cats and I'm sitting right next to a 'pussy palace' (one of those fucking cat houses that towers eight feet tall).  Aside from my eyeball being gouged out by my fingers, it is oozing and red.  Yeah, I'm sure that some of you yagbies are going to say "Well, maybe it's conjunctivitis" -NO IT"S NOT.  It's the dander on these felines that has me looking like The Elephant Man right about now and I'm about to round them up and sell them to the Chinese food place down the street.  I don't do cats.  Unless they are hairless ones that look like cancer patients.

The point of this is.... Well, there is no point.  My nose is running and it is stuffed like a pepper.  On top of that, I have sneezed over 30 times now in the last 2 hours.  The last sneeze that came out of me made me piss my pants.  Yeah, I know how that would make me sound like I've got Grand Canyon crotch, but it's not the case.  I do kegels, fellas.  Plus, I use the Ben Wah weights.  If you don't know about them, uhh... Google?  Anyhow, by the thirtieth sneeze, my muscles were caught off guard and relaxed from the past two hours of strenuous work.  And that is how I just pissed my pants.  The picture above?  I took that in the bathroom and spruced it up.  It was either that or a shot at the piss stain.  Fuck fuck FUCK!  I'm putting myself out of commission.

When I Hung Up On You

This is as far as I got with my computer graphics skills.  I wish that I had more of an aptitude for technology, but it just isn't in my cards.  Now that I really examine the precision in which I executed my skills, I'm more convinced that someone from Easter Seals would spank my ass in a graphics competition.  That's a shame. I should be cruising along with the times and assimilate with the rest of the world.

For years now I took solace in knowing that my grandmother still owned her rotary telephone.  Sure, it took a year and a half to dial a phone number, but there wasn't call waiting, the ring was a comforting bahhhringgg bahhhringgg, and when you hung up on someone, it felt most satisfying.  With buttons on phones these days hanging up is passe.  I miss the more primal way of doing it.  It seems like only days ago, hanging up went a little something like this:

"Oh, what was that?!  Oh yeah, motherfucker?!"

"Yeah, bitch.  You heard me!"

"Oh, ok.  Well fuck you, you jherri curl dripping, teeth grinding, hammer-toed, ass licking BASTARD!"

"Well, You can take your-"

(*and this is when the hang up happens)

"No, FUCK YOU!"

 And at that moment, even though on the other line, all that the person hears is a click, MUCH MORE transpired on the hang up side.  The person who hung up had the satisfaction of slamming the phone back on the dock (which takes countless times of practice between those field goal-like hooks).  As they slam the phone down, they get to hear the *slam* of the phone and let their anger flow through their body, out their arm and channel it through the telephone that is attached to the wall (most likely in the kitchen).  And that is that.  That particular episode dispersed their anger in an efficient and harmless way.  And truth be told, hanging up on people with rotary phones is one of the most satisfying ways.

Now on a 'new age' phone, hanging up on people became pussified.  New age telephones have buttons that light up, no cords to regulate where the talker goes for privacy in the house and if it isn't a land-line (which is pretty much obsolete now) it's a fucking gadget called a "cell phone".  When the phone rings, if it doesn't sound like you are in a spaceship run by synthesizers, then the ring is probably a top 40 song on the radio.  And this is how THAT hang up goes:

  
 (Pop song ring tone and vibrate)

(Also a picture of the caller because calling is never a surprise anymore)

"Hey, Micah."

"Hey Apple (because everyone has stupid names these days), why didn't you text me back?"

"Because, Micah.  I told you that I was in my Bikrham Yoga class between going to my therapist and picking up Chloe (her fagloid dog) from doggy daycare.  I though you got my Tweet."

(Incoming call from Sky)

 

"Can you hold on, Micah?  Sky is calling me.  I have to take this."

"Fine."

(Beep over to other line)

(Dead air for 45 seconds)

(Beep back to Micah)

"Hello?  Are you still the there, Micah?"

"Yeah."

"And the Tweet?  Didn't you get it?"

"No, Apple.  I didn't get your tweet.  Speaking of which, I really don't think that you respect my inner peace by tweeting your entire life to everyone.  We are supposed to be partners."

"Here we go again, Micah.  This is exactly what my acupuncturist warned me about.  Your energy is interfering with my Chi and it's affecting Chloe's eating patterns.  Sorry.  I have to go."

"But-"

(*And this is when the hang up happens)

At that very moment the caller that is being hung up on still hears the same beep, but on the other end, things have drastically changed for the caller doing the hanging up.  The person hanging up has to take the phone away from their ear, look down at the miniature buttons, locate the "End" button and press it.  And THAT IS IT.  No slamming things unless you want your phone to disintegrate into a million pieces and no yelling during the conversation because your phone's signal keeps going in and out of service.  Just press the "End" button, hear a *beep* and the Face of the person on the other end goes blank.  

And that might be the worst part about it.  The last thing that I want to do when I hang up on someone is see their face because it is just going to make me want to punch them and the fact that they are a computerized graphic on my phone doesn't fucking lend a hand.  That just infuriates me even more.  By that time I'm to the point where I just want to throw my phone at a wall or down on the ground and stomp it in a million pieces, pretending that it's the person that I hung up on.  

I have one friend who is notorious for always having a new phone.  He has such an anger problem that his cell phones eat the wall on a bi-weekly basis.  I guess that you could say that his case is a bit much, but I congratulate him on letting the anger out.  It's normal.  So are rotary phones.  Cell phones aren't.  They have helped pussify this generation.  That's why old people hated them so much when they first came out.  Hell, most old people still do.  And so does Alexis.

A Letter To The NYPD

Dear Officer Dominguez of the 33rd,

Fuck You.

It was an accident.

 *Just like when your mother didn't abort you.  Dickhead.

                                                                                                                 Lick a turd,

                                                                                                                 Alexis 

Sex On Speed...Dial

I was wondering what other people wrote in their blogs, so I went carousing through random work.  I mostly came up with people writing about their hobbies or their kids.  "Bobby did the cutest thing today" or "I finally landed my hands on Spiderman #74".  Things of that nature.  All the while I'm rummaging through these blogs, I'm thinking about the lack of hobbies that I have and my very own offspring/devil spawn.

My kid is still in the womb cooking so I don't have much to say about it's daily monumental activities.  I've been hooking up my ipod headphones to my belly so it doesn't get bored in there.  I don't know if it's a girl or boy, so lets just call it 'shim' and hope that I don't jinx it to become a hermaphrodite upon delivery.  So shim spends it's time listening to the likes of The Rolling Stones, Tupac, Broadway musicals, D'Angelo, Wham, and John Coltrane.  I mix it up though.  On my ipod, I have over 23 thousand songs, so shim gets a buffet.

My biggest fear is that shim is going to be an alcoholic.  I have heard of females craving ice cream and pickles and odd shit like dirt (for the broads who have Pica), but I can't seem to build up any craving at all other than cigarettes and rum.  It's well known that whatever a woman is craving during pregnancy, her body is usually deficit in.  So does that mean that my body NEEDS the ciggs and rum- cause if that's the case, then by all means...  PLEASE just take me to a bar ASAP.  Oh wait.  Rice Krispies.  I don't crave them, but each time I eat them it's orgasmic.

And speaking of which, that's another thing that I crave.  In the past three months, all that I have wanted to do was have sex and throw up (not necessarily in that order).  My lover, who is supposed to be a sex crazed Scorpio must be malfunctioning because he told me that he doesn't want anymore kids if I can't control myself.  It's not my fault.  There is nothing wrong with having sex all day long.  The trick is (if you have other shit to do) to tear it up so much that I fall asleep and then he can escape and go to work or do whatever people do during the day.  Then, when I wake up and he isn't there, I'd make him a nice dinner to come home to.  He still hasn't got that concept though.  Can I just break it down really quick?

My thoughts are this: if you are in a relationship, then you are OBLIGATED to have sex whenever your "partner" wants it.  Whenever.  In a snowstorm, on a bus, in church, during breakfast, or any other time they have the urge.  And this rule goes both ways.  They should be ready for you as well.  So here is where people get all butthurt over my logic.  If you are in a relationship and you cannot keep up with your loved one's libidic  (I made that word up) demands, then you need to find a surrogate.  Seriously.  If she/he comes to you and says 'drop trou' and you can't get in the mood, then you better have that surrogate on speed dial.

Or if she/he wants to do it at 3 in the afternoon and you have a meeting to go to, then get the surrogate to put in overtime.  If this were the case, then many more relationships would be successful.  And ALEXIS (ahem ahem) would sleep better at night.

What the hell?  I try to write about Shim and look where it leads to.  Sex.  This kid has some real promising genes that it's inheriting...

Oh How I Long For It...

"Punk Junk"

I let my lover read my blog for the first time today.  I don't know what to say about this...

(3 days later)

Ok.  I thought about it.  But...

(5 hours later)

I guess that my only concern is that he (surprised?) will think of me in a different fashion.  I mean the Alexis that he knows might not be the same dickhead that is conveyed in this... what do people call these again?  Blogs?  Yes.  The "blog".  I don't want him to read these computerized journal entries (hint hint if you are reading this) and stare at me while I'm sleeping, trying to figure out if I'm some type of sociopath.  The last thing that I need to do is wake up in the middle of the night and have his scrutinizing eyes glued to me while he is sitting in the corner and shivering in his boxer-briefs.  

Speaking of which, and can I say this without looking like a pervert?  I wish that he would "free ball" it sometimes.  I don't think that he has EVER lived on the edge in his entire life when it came to his balls catching a cold.  I free ball it all the time so it's nothing new to me.  Unless I'm wearing a g-string, I can't stand underwear.  Ugh!  Who needs their ass cheeks to be in bras?  How is my ass going to jiggle the same if it's got this huge restrictive barrier around it?  Sure, period panties are a must, but for the rest of the month, I can't be happy unless the ass and crotch is free.

It is such an issue that when I asked him what he would like me to wear to look sexy, he replied "how about underwear".  And to this day I sit in wonder, pondering what type of blood runs through his balls.  Only a control freak would lock up their jewels away from the public eye.  All he is doing is adding another unneeded layer of clothing between he and I.  He thinks it adds to the suspense of undressing.  You want my opinion?  I think that he (and EVERY other guy who religiously wears underwear) is afraid that the day they free ball is the day that they get pantsed in public.  Kind of like how whenever I decide to wear a skirt, it becomes windy outside.  If that's the case, then I understand.  But, who pantses unsuspecting people these days besides me?  

*Hey loverboy.  If you are still reading this, then the next blog I type will be about that thing you do in bed.  You know.  It's that thing where you....

Porn Creates Inspiration. Can God Do That?

I woke up this morning, had a bowl full of pork fried rice and spent the rest of the day watching porn.  It wasn't normal porn either.  I seek the most horrific and demented porn around the net.  Sure, at times it makes me look in the mirror and question if I am the reincarnation of a perverted pimp from the 1820's.  If so, all of my girls would have been imported from the freak shows and they would have male "pets" that dressed up as the girl's favorite animals.  Not like fuzzies...   Well, maybe.  But to answer my own mental question, no, I am not the product of a reincarnation.

My porn habits only arise when i am very bored or very depressed.  Today, after calculating the 8+ hours that I spent watching human beings being rearranged, my mood increased by.02 out of a ten.  When the films were over I called upon one of my indentured male servants from the past.  He brought me in my chocolate chip cookies and I started to type.  This is my idea:  Donations.

Adults don't like to just give their money to other adults who are able bodied.  It's like "why the fuck am I going to give my hard earned money to this lazy sonofabitch?  Go get a job like the rest of us, you self loathing BASTARD!"  Yeah yeah yeah, I understand.  And that is exactly the reason why I'm going under disguise.  From the lowest depths of hell i came across a picture of myself when I was 6 or 7 years old.  I looked innocent, charming and a breath of fresh air.  The picture was taken on my trip to Disney World, so naturally I looked at my happiest.

For the purpose of my "donations", I am going to take that picture of me and place it on a jar with the caption:

"Hi.  My name is Alexis.  I am 6 years old.  My favorite

animal is a unicorn.  When I grow up I want to be a

vetinarian."

*With your donation, you can help get Alexis a heart

transplant and make her dreams come true.  Let

your change be the change in her life.

My younger sister lives in a quaint and friendly town, so I called on her for assistance with this personal treat.  Since my sister has the unassuming face of an Abercrombie model, I figure that she will be the perfect decoy.  Dressed in her usual high school attire, my sister will bring the jugs around town and ask the shop keeper (that's what they call them in small towns) if she can keep the jugs on the counter at the store.  When asked why, she will tell them that she is sponsoring "Alexis" through her church group.  Who would say no to a darling school girl that is doing a good cause for God?  Not even the Devil himself.

I know that this sounds like a copout from getting a real job, but the thought process alone set me back about 6 days.  I'm pooped.  Oh crap.  It's past 11:11.  I missed my wish!  ...damn.  And to think that just 3 hours ago I was watching a double amputee have sex with a midget, while I sipped from my juice box in bed.

My alarm clock broke... 10 days ago

"Get the fuck out of bed!  Stop being a lazy ass and get yourself up!  Alexis!  Goddamn you!  Listen to me!"

That is what my invisible clone is saying to me right now at the foot of my bed.  I'm not really paying her any mind.  Last night she decided to polish off a handle of Wild Turkey and thought that it was a good idea to shit in my neighbor's mailbox.  Cops found her 18 blocks away passed out on top of a Mazda's hood.  She was still blurbing out obscenities about "the goddamn spike in cigarette prices" when they brought her back to my doorstep.  Two months ago, I went to a vendor at the mall and engraved on one of those dog tags my address for situations like this.

 That's why I don't understand why after all of the things that I have done to ensure her safety, she is barking down my throat about taking a shower.  Soldiers in Nam went without showers for months and they are declared heroes.  What's the difference?  I want to lay in my funk.  I want to marinate in it.  If I'm lucky, the chemicals emitted from my body will come together, create a noxious gas and put me out of my misery while I'm fast asleep.

...Ten days ago I tripped down a spiral staircase of depression.  Ten fucking days.  How many hours is that?  240?!?!  ...Well, it's not THAT bad.  I wish that I had a more viable excuse to be in such a funk than 'I just don't like the world'.  It's true though.  I hate the world.  Last year at this time, I was a Dominatrix at one of the most notorious dungeons in NYC.  A year later, I'm 3 months knocked up, unemployed and laying in a bed full of sorrow.  My favorite phrase now?  'Shoot me in the face'- and no, I don't mean that in a sexual way.  Like literally, take a .357 and shoot me in the face.

I have a plan.  Ok, so no, I don't.  Yes, I'm pregnant.  No, I'm not showing yet.  So why not get a job, right?  Let me break this down to all you 9-5ers out there.  I (unabashedly) had to call up my friend and inquire as to what the normal pay rate is nowadays.  10-15 dollars for entry level jobs?!?!  What the FUCK.  How is anyone supposed to live off of that?  How?!  When the government rapes you for taxes and you are forced to pay your bills, how is anyone supposed to actually LIVE?  I don't get it.

It's the lack in monetary appreciation that forces me to stay in bed for so long.  There has GOT to be another way.  How can I dick over the man without going to jail?  Let me think about this for a bit.  I need to be alone for this one.  Didn't you hear me?!?!  GET THE HELL OUT OF HERE!!!

Tampons for EVERYONE

Is everybody in New York on the fucking rag this week?  

I may not look like the nicest person in the world, but I love to have a nice time.  What's so wrong about wanting to relax and take it easy?  Why is that so motherfucking hard for people to do?  You know, this world may be going to shit, so we might as well enjoy it while it does.  When I'm old and eating mush, I'd like to at least be happy about the way my life went. 

Americans are some of the most miserable motherfuckers.  They sit on their fat medicated asses and let technology rule them.  "Let's workout.  Oh, gotta get my Wii."  "Let me read a book.  Why read when I can download it on my ipod and listen to someone else read it to me!"  It's the simple shit that people lack.  For instance.  What the fuck happened to manners?  Automatic doors has taught people how NOT to say 'thank you'.  GPS has created a void of humility because people don't get lost anymore and have to ask for directions.  Hell, you can even order your dinner over the internet so you don't have to be courteous to people. 

All I want to do is get a beach chair, pack a cooler, and smoke my ciggs in the sunset as I listen to my favorite band.  Oh, wait.  I can't even do THAT anymore.

My Darkest Moment

 

 

Thoughts of Suicide

By: Alexis

 

To be without you in the midst of the night

To walk alone longing, my hands held together tight

I look for you in everything that I do

My words even fumble- surely this can't be true

 

The love that loved when eyes were blinded

A single spark between us and the whole room ignited

I miss the smell of your body... true bliss

My lips long to have just one last kiss

 

My love, I am melancholy from head to toe

My biggest regret was when I let you go

Never again will I act with such vanity

Oh my love- THE COMPLETE INSANITY!

 

...Just the other day, my mind took a flight

We were back in each other's embrace and it felt so right

The dream ended in tears and an uncontrollable sob

Nothing hurts like the pain of a lonely heart's throb

 

Days are lasting longer as my mind stays aloof

Dear heart return to my arms and tell me the truth

Say that you will forgive me, let me hold you again

Grab hold of my heart and start to mend

 

Stop this sad ache- give me back my smile

Thank God this break is only a trial

Oh, my cigarettes- what was I on?

A crack binge? An acid trip? What went so wrong?

But, I had to detox you out of my life, so I said ..."so long"

 

....Now is when my heart needs you back

Oh Newport 100's in a box ...not soft pack.

Feb 3 2007 A Mindfuck Quickie

So here I am at work, minding my p's and q's. I'm making reservations and taking care of some paperwork at the same time. At some point, I guess that you could say that I 'got in the zone'. Customer, paperwork, customer, paperwork (where's a crazy driving bus when you need one to step in front of these days?) It was around 5:00 in the evening and the sky was turning that dark reddish orange. You know, the kind of sky that happens after an atom bomb is released? Yeah, so I'm in the middle of paperwork and in walks this.... person. It was about six feet, I'd say 160 pounds and....a little androgenic looking. The person was Hawaiian looking, adorned with long weather beaten blonde hair. Remember Pat? It was just like this. I didn't know what it was. A guy, a girl, or both. It had on girl clothing, but no boobs to fill it, which could definitely be the case if it had breast cancer, right? But then what if it was just a guy that was really soft? I didn't want to call him ma'am or sir without knowing the truth. So, I did just like the people at the liquor store do when I walk up to the line with a handle of rum and pigtails in my hair. "May I see your id, .....(shit, what do I use? Sir or ma'am. Sir or ma'am.)......dear?". Upon handing me the id, I realize that they had nice long nails. Pretty ones. Oh, so she must have had breast cancer, which is why there were no boobs. Ah, ....relaxed.
(Not to go totally off, but as a side note..... I like to play a little game at work called guess everyone's weight and zodiac sign. Hey, if my plans don't work out in life, I can always join a traveling carnival. Let me just say that I have gotten pretty fucking good at the whole thing. Id say I'm 8 out of 10.)
So, I'm looking at the id and just like I thought, around 165 pounds, six feet tall, some island name, male........male......mother.....of......god..... I was WAY off. Right in front of me was a transvestite. You always expect them to look like they just stepped off set from The Rocky Horror Picture Show, so when they just look like guys in normal girl clothing, it kind of throws you through a reality loop. This, the whole transvestite thing, was not new to me. I don't know what it is, but I am a magnet for transvestites, midgets, medical anomalies (the weird ones) and pretty much anyone that is not normal by society's standards. I don't know why, but they attract to me like flies to shit, I think because I am less judging of one of them than I am to someone walking down wall street.
See, what people don't realize is that while they are judging and chastising a "non-normie" for their blatant lifestyle, we turn our heads away from people who are "normal". And to be frank, I think that that is fucked up. The outcasts are being honest about what makes them an outcast in society. They are at least true to themselves. Meanwhile, the wall street person, walks downtown looking like everyone else, indistinguishable amongst his coworkers. What people don't realize though, is that the "all American- normal people" are sometimes the ones with the most demons in their closets. Even though I think that its kinda funny to see a weather beaten truck driver dress like a woman on the weekends, they have to have some balls (no pun intended) for facing their not so accepted inner desires in such an in your face kind of way. ....hahaha. This wasn't even what I was supposed to write about...wow. This doesn't even make any sense. So for all you mofos who read this heap of shit....... suckers! This really happened a couple of days ago, but its not that serious.

My Cherry Popper

Hmm... did i ever expect anyone to read my lame ass blog? No. that's why i wrote the fucking thing to begin with. i never thought that people really took the time out and read the damn things. (if this motherfucker doesn't stop talking to me, i am going to lose my train of thought. wait...wait....almost...ok) so anyways, I'm in the shower thinking about this whole thing...

doesn't anyone take the time to put it all together? you're at your computer. life is going well, so why not write about it? some people put their deepest thoughts in their blogs. what they are doing, where they are going and all of the other small shit that adds up. it adds up to the fact that some fucking nut out there is actually reading about their lives and putting all the clues together. then one day his admiration becomes obsession and they end up at the place that was described in some innocent little blog, locate the person that wrote about it (which is easy cause everyone has a million pictures of themselves on their pages), and start to stalk the person.

that very day, the person who wrote the blog to begin with is in her shower thinking about the blog that she wrote and she wonders if anyone reads them. in stalks some madman out of nowhere and he slits her fucking throat. the blood is washed away and goes down the drain. then he spends two days cutting her up and putting her down the disposal in her kitchen. when that's all done, he sits down at her computer posing as his victim, and types away a blog about how people never read blogs, or at least he never thought so.

How do you spell ...work?

                                                                           

"I'm not really here". That's what I would say if someone knew that I was typing a fucking blog when I am supposed to be out getting a job. So where are my motherfucking priorities you ask? Still in bed…… duuuuh. Finding work is the second most boring thing to do. What's number one on my list? I'm gonna go with planning a wedding. I'd like nothing more right now than to collect SSI and retire. If it were legal, or I had an amazing team of fugitives, I'd just rob a bank and call it a day. Jobs were the worst things invented. Jobs take the fun out of life. Why the hell would people choose to spend most of their time on an earth (that they are only going to be on once) to work and sleep? You could take the same amount of energy that you spend working and actually have fun. Fuck work. The only reason why people do it is for the money.

This is what I propose. Wampum. Indian money. I'm going to spend the rest of the week making a bunch of wampum. (I love arts and crafts, so this I'll actually enjoy doing.) The time that I could spend looking for a job will be filled with string, beads, shells and shit like that. Then, the next time that I get a craving for my ciggs (or have to pay my rent), I'm gonna hand over the wampum to my landlord. I wonder what the exchange rate is…. It's not important. What IS important is that my life will have gotten 137 times better without having to "work". I pity the soul that doesn't share my views.