Sinkies better than Floaties, or is it the other way around....

I guess I didn't have anything that I wanted to read in the bathroom. I have lots of things that I should be reading. Sometimes I don't want to have that kind of committment to my poop. Just having to pay attention to my shit is committment enough.

I'm trying to get healthier. How can we not? We've fucked up the food system big enough that some of us get too much, and lots of people don't get enough. So, here I am. I've been trying to keep up with what's ok to eat, what's not ok to eat. If my shit is good enough. If my poop signifys a change for the better. I sometimes feel quilty about putting anything in my mouth, as though taking a bite of the genetically engineered food is taking from someone else. The guilt is so big and stressful that I either have gotten tired, indigestion, or constipated from it all. That can't be healthy. Thus, my poop on those days are no good. And what about the methane that I'm contributing to the planet's atmosphere? God help us, our existance is almost unworthy. I cannot produce good poop to honor your creation.

Shit, shitty, McShit, Shit.

Fighting for your own space in this world is a bit oppressive when you have to worry about your poop. Sometimes I just vision us, all of us, as this giant swirling mass and I'm constantly amazed that we haven't been flushed all together. How can one not believe in the Chaos Theory these days? I eat, I poop, and somewhere on the planet something dies, is born, etc. Being a part of the swirling mass has it vantages. Do I simply ebb and flow? Do I swim upstream? Having to pick what my responsbilities to the mass are, as oppossed to which ones I can just let go, just let go to the swirl. Do I have responsibilities to the living micro-organisms in the poop? OR, just the bigger picture? Shit, shitty, McShit, Shit.

Today I had floaties. Yesterday I had sinkies. There are articles about which kind of poop are better than the others. I think that they flip-flopped opinions at some time. There are poop experts. I do find this funny. Shit doctors, shit disectors, the Poop People. Some of the CSI units even have them. Your poop can tell quite a story. Even poop fossils. Even that. But, do we even trust the poop experts? There are, after all, only humans, just making guesses. After all, nothing in this world is permanent...it just ebbs and flows.

I put a big glass vase outside my house in the garden I created. Glass is only solid to those of us that can't see it moving into mush. It's not that solid. I wondered if I would live to see any of the glass move downward, melty, even just make lines that it was moving downward with the force of gravity that I can't see. It gets sun everyday, and it's hot here, so maybe. I've made a habit for now to hold my head sideways and look everyday. Maybe. Just maybe.

I took the family to see a comedy show. We all went downtown. The energy is different in a downtown. The air is different. The people are different. It's faster, it's slower, it's brighter and darker. Things colide in a downtown. We walked and held hands. We had pizza in a little cafe; as though that pizza was so special from other pizza, and it is. I gave my son two quarters. He gave one to some kid's jar for support with some disease. Then he bought a gumball with the other. Sometimes we're so busy we all don't even get to really look at eachother. My son that was so tiny once. He's tall and thin, and expressive. My family is cool. I thought to myself that I didn't know how people with children could be mean to eachother, or divorced or anything. I just don't know about that. I tried to stare as much as possible, I wanted to absorb these times into my memories, my blood, my DNA. It was more than love and wonder. More than awe. We don't have a word for that energy.

We went into the theater, past the swirling masses of cool people. I didn't want to consentrate on them, or make room for them. We only had money for one t-shirt. I bought it for our son.

I wanted to get our son backstage to meet the famous people. I played the handi-capped card for him. It got to be good for something. I told everyone about my disease, and how it has affected our family life, and this was a big night for all of us to be together. so if they could just get his shirt signed or something, that would be so nice. How nice would that be? At first, there was no hope of getting him backstage. But, I was patient. I had done this before when I wasn't diseased. I knew that it would work, given time and hitting up the right number of people. I looked really sad and hurt, and showed my pleading eyes. Smile. Finally, they all told me what to do...but that it might not work, we might get kicked out. I said thank you, I said the right tone of wispy, grateful, heartfelt tone of thank you and that was ok too. If we all got kicked out, then my kid would have that experience, too.....getting kicked out of something cool. That was fine, too.

The show had a lot of adult humor. When we got backstage to the famous people, one of them looked surprised and maybe a bit judgemental about having my small child there. I told him that most of the humor when over his head, and he'd already heard his own mother cuss, and he didn't like it, so, he wasn't going to say that stuff. Our child was more conservative then me, he had made that decision for himself, and I didn't need to interfer. Also, there's so much violence, ugly sex, hate, war on T.V., in school, around him in his day to day world that I can't protect him from, and this show was funny....why wouldn't I want to take him to the things that are witty and funny and full of good? He was surprised with my answer, met my cool kid, and helped get his shirt signed by everyone, with pictures, too. My kid thought of himself as King Shit. Why wouldn't I want to do that? How many times to we get to feel that? I have no heartburn about that. My poop was ok.

Work.

The ebb and flow of that. People always think that there work is the most important. It's hard for me to feel that, or take any of it that seriously. I try to make my yawning and lack of interest as masked as possible. Some days are better than others. After five, one of the ladies saw a tiny bit of a tatoo of mine sneaking out of the top of my shirt. She told me that she didn't know that I was that kind of person. I smiled. I'm not sure what kind of person she had thought I was before, or now, but I'm some kind of person. Yes. I guess my cover was blown. The next day the gossip train hit. What can one do? Not much. Well, the jig is up.

I am due to get my biggest tatoo endeveor colored this weekend. Standing in the elevator after five the next day, everyone asked what I was doing this weekend. I guess I got this look of panic on my face. Not panic exactly, just caught, without my work mask on. Shit, it was after five. It was a weird feeling for me. One smart German said that I didn't have to say, and he smiled. He made me smile, and smile big. Ok, fuck it. I told everyone that I was having some tatoo work done, then perhaps some gardening, and hanging with the family and a friend. German smiled. The others just looked at me in shock. Where are we? !!!?!#$!$. People world wide have tatoos. It's pretty popular now. No so much for natives in National Geo, gansters, and the Navy anymore. For real. We just didn't think that you were that kind of person.

We'll see how that works out on Monday.

I'm not sure if they're all feeling like somehow they let something into their sactuary. I'm not sure if they're going to be ok. There's others that have tatoos, in the office. I'm not sure what's so special or shocking about me. I could have done without the extra attention, but I couldn't seem to stop myself. I couldn't let the group get away with the egos, the gossip, the straight up meaness from the job. On the other hand, who appointed me Savior? Self-Appointed...then isn't that the ego of the self? Then I'm no better than the rest of them. The elevator could have crashed, and we wouldn't have been missed in world history, that's for sure. However, when we talked about nothing did a bomb go off in someone's hand somewhere else? Hard to call.

In the meantime, I went to sleep at six PM in the chair, as people of my kind often do. I didn't sleep well. I woke up to coffee and the worry of my shit being good enough.

I pray and smoke, and wait for that.

I logged on to see that it was January since my last post. Wow, months ago. I've been stuck in the bog.

It used to be that when I was bogged down, I just left. I left and went somewhere no one could find me. I would return with gifts and stories, but I when I was gone, I was really gone. Now having a family, a big machine job, I have responsibilities, duties, to make people aware that I am leaving and leave numbers for emergencies. Those things that bind us. They do take a toll on the art of disappearing. One has to admire the likes of Mr. Cooper. I'm not saying so much about the theft part....but he did manage to grab some money and completely disappear. We are still spending money on this unsolved case. You do have to say that's fucking brilliant.

I did just leave. I went to visit a friend in a State that was far away. I only had a weekend, but, whatever....something was better than nothing. I hung out with wonderful strange people, ate delicious food, drank....bought silly things. I breathed in air that was not my same air. I felt as though this precious foreign air would heal my soul, reforge my heart's forces, all of those things. And the secrets that I brought back with me of my experiences would just be mine, to share or not to share. That's what leaving does for me. Being in a place that doesn't know you allows you to choose your experiences; rather than, having situations presented or laid upon you that you have to have a reaction or some action taken. Jesus, I was in desperate need of leaving. I'm sure that you would love for me to tell you about Amanda, Dancing Bruce, or the surly grandson of a famous actress you owns a small shop who treated me like crap until I stood there and sold a ton of stuff for him just to get what I wanted out of another shopper's hands. Yes, everyone wants to hear those stories. But, not yet. I'm still sitting with them, in secret.

I came back.

I came back to what I've decided is just crap. Crap that I must make a plan to completely leave for good.

I think that I want to own a cafe or maybe an earthworm farm or maybe both. Earthworms do not talk, and boy would that be nice. A cafe would allow me to visit with people a short bit, but if I owned the cafe, I could just kick them out if I liked. I wouldn't have to serve or deal with anyone that I didn't care for. How nice would that be?!?

I have noticed that there are just about three kinds of people, just three. The first group does whatever they fucking feel like, to whoever they feel like, whenever they feel like. The second group does very little that they like; and more often than not, they try to impose their rules on the first group, or they try to impose so much of their rules on themselves that they crack and have secret first group lives. The third group cannot help, seriously cannot help doing things that the first and second group do, and the first two groups rarely make space for this group to live at all, this third group is the most tragic of all the groups.

Now, there is a smaller fourth group. This group can't even be called a group, there is no organization about it, these people do not form. They are by far the best that humanity has to offer, but are because they cannot form, they cannot rule they other three groups. The other three may be the distruction of humanity in it's complete existance, but because of this four gray area, those people will have taken full advantage of all that has been offered, created a wonderful, fantastic ride, before it's all said and done.

I broke out into hives this week. Not just once, three times. I itched, I was red, and then the tiny, raised red circles began to show all over. I tried to find the root cause of them, as I scratched and medicated myself. Nothing was different. I've only have hives two other times in my life, both were external causes. Causes that could easily be pointed to, and fixed. But, not this week. I finally realized that I was having hives from stress. Stress hives. I couldn't even believe that there was such a thing. There is. I was allergic to my life. Holy fucking shit. I had to pinpoint the stresser to get rid of the itchy situation. Ok, well, which fucking thing was making me itch? I have so many things, everyone has so many things, how can a person pick out the trigger point. I thought, What?!? Are you fucking kidding me?!?

I took some time to consider all of my angles. Was it the first group in me? Was it the second group in me? Was it the third group in me? Or was it the lack of the fourth group in me?

By Thursday, I was to the stress level that I just couldn't think about it. It has been work, work, work, what did you say? I can't think right now, I'm working. I have hives, and I can't think about it, I'm working. And then when I'm done working there's some more work and stuff to do. I know that I'm scratching my tits and ass, but not to worry the work will be done.

I've been secretly laying plans, longterm plans for the worms and the cafe. So, if I can just hang on, I can itch, what the fuck do I care, if in the end, I get worms and a cafe.

Thursday. Itchy and working. The young girl at work, very pretty. Everyone knows that she's the favorite. She's the favorite to the client of redneck men, and really many of the people in the office. She's can be very smart, and she is very pretty. The only problem, is she does know that she is protected and she gets and takes the free stuff. She's currently only a group one. At times, because this is her first real job, she lacks the experience with people. She doesn't know that as long as she stays right were she's at, everything will be good for her, but she's very locked in. Once she ventures out, the responses may not always be as welcoming. That's just the way it is.

We had a situation. One that me and my hives could have done without. Pretty Girl had a lot of work. But, truth be told we all did. Once she came back from lunch, she began to pawn some off on me. She didn't ask me, she just told me. She told me in a very not nice tone. I recognized that she really did feel like that was alright for her to do. It wasn't that big of a deal. Fuck it. I'd just do the work. And we could just set the boundry later, I was too busy. Just my luck that wasn't how it was to go.

I tried to point out that I would need more information from her to complete what she had so kindly given me. Very snidely, she asked if I need her to just do the work for me. This was loud, and mean, and rang over the cubicle bay. The white glove had been slapped. The pitch fork grabbed. I knew the towel was raised to see who would throw it in first. I sighed. Well, shit.

Oh, the surly girl. The demeaning tone. I wasn't that irritated with her, I just saw if for what it was. This was not my first rodeo. I knew that I would have to bite back. I would have to establish my cubicle bounderies. Seriously, I would have to basically pee on something to define my six square foot territory. I would have to beat my hivey chest to make the understanding known which highlighter was mine. That I had my computer chair set exactly where I liked it. Yadda, yadda, yadda. I wasn't annoyed, just tired. And I wanted to tell there that what she said was stupid. That I knew what was going to occurr from here, I knew how this was going to play out, and it was stupid, we had work to do.

But, one has to define themselves in the office. We really do a bunch of really stupid stuff. So, Okay, let's just take care of it already.

I explained to her that No, I did not need her to help me do her work. I said this as equally as loud, and with a more disturbing, but still professional, polite and courteous tone. I pee'd.

The whole area was very quite. One could have heard a paperclip drop.

I began to go back to work, now I had my work, and part of her work, I had no time to think any further on the matter. So, I found another avenue to gather the information that I needed to get from her, completed her stuff very quickly, and dispensed of the matter. And as I was printing her part to take to her, she came around the corner with the sticky note of information I had asked for. One sticky note. In the time it took her to write it down; I had finished. I knew this would also make a point.

And now, I would have to complete the lesson that I had begun to teach her. Shit.

She almost started to talk. I looked at her and explained the "in the time she took to gather the stickie note, I had completed her part of the work". So, thanks, but I found it, and if she wanted to stand at the printer, she could just take her work back to her cublicle with her. She looked stunned, and started to say something. I held up my hand, and told her to stop, I didn't need it, and was going back to my own work now. I turned around and walked off. Again, I wasn't angry, just proficient about it.

The cubicle bay was in recovery. It was quiet. It wasn't as though we had a full on brawl, just tow people not seeing eye to eye. I was just as happy to have the silence. I cleared off most of my work....very nice. I didn't think that it was that big of a deal. I know that I would eventually get annoyed though because it was going to continue to be a big deal for a bit. And that would lead to something that I would have to pay attention to, and maybe take away time from the work I had to actually work at.

Me and my hives got to work on Friday in a slightly drug induced hazed. Coffee only sliced a bit of the cloudy fog.

I was waiting. I had a sneeking suspicion that there would be fall out from the incident. Why? Because the girl is still wrapped up in her own, because she would just think that it was about her, this tiny thing, "the incident" wouldn't just pass, there would be further, annoying discussion. And we had stuff to do, that I equally cared less about, but at least that shit paid me. So, of the two, one could deduce where I wanted to spend my thought power.

We had a staff meeting.

We covered business stuff. Then the girl said to everyone that she had another issue that she would like to bring up. It was now an issue worthy of a discussion at a staff meeting. Girl said that she had gotten a bit snippy with me yesterday and she wanted to say that she was sorry. It was not about saying that she was sorry to me, if she really had gotten it, she would have come to me in private. I might have taken notice of that, sure, why not.

However, She was defending her good name by publicly saying something. She was announcing that it was about her. By saying this outloud, she would be able to show everyone how sensitive she was and how much she really cared. Please note that there was no mention of the extra work of her's that I did in record time, and how helpful that was, no mention. Oh Jesus. Please can I just have a break already.

I was also aware that these people thought that I had a direct line to the President of the Company. Pretty Girl thought that. So, upset me, and well, you might hear about it from the President Herself. Yes, indeed, you might just.

People thought that I had direct lines to a great many important people. And it's true, I do have that direct line. I have this direct line because these important people know that I would never use the red button line for something like this. NEVER PUSH THE RED BUTTON!!!! However, I noted that that's cool if people think that. How awesome it that?!? People would probably be apt to do less fucking stupid stuff in the long run. So, that was pretty cool. But, I would never bother anyone about this. I wasn't talking about it now, so no red button pushing later....

Aware that I was going to have to put on my public face quickly. I was going to have to have a response. I did. I'm not positive that I had it on quick enough, but, whatever. When I have hives you just get what I can give.

The boss said how nice that was of her to come forward and say outloud. Everyone was waiting, looking at me. Oh brother.....

I said, yes, that was very nice, thank you. And people were still staring at me. I just continued to sit there. Yes, I knew what was expected, what was supposed to happen next, and I wasn't trying to be an ass, I wasn't holding any great grudge; however, I knew we were still in Lessonville, and I knew better than to feed into the situation, or next time she would still be an office bully.

The boundry had to be set in final. I was not showing any signs of anger, there wasn't any, I was just setting the boundry. I think that in the stand off, I could actually feel the addition of several more hives. There itchy development, red, strong. The thought of stopping just for a few seconds to scratch. Oh the scratchingly relief. Shit.

The boss asked if I had been sassy back. What are we?, fucking little kids. I said matterafactly, that yep, I did. (Would anyone have expected less of me? Really, come-on. Everyone should be sassy back. And if they choose not to, well they will regret it later. Why do that to yourself? We're not at some big battle royal....we're in an office.)

Since there was no I'm sorry following that. I was asked why? Really, why? I was asked that.

Ok, ok, ok.

I said that when we all come to work, it's not just act however you want time, when we all come to work there are actual rules. I wished that I could just come to work and act and do as I please, but that wouldn't take into account everyone else's space. So, therefore, when people come to work and wear their Ugly Buttons, they shouldn't be surprised when someone else dawns theirs.

There was a situation here, right now, that I knew that we could only move through by hearing me say that I was sorry, too. Well, ok, than I'm sorry, too. Even though I was being funny, I shared with the girl my deadpan eyes. People laughed because I said the word Ugly Buttons, and we did move on, and the point was made to the girl where the line was. She backed down a bit; her body language told me so. I'm not sure that she had encounter someone like me. She couldn't use anything on me. I just didn't care to go down this path with her, and I wasn't threaten by anything she did. Even if she made it hard for me to work with her with others by pulling the pretty girl gossipy helplessness, I still wouldn't care. What to do, what to do. I was a good lesson for her. Really. I was just annoyed and itchy that we had to talk about this. I didn't want to be a lesson from someone. Can't you just lesson with someone else? I was annoyed that I had to make believe that it was something I was upset about and needed some sort of fixing. I couldn't pretend about it. It was just stupid.

I went to lunch. I had hives. I longed for another trip to somewhere no one knew me. I longed for the plan for worms and cafe customers. But, what I had where my vacation memories and hives. I lit a cigarette. I won't quite smoking. I know that every drag brings be closer to death, but every drag offers some break from the loudness of living. Who would want to give that up just because group two told you that you have to.

Sometimes, I feel like Piggy and have to run before people take my glasses and try to start small fires to warm their breakroom coffee. And we all know what happed to Piggy.

D.B. if only you could hear my prayers to be a good as you. It was only the parachute they found, dirty, old and nowhere near where you are right now.

Bring back the Flaming Beavers....A Quest for Action

I have resurrected an old habit.

My love for silly underwear. No, it's not the kind you can jackoff to later. (i.e. a man wearing a lacy red thong with an even racier, silkier read top, under his suit. Not like that.) Just silly underwear.

My favorite underwear was a pair of plain white cotton briefs that had red, orange and yellow flames around the top, with a crudely drawn beaver with a chainsaw in a big circle, at the crotch. I bought those at a fundraiser for a local radio station that needed money to survive. Eons before satellite radio. I do hate space junk radio. It freaks me out, and makes me think that I need a aluminum hat to protect myself, or something. Plus, I just don't like the idea that we're going to be seen by our space neighbors as the planet with our cars up on blocks in the front yard of weeds with all our satellites, etc. But, the underwear, the beaver, they were very special. When I put them on, the cotton always felt so clean and refreshing. Of course, we all know that cotton is so cottony absorbant; which is important when you're running and hopping fences, and important when your hot with lust and you know you shouldn't sleep with them, or aren't drunk enough to sleep with them, but you're still hot for and need to just go to the bathroom, wipe and get back to drinking your beer. Yes, our bodies place cruel messy tricks on us sometimes.

The beaver drawing, somehow made me feel like my body, my soul, my personal space was completely my own; that it was in lockdown, and if anyone neared me without permission, they would get the chainsaw. Ahhh, the chainsaw.

It was just very nice, at the grocery store, in the big giant lines. At the DMV, the big giant lines. At the frigging bar, just trying to get my drink on, the big giant lines. Or, the people fucking with me at work because they were bored, stupid, didn't have a life. But, simply no bother, I had the flamming beaver panties on. Safe, secure, tough.

Those underwear have bit the dust. I think that I still have them, but they are at the bottom of the underwear drawer, in a dark corner, by themselves, only to be seen in the awe of memories, so worn out with holes and stains to really don them. But, to fucking awesome to every throw away. Maybe to be found, once I'm dead, and someone would scratch their head in wonder, and never know they had just touched greatness.

I was also partial to a silver lame thong that I once had, when my ass was perky and smooth. Oh, how I loved to put those on, and do my hair and make-up, put on my silver velvet six inch heals, turn on some kickass music, make myself a drink, and clean the house. And no one, I mean no one was in the house for that. It wasn't about the sexiness of it, so put your hands where I can see them for the duration of this blog. It was about looking and feeling good while doing something that was boring and stupid, but simply had to be done. I would dance with the mop. I would sing with my drink in one hand. I would scrub with my cigarette in my mouth, and my rag in the other hand. It was so much fucking fun. It was awesome. I highly recommend it. Even for the guys. And if your a guy who doesn't wear heels, that's fine, just put on your going to church shoes, the really nice ones, with the fancy socks.

I can remember a time with the flaming beaver and my friend Chanda. She's very tall and has big boobs and long, flowing blond hair. She wasn't single, but I was. I drawfed in comparison to her beauty. Men would come to her with numbers in hand, weiners out, eyed glazed. It was costly going out with her if my intent was to get laid. I had to buy the guy I had my sights on, way more drinks to get him refocused on me; rather than her. Focus, I'm buying the drinks here....and if you're a good monkey, I'll buy you a drive dinner after I'm done with you. Focus!!!!

She's a looker for sure. And I love her. She's my friend. I could tell you all about her personality, but after the discription above; what's the point, you've already lost your focus, too. I'm sure.

Chanda and I would go out to the bar order drinks, and keep them coming. We would get twenty dollars worth of quarters, maybe each. We would position ourselves in front of this gun game, usually in some darkly lite corner with the smell of old spilled, rotten drinks and carpet/floor burns from cigarettes stamped out in a hurry. We would proceed to masacare aliens and get our drunk on. We would laugh, kill and drink. So good, so wholesome, so fun.

Ocassionly there would be some guy, with an attitude, who would try to show us up at the game by placing his two quarters on the plastic of the game consol, next to the start buttons, signaling that he would be next. Oh, two quarters? That's it? Do you not see the fucking fourty some odd dollars worth of silver next to us? The humongous pile of silvery promises that we're here to stay forever?!? And you come over here with two?!? You walk over here with that cocky attitude, slamming down hard, what?!?, TWO?!? What exactly do you think your two quarters are going to do?!? How far do you think your 1999 and 1776-1976 are going to get you?!? Are you fucking kidding us?!?!! Just look at our score, our empty shot glasses....do you not feel the flurry and fury of sweaty underwear, smeared lipgloss, and booze?!? And you walk over here with that?!?

We would always just look at eachother and laugh and laugh. With big grins on our faces, ok, one of us would step aside for the next round and let the poor sucker put in his two, tiny, dull quarters in the slots, and try to have a go. Okay, okay. He wouldn't make it very long. It was over once he heard the clink, clink of the machine taking in the money.

We were never sure if the guys who tried and failed were really just that bad, or if it was the silly, violent, loud female energy that just overpowered them and sent them packing. We're not your sister. We're not your mother. We're not your ex-wife or ex-girlfriend. We're not here to fuck you. We're not even here to hear you fucking name said by anyone. We're not your fucking friend. We are here to kick ass...be it alien or man....just here to kick some ass.

They would always leave with their pee-pee tucked between their legs. Nope not sure if they were really that bad, or the girls just sent them packing. Hard to make that call, we were never sober enough for that. And didn't really care. Just bra wearing, video game junkies out for the thrill of the hunt. For hours we would commandeer that game murdering the evil species and drinking deliciously intoxicating drinks.

I could try to redraw the design on a new pair, or spend a ton of money getting a shiny new one; though, but it wouldn't be the same. One has to seek new pairs, and retire the old ones once their service of duty has been completed. That's just how it is. You cannot reclaim the feeling of memories or a time past. We all know what a person going through a mid-life crisis looks like....I shudder at the foolishness of it. Eek, Yuck, Icky. Yes, one just has to find new ones.

I did find one new pair. They are cotton briefs, and their very loud hot pink and royal purple strips, with silver lame lettering on them. I wore them. The feeling on just having them on and if I needed their super powers, I could just run to the bathroom and stand in the stall with my pants down for an extra moment. I have taken great comfort in them, their cottony comfort absorbing all the bad. Everyone noticed my new look, my new confidence....some even commented, asked what I had been doing. I didn't tell them about my secret weapon underwear. It would be highly inappropriate and totally ruin my underwear high. It is secret underwear after all.

I'm not quite ready to clean my house in them. Not quite ready to go out and drink in them. I have to create new meaning for my new underwear. I am sure that whatever it is, it's going to be simply fantastic. I may even tell soemone about, minus the fact that I was wearing my super strength fun britches.

Yes. It's a new dawn and it smells like fresh new cotton briefs.

I wish THEY would come here and see me.

This may be a short transmission. I'm not even dressed for work yet. Seriously.

I've been seriously detoxing. The new diet that I've been on, well, it's not a diet at all. It's just eating the foods that I should be eating anyway. Man oh man, does it make me shit. And I have begun to shit on time, every time, on time. I have a friend that really monitors her colon activities, and when I tell her about this, she's going to be so happy for me. My energy is starting to be up, and my mood swings are starting to be down. Maybe it's this time for real. Hard to say. I'm not very good with any kind of follow through. Frankly, that maybe one of my charms. As least, I find it charming. Not so much for other people. But, I feel better, so whatever.

In the office this week, I screwed up on my timesheet. In an email to office headquarters, which is located in some topsecret state, maybe run by robots, I did confess to that screw up. I confessed to it all. And even asked for help in fixing it. I received notice back in the form of an email (which I totally wish has music or at least the Whah, whah whah whah song), repeating to me, the exact way that I screwed up (which I had already confessed to), and that this indiscretion would be let go, THIS TIME, but, THEY frowned upon this kind of action.

THEY. I had heard that word quite a bit lately. THEY. I don't even know who THEY are. So, I'm note sure why I would need to care so much that THEY are frowning at me about anything. I don't see THEY. I don't talk to THEY. I'm not even sure that THEY know who I am, or where I am. (or do THEY?) I'm note even sure that THEY are human. Maybe THEY are robots. Or, maybe THEY are monkeys, or hippos. Or, maybe it's just one guy named THEY. I just don't know.

However, it should be noted that THEY are obviously very important. And THEY can frown upon us all for everything. THEY frowned upon me. I was maybe a bit sad that I had made anyone unhappy enough to frown. I'm sorry THEY. I'm very sorry.

I've decided to make it up to THEY. And hold THEY in my dearest of dearest spots in my daily activities at the office. If I do not like the way some work has turned out, I plainly state that I do not think THEY would be very proud of us. Or, if someone has a bad attitude towards another, I remind that person that THEY would not think that was a way to work with others. Even if I just don't like the office coffee, I state that THEY wouldn't like this at all.

I have become a champion of THEY. And perhaps they will bestow on me many blessings in the next year. I honor you, THEY. Yes, I honor you, THEY. Since I do not have a picture of THEY to set us an office shrine to THEY, I have had to make do with a fancy stapler and some hole-punch confetti, and a necklace made of paperclips. I cannot light incense or candles at my alter to THEY, so I substitute with a pleasant, spray odor remover instead. (Not anything that really smells that might upset another office member. Most certainly not. THEY would not like that one bit. THEY do have rules, of which I can review on the confusingly laid out online intranet or my handy, bulky, hard to decipher employee manual that I was given at the beginning, which I think I've lost a few pages in the back of my car.)

Once when I said THEY to another worker, the worker asked me who THEY were. I was shocked. Then, I stated that if she was supposed to know who THEY were, then THEY would have told her. I felt like I had said to much already, and made my escape to another task, like filing....very busy. I realized that she really may not even know the secret of THEY at all. Even though I screwed up on my timesheet, I realized that this had made me a little special. I had been allowed to even know of the existence of THEY. Oh, the breath escaped me, and I hurried to my shrine to don my paperclip necklace and give thanks and prayers. Oh THEY, thank you THEY, praise THEY, Amen.

This has been a clip from my daily inner monologue to myself that helps me make it through the nonsense of the corporate world.

This is my horoscope from Rob Brezney's site www.realastrolgy.com for the week of January 3, 2008.

In my dream, I was addressing a crowd of Sagittarians in a festively decorated hall. It was the first week of 2008. "You are not yet ready for the wonderful things you think you want," I told them. "To actually get them, you will have to change yourself in the coming months; you will have to shed some old conditioning that is interfering with your quest for success. Do you know what that old conditioning is? Find out NOW! Figure out how you need to transform yourself in order for the world to give you what you yearn for."

I think he's hit the nail on the head. If I am going to reach success in my life, I am going to have to shed quite a bit of nonsense that has been ingrained in me. Prime example, determining my security level at a job where I am threatened by THEY. Yep, all the silliness that we instill in ourselves. Yep, has to go. I have to poop.

End Transmission.

It was supposed to be my Year of the Pig. Instead it was Monkeys.

As I have read through by last Year's blogs, I can see the depression. Not so vague, am I. I am simply Hemingway, without my great novel. Ahhh, to live on an island, far away from people. He was very smart, smarter than most of us, smarter than me.

I've taken this last week off from work. Maybe to think about getting my shit together... the older I get, it's harder to recover from the lasting affects of the rages of depression that I go through. I am mindful of the last time I let this go to far...I fuckin' broke my leg. That was the universe telling me to stop, and it really hurt like hell. And still having the recent surgery to remove the metal that was in my leg, that didn't seem to stop me. One really cannot get a bigger fucking hint than that.

The fact of the matter is that I have no place to be the weirdo that I am. I feel restraint all the time. I once found myself with purple hair and tattoos. But, there isn't a place for me in the world of corporate culture looking like that. And I need the insurance. No wonder the country is messed up. I cannot be the only lost soul. I'm thinking that I need to get back to myself. It's going to be a long haul. I've gained a ton of weight, I'm trapped in a dead end job. Oh, there's room for promotion, but if you could see the likes of the people that I'm working with, well, I'm not sure that Up is really the New Down.

What this lack of behavior problems has left me with is an obsession with buying made for T.V. exercise equipment, a credit card to Lane Bryant, big flabby boobies, a lack of sex drive, a need for cookies (all the time), and a huge cable Movie Channel bill. Yes, I have been rolling around in my self pity for a long, long time.

I am; however, very fortunate. I didn't do one god damned thing for any of my friends this year, and yet, they still produce. They still come through.

My birthday was upon us. And my friends gathered for drinks at the usual spot. I brought Christmas Gifts for everyone....just silly things. Maybe my favorite was the tiny plastic monkeys I included in everyone's packet. I like monkeys and gorillas. Frankly, they have gotten the hole thing exactly right. And we're going to kill them all for it. They stayed in the forest, naked, with the green food and the rain. Very nice, indeed. So smart, smarter than us. Humans can't sit still. We we're given this great green planet, and we can't wait to fuck it up, and move to the next one. There's not an antibiotic to cure the planet of us.

Once having dispersed this packets, I opened my own. There was lots of silly things, which, I loved. Then there were two small packets of chocolate covered candies. Nice, I thought, but weird. They just looked weird, sitting there all by themselves. Not to worry, I was told, I would see.

Then came the biggest, best present of all times. The cake. And not just any cake, mind you, the fucking most awesome cake that anyone has ever gotten in the history of cakes. Even better than "let them eat cake" cake.

The cake stood about two feet tall. Delicately, and personally decorated. The eyes of the character seemed to beckon me, and the little toes and fingers made of icing did not want to be eaten, they wanted to jump and scream, and make a scene. One arm of the character stood straight up in the air, as if to ask, "Does this armpit smell bad to you?". Yes, it was bad, very bad. Bad Monkey. It was a Holy Monkey. A Holy Monkey Cake. But, it didn't stop there. Much to my delight, the arm gently rocked backwards, and was to be armed with the chocolate covered nuggets, that I had received earlier. Once the hand of the monkey was armed, one had to let go, to watch the choco nuggets fling through the air like a hail of bullets on one's unsuspecting prey or target, if you prefer. This cake was a Poo-Flinging Holy Monkey Cake.

Can you imagine? No, you can't. No, you can't. Or there would be thousands of these cakes made. Everyone would have one. And even if you get one for yourself, which you totally should, my friend Raina would have thought of it first, and given it to me first.

Raina had to find the specs on the Internet. Then she took it to a wedding cake bakery. I would have put their website in this blog...but they didn't seem it fitting to put my cake on their website, so, no go. They did agree to make the cake, and she kept getting delightful calls at work concerning the cake status. When the gearman was there, they called her to ask just how far she wanted the poo to fling. What a wonderful call to have at work. Raina's face lite up with such glee as she recanted to story. She works with lawyers.

The tables around us were filled with the norms. The norms of people in their bedazzled, holiday wear. Their sweaters, their baseball caps, all in boring normal colors. Jesus, the norms. I couldn't even get away from them at a fucking bar. But, as we all took turns flinging poo, something awakened in me. Something that I had kept to quiet, and held in the dark for too long. That need to be silly. That need to have the weird hair, and the weird dress, and to eat lovely weird things. Why have I let myself stray so far?

The Norms stared first in curiosity, then in envy. Then some of those Norms made the face. You know the face. It's the face that every God Fearing American makes when a Muslim walks into the room. That repressed face of anger with a twinge of "I just masturbated to Super Porn in the church bathroom, before I got here, but me and Jesus hate you.", face. We've all seen it. Hell, most people seem to live by it; their faces contorted permanently. We should have listened when our mothers told us if we made that face, it would stick like that. But, we just shot a few poo pieces their way. Awesome poop.

I also received a fantastic piece of art from my friend Ric Williams. www.ricwilliams.com

I now have been blessed with two pieces of art from this man. And I own his book. Which is signed. Oh, you say, signed. Well, if I know him than why did have to have him sign it, you say. I'm no fool. I have watched for years as Ric has blossomed into his own, as he's blossomed into our own. He has the balls to share this with the rest of the world. And once I'm long gone, my child with know that his mother once stood in the presence of, and hung out with, human greatness. That's the purpose of having the book signed. And of course, should my child ever get in desperate need of money, due to bad gambling debts, or medical bills, practically the same thing, he can sell it. Ric would understand that.

He's the top dog when it comes to scanner art. Oh, you haven't hear of that? Yes, it's new.

This year, the bar and the cake, and the friends, was really less about me. I'm not sure that I made that point clear. I'm always a show. But, it wasn't about me. It was about all of the people that were at that table. The finest of humans humbled me. Their knowledge, their thoughtfulness, their badassness....it humbled me. The drinks were shit. We all agreed on that. I think that the Po-Po's got to the bar, maybe they were fined or something, but the drinks were shit. We'll have to move places next year, for sure. But, I'm one lucky son of a bitch.

This time of year really does stick it to me. My birthday, the birth of Christ, the New Year. All of them periods of reflection, and it all happens within a month. It can be powerful, I suppose; or crushing. I sleep a lot. Perhaps, at some point, I will awaken from my long hibernation to seize the power of it all, maybe. Maybe.

I also watch a ton of T.V. Reminded me finally of that Welcome to the Jungle song and video. Just sitting in front of all of those T.V.'s gathering shit. I did notice that Comedy Central has a ton of wonderful stand up comics. All of them seem to be men, though. I'm not sure that we have gotten to the point that women can be that crude and still respected in the comedy world. That's a real shame. I'm very crude, and very funny, but not sure that I could make the kind of money that the boys do. I had to wonder if this was Comedy Central's way of paying back for the lack in pay that all those Male Models get. It's widely know that beautiful women make more money that beautiful men. I think it may just be that type of conspiracy. If you're not pretty, Guy, than you can be funny. We'll help you. If I really thought they'd give a girl a fair shake, I could think about sharing some funny shit with them.

This is only a point because I'm thinking about breaking out. Really breaking out. I've got to get my butt in gear though. I can't decide if I should quite my job or not. Usually, I'm good for about two years at any given job. It's been two years. And since the company got bought out by an even bigger, stupider company, it's a tough call. The new people that I work with are very ignorant, and quite lazy. Two things that seriously make my skin crawl, and I do think that I have received brain damage just from the staff meetings alone, already. Seriously, they are mind numbing. The bosses come in with their lists of things to talk about, and it does drag on, and they could have just sent a fucking email. We have that now...some people use it.

I was ready to quit. Then, I thought, perhaps I could use this to my advantage. Maybe I could slow it down a bit. Not be some dedicated to things that I don't care about. Even if I took it easy, I would still be light years ahead of the fucking rest of them. But, I'm not positive that I can stick it out though. I'm really going to have to buckle down.

What I mean by this is I'm going to have to introduce small facets of myself into their world. Maybe just secretly. Well, it would have to be secretly. They can't handle the truth. I didn't want to be on the office birthday list, and this woman wouldn't let it go. It just stopped her completely. Why wouldn't anyone want cake with a bunch of people who don't give a shit about you in the first place? Why or Why?!? She really did try to talk me into it, too. It was about a ten minute conversation. Then she finally resided herself to having a cake with everyone without me. Now you're getting it. Great. No problem. Awesome. When I didn't relent, you could see the face. (see above for the "face" description.) Frankly, had I known about the Holy Poo-Flinging Monkey Cake, perhaps I could have suggested that. She really did get so bad that I almost told her that I was Muslim, just to get her off my back. I think that might have excused me from a ton of office crap. But, in clear mind and heart, I couldn't do that to my Muslim friends of the world. I could have told her that I was raised Southern Baptist and if she let me out of this, let me break the rules and behave badly, I would just give her some money to make it all go away. But, I didn't think of that until later. I was slow from the brain damage the meeting had inflicted.

Yes, Little things. Must bring in tiny things, like smelling of foreign cigarettes and incense. Taking breaks were they can't get to me, find me, reading in the bathroom; without having to poop. I'll have to find a coffee shop and maybe buy a new laptop where I can keep my secrets and blog about them publicly. I wonder if I can Sage Stick my cubicle based on my religion. They would have to let me, right? I should get Raina to ask her lawyers.

Oh yes, can you feel it? The New Year's Resolution List is forthcoming.

1. Clean House.

2. Buy laptop.

3. Get Comedy Central.

4. Eat better food. (Throw Out Cookies.)

5. Finish bigass art project, that's been sitting on the porch for a full year.

6. Exercise. (Use at least one if not two things bought off T.V.)

7. Loose Weight. (By combining all of the above.)

8. Combat work related brain damage with humor and foreign smokes. (Maybe fling poo.)

9. Dye hair respectable funny color. (Respectable to me.)

10. Get out in the Public Eye. (Maybe an Open Mic or just the Grocery Store.)

Yeah, shit like that.

Beauty and the Beast...Not Completely Sure Which Beast

Thankfully I received a bunch of painkillers after my surgery on my leg. And the Doctor used the same scar to cut into me. I thought that was pretty thoughtful. My body is already riddled with the scars of my personal history. Sometimes making me proud, sometimes making me embarrassed...just depends. The past few weeks have been a ride. Oh hell yeah. I have enjoyed the clarity that the pills have offered me. The need and the time for them is almost over. But, I can understand why people get hooked. Yep, I can see that....with the special clarity that I currently have. So, despite the pain in my leg and healing they have helped me with, they did offer a slight vacation. Oh sweet legal drugs....and their blessed, convenient, euphoric powers.

The vacation wasn't without costs though. My car smells...it smells bad. I currently have junk stacked inside of it that competes with any trashfield. The sweaters, the food tins, the notes, the coffee mugs...you name it. And I haven't done my laundry either. I've been using sprays made for the couch and drapes to fight of the B.O. and washed underwear out in the bathroom sink or in the shower (if I've taken one), and put them in the dryer with the spayed outfit. I fear that it's really starting to show. I haven't worn make-up and I have had some pretty creative hairstyles, and stopped wearing anything open-toed. I have a pack rat nature anyway, but bad health and good painkillers do help to magnify this attribute. Maybe this weekend, I think this weekend, I'll start on the mountain of shit that is me. I'm going to need more smokes and way more coffee, but I think I can make it happen. Like I said the pills are just about out, and I might want to save them for another occasion of real need. My real need is just about over. Oh, the sadness.

I'm not sure that I have taken a breath in the last couple of months. I went and did a charity golf tournament. The likes of which the women are scantily clad, the men drunk and stupid, and the charity that's picked is usually politically motivated. I met a man before the tournament. I still needed players, and stupid goodie bag items. I asked him if he would play. There was amazingly no hesitation. There would be marketing benefits for him. He told me the story of his daughter that died of cancer, early in life. They had a charity. I made him no promises. I was a peon, but he was so nice. And I know that I couldn't do that kind of work if my child died. I would just die, too. I would. It would be slow, but I would die.

I suggested his charity. Not so much response at first. I told him if the committee selected him, he would probably get a tiny amount. We most of the committee did select him. One of the committee members had lost a child, as well. Do you call that luck, fate...what's the word?

The golf tournament came. The BBQ afterwards came. I hated all of it. The man in charge, when I pointed out my charity man, told me that the charities hadn't been formally announced.

I spoke to the committee member who had lost his own child. He told me, fuck that. He teared up, and publicly announced my charity guy and his story. There was NO WAY to politically back out now. I smiled, a real smile, maybe for the first time in weeks.

Not only did they select my charity guy, but, they gave him an unprecedented amount of money for the tournament. I saw the check and the letter. Everyone's name was listed on this, but mine. Sure, at first I was angry...then I realized the opportunity. Doing something well, it should look like you've done nothing at all. The little secrets that sometimes I can keep to myself, I found one. And most of you don't know me, so the secret is still safe. And, the man was so thankful. I stopped him. I explained to him, how I did the stupid golf tournament every fucking year. I did it, and never got anything out of it, other than it helped the corporation that I worked for be seen. But, not this year. This year, he and more importantly his daughter had tied me to the work that I was doing. It gave this work meaning. Meaning that was meaningful. I had really needed that. So, did he understand the gift that he gave me?, I asked. Do you understand that? Your work gave me purpose. That's not something he needed to thank me for, I was truly the honored one. We smiled, that's what we did. We just smiled.

Then, the company I work for was bought out. The craziness has ensued. All the training, all the conflicting personalities. All the pay changes. Just so you know, I made and 86% on the test regarding Sexual Harassment. How did I even pass with my pottie mouth. Really, only God and the Fates know that. They guided my fingers to the answers, because it certainly was my fucking idea to pass that dirty-brown butthole of a fucking your sister test.

Everyday it's a new political ego mess that I have had to sooth, navigate, stop in it's tracks. We never leave the playground. We never stop not sharing or dominate that need to over-dominate, or that need to extra kill, make sure things are extra dead. I'm not sure there are prayers that can answer this. Look around, it's on a bigger scale. As if there are just fucking huge waves of selfishness, giant waves, to and fro, back and forth. Can't you feel it? If you said no, I don't believe you. Only tiny incidents of goodness or happiness, seemingly unrecognizable because we all run out of breath and time. And not those fake ones they show on any of the news channels between the murders, the economy and the wars...not those, those don't count...they're only there to make sure you stay awake and stay tuned to their chatter. If we count those then we're in bigger trouble than any of us can imagine.

At the office, I had to make sure that a phone list didn't go out. Everyone was mislabeled. Oh the feelings that would have been hurt. And frankly, this one woman should just stop using the spreadsheet program for anything. Too many squares and too many colors a blatant misuse, and not was this program was designed for...they have classes online, they're free...stop the killing of my eyes, my smarts, and the egos of the wrongly labeled people...fucking stop that. It's a program that's supposed to help up, not hurt us. How can anyone know that many ways to jack something up? Please, please, please stop sending stuff out. She's my counter-part in the buyout. During the Non-Agenda'd Staff Meeting, she's repeatedly offered me lessons on Memos and usage of Letterhead. The first time I couldn't reply, I just didn't have it in me to find a response that wouldn't hurt her feelings and probably get me fired. I just announced that I had to go to the bathroom, right then, and would she be so kind to tell me where it was. Currently being a gimp, well, the "got to go to the bathroom right now" excuse has super powers. NO ONE wants to help clean up that mess. I am going to miss that.

Now, I just tell her sure, sure, when things get settled.

Next, we all had to ride together in vans to a lunch meeting halfway between all of our offices. A get to know you meeting. I couldn't smoke. Everyone complained...We arrived. Everyone was sitting by their best friends forever. I don't have those at work. Are you kidding me?!? I was a meeting co-leader. We made everyone move, until they we're sitting by someone they didn't know. I smiled a secret smile. Sometimes being a little mean, passive aggressive, just sits right in my soul.

I had organized a White Elephant gift exchange. White Elephant always being crap around your house, the stuff you mean to get rid of, but just can't seem to. We hang onto so much shit. White Elephant always brings out the best and the worst in people. Another smile. It did. Oh, how it did. Some people really get mad that they get the shittiest of the shit. The shittiest of the shit. How can you get mad about that. The super fat guy, and I mean super fat, got the great abs in ten minutes video. Boy was he mad. People laughed. Well, you're fat, and not to worry it didn't work for the person who brought it either. No worries. I stole the lottery tickets, they got stolen from me. I'm not super mean, the guy who stole them from me, wrote me a check for half, and I wrote a check for half of that to the guy that I stole them from. That was nice...we didn't win enough to be shitasses about it. I ended up with a Cowboy Boot Flower Arrangement. It had a Texas Flag and a Mexican Flag in it. Later, I paid the mailclerk at my office to put it in the men's bathroom. A couple of days later, someone stole it. We asked the janitor, he didn't take it. He thought it was funny, he had left it there. We thought it was funnier that someone stole it. It probably had fecal spray on it....we've all seen the news programs with the black lights...yep, probably had shit on it. Shit on shit, stolen.

Back to the lunch, what I did notice though, when I sat down to eat...was that even though we had all switched places, people ended up sitting exactly by their personality counterparts between the companies, between the same offices. What?!!? I blinked. Crap, it's hard to get one over on human nature...it's very complicated, and even my super powers of passive aggressive goodness was no match.

And, who did I sit by? Oh, let me tell you. I sat by the drunk, name dropping, boobie twins. You know these girls, they can't be saved. They've been ridden hard and put away wet. Big hair, tight shirts, big gold Kal-Mart jewelry, all the important work they did. One of them was my office arch-enemy. Well, she thought she was. Always trying to get one over me. Sometimes she would get to me....then, I had to realize how many light years ahead of her that I actually am. Then I had to put on my I feel sorry for you suit...that usually put her in a quiet spot. Yet, these women always get free stuff. Free stuff from men and women a like. I'm fat, and smart and have glasses, right now. My stint in free stuff land may come back, but I didn't like it there....way too sticky. But, maybe there are times when I could use a little free stuff, not enough to trade places, but sometimes my desire to be a free, pornstar, maybe that gets to me....sometimes.

These two talked and talked and talked. They talked about all the drinking they do, the men they meet, where they meet them. All trendyshit bag places, and all they want to date are rednecks and cowboys. At some point, one of them took notice that my eyes have glazed over, really glazed over. One can only stir the mashed potatoes so many times on the resturant plate without being noticed. She asked me if I liked drinking and cowboys. I replied dryly, nope.

I thought about stopping there, but I didn't. Maybe I didn't stop because, I was really that bored, maybe because I didn't win all the lottory ticket money and I could quit, maybe I just super didn't want to talk to them, and was super sore that since I was a meeting co-leader, I had to sit down last, and all the kindof' good spots were taken. I'm not a fucking saint.

Anyway, I told them that once I dated a peanut farmer named Charley. You should never settle for a cowboy....go for the rancher or the farmer, who have cowboys that work for them. Charley was rich. He was good to sleep with. Not good to stay with. Dumb as a sack of diapers and sometimes mean. Luckily, he was stupid enough not to really recognize how inexperienced I really was, with everything. Also, he had a friend named Todd, who was even stupider and meaner. Me and a friend lied to our parents, and took off with these two to the coast for a weekend getaway. We drank a lot and fucked a lot, all by the ocean. The ocean that had better things to do then pay any attention to the likes of us. It's where I learned the gimmick of microwaving a piece of ordinary soap. It melts from the inside out. When you put it in the soap dish and someone uses it, the soap just crumbles in their hands. It's pretty funny. That's what I got out of Charley and Todd. Well, that and free, occasionally roasted peanuts.

I had already been there, and decided that I wanted more for myself. I had decided I deserved better. And I only drank with dear friends, or bigwigs. Not just random getting fucked up. I just had too much to do.

Their faces weren't used to being told the truth, maybe about anything. They quit talking to me. Ok, good stuff, good stuff. Back to the potatoes. I pretended to nap on the way back. You know, the leg injury...somethings, all the hard work that I do, just takes it out of me, so thank you for driving, as my eyes closed and my mind wandered.

The funny thing, the quandary is that I have beautiful friends who are so smart. They do not use their beauty for evil. They really do have the same problems that I have. They are treated like idiots because of their beauty, and not recognized for their absolute massive brain power. Later in the week, after another brilliant meeting, without an agenda, a guy asked me about one of my such friends. I patted his arm, and gently explained to him that it would only be for masturbation, the introduction. He just wasn't smart enough to keep up. He thought I was jealous for a minute, and he was angry. I patted his arm again, and told him lovingly as possible, that just wasn't it. Some of us just don't get all the prizes, we just don't. I want a million dollars, I'll never see that. And the closest that he would ever get to her, was his imagination and his hand of preference. And, yes, her giant beautiful breasts weren't real, she had bought them, and they were perfect and as awesome as he could ever imagine, so that was another thing. He just didn't make enough money to cover the fact that he wasn't smart. There was no temptation for her, even if she slipped in a lonely moment of weakness, towards him at all. Sorry buddy. The God's honest truth.

I have to say that I did puff up a little... just in case. Do I know that she could take care of herself? Yeah, I know that. But, there's a little redneck in me. too. Mess with a friend of mine, mess with me, crap. I puffed up, just in case, I needed to make my point clearer to this man. Going this route always ends up that I'm a big fat lesbo but on occasion the point hits the target. Well, either way, if it goes to the next level the target gets some point. We girls have to stick together. Stop what you're thinking, I didn't mean that kind of stuck together. Pervert. See just what I mean?

I suppose watching these two twosomes of boobies yak it up at the luncheon, made me angry for my beautiful friends, not just me. Their actions make it harder on the rest of us that are here now, and the rest of the babies, the children, the teenagers, the unborn. It would be pointless to explain. They were really past any form of education on the matter, I just wanted them away from me, and understanding that it was best for them to stay there, in the far away spot. I'm not without sadness for them though. They were past erasing it all. I'm so thankful that I have never reached that point. Some people just will never have the capabilities to change. And it is a burden. I think it's okay to let people know that sometimes, even though they can't change, and they'll probably still get taken care of, it still really is a burden for them just to be there.

I was at the new work place yesterday. I've worked hard. Everyone was gathered for free cake for someones random birthday that most everyone didn't know. One of those terribly personal office moments. I didn't want the cake. I had already stolen a day old chocolate doughnut from the office kitchen table, and used someone good coffee to make myself a nice cup of coffee to go with my stolen, stale doughnut. I didn't even have to take it to the bathroom, grab a stall and enjoy. I made it, unseen back to the cube. AWESOME. So, I had enough. No need to be greedy.

Out of the blue, someone that I hadn't seen in months, yelled my name though the crowd. I waved. She, out of the blue, announced that she had been keeping up with me, that my name and influence was everywhere in the industry....the pictures, the newsletters...I was famous. I turned red....I'm more of a behind the scenes person. I looked around. There where some people smiling for me...some people where angry and jealous. Maybe because of my life, I took it all too heart. And maybe that's why I'm a behind the scenes person. I was frankly too damn tired to take in the range of egos that flowed over me...and at someone else's birthday cake thingy. I politely told her thank you, and really it wasn't me, if I just didn't like everyone, and the work I saw all these people doing, it wouldn't make me want to be involved. Oh, Sweet Jesus, or Whoever, help that lie work, please, today, just help that lie work.

In my work life, I am mostly selfish. I am mostly conceited, mostly grabby...for the scraps of money for myself, for my family, for my friends, for other random people. I am ultimately no different than any of the people in the crowd, maybe I'm just a better grabber. It's complicated. And I do not deserve recognition for that, it's nothing special. No, that is nothing fucking special....but, one can hardly say a truth like that, now can we? Jesus or Whoever, just help that lie work, and get me safely back to my cubicle...the safety of the grey foam walls lined with papers on tacks, and ergonomically placed plastic. Get me there. I needed to sit down. I needed to ease my breath, and take in the tops of the fake flower arrangement that tops the woman next to me's cubicle. Get me to that sweet quiet place.

At work, my father called. We're not close. He decided to buy my son, who he's never met, and wanted me to abort, an expensive toy. He called to ask me what my married name is. I'm not married dad. We never did that. I tried to protect him from the flatness of my tone. My name is still the same, even after all these years. Oh, okay, then the embarrassed laugh. I didn't say much, no point really. It's just there. Yep, Dad, remember, you gave me a way a long time ago, but it was never at my wedding....never, then. I might have called, maybe I would have called about that. Hard to say. Thanks for the gift. We always talk in money and expensive things. Maybe that's were I got my sense of fairness, and my love for free things, of special moments not tied to any coins or paper. I can say thank you for that. You wouldn't understand it, but maybe I could say it, in my head, and it would transfer through the phone. Yeah, maybe, maybe it would. I wanted it to as I hung up the phone.

At closing time that day, I didn't waste time, I didn't say long goodbyes. I logged off, and ran as fast as my currently with cane ass could get me out of that building. I lit my cigarette even before I locked in my seat belt. Oh, people saw me. I waved goodbye. No worries, the windows of my car were shut and the car was already turned on. A clear signal of no talking. I put my car in reverse, and with the cigarette in my mouth because I just didn't want to miss a single breath of it, I turned my head, and moved fast out of the parking lot. I immeadiately went out and spent money that I didn't have to buy my favorite bums, on my corner, a huge dinner and some supplies, smokes, booze, a blanket, etc. Just to pay penitence. This form is better than flogging in the long run, and certainly less messy. I was feeling a little better standing in the liquor store line with the cheap stuff. But, it wasn't enough. I hurried home, turned on the T.V. and took a couple of my sweet pills on my almost empty stomach, save the stolen doughnut...and waited for the floaty goodness that would wipe away the day, the weeks, the T.V., all of it. It's not really depression, so don't think that. I just get overloaded and need the break from the super highway we live on. I HAVE to pull over and stop.

Everyday...it would be way cooler if I had a sword to slay some of the beasts with. Can you imagine? Oh, I can. For now, I've got pills, and the excuse to use those are just about gone.

Then, I'm just back to the daily grind.

Contemplating the space time continuum

I tried to get everything done before I went into surgery. As though all of those things really would matter. Not really. Nothing that I do is crucial, clutch cargo happening. I suppose that's what curbed, seriously curbed my enthusiasm about doing any of my work. I couldn't really pull it off the couple of days beforehand. It started to show. Jesus, I would be a shitty actor.

But, I had to have something that distracted me from the heart that I was suddenly aware of pounding in my chest every single fucking moment. All those chances that I don't take. Every single day I am handed so many, and I never just take them. Can you imagine what would happen if we all just took the chances that were freely given to us by the fucking universe....can you fucking imagine that?!? Well, I can, and they called to me, and everyone one of them that I didn't take advantage of seemed to flash before me, they seemed to partially slip though my finger tips, but I felt them, I felt how wonderful they were each supposed to be....all of everyone of those sayings, those sayings repeated with every enlarged heartbeat. Would this be the time that those chances ran out? I've been given more than my fair share, right? The universe is going to call in it's marker sometime. Why not now? Yeah, that's what I thought.

I was alone when I went into surgery. Part of me wanted people that I knew there with me, everyone else in the waiting room had someone. An old lady asked if they could borrow my cell phone. The old man had remembered everything, but forgot the cell phone. His name was Roger. I let the woman make the calls. She told everyone where she was, when she was supposed to be out. And she told everyone that Roger had forgotten the cell phone. We're all quite the same, the same words, the same actions. I had to be there at six o'clock in the morning. I'm sure that I forgot a lot of things. Roger didn't seem to mind that everyone knew that he forgot the phone. He knew she was scared. They gave the phone back to me, and Roger took the woman's hand and let her know that he would be there all day waiting for her to wake up. For a second, I wanted that, too. Someone holding my hand. But, I knew that it was just a load of crap. When I went under, and had the actual surgery, and the machines breathing for me, and the knife cutting me, and the waking up....I would be alone. It's just what it is. It's being alone. And it's scary. And no Roger equal would help her or me through that. It just is what it is.

I kept waiting for the caring or maybe the ceremony to start. But having surgery is really just like going through the drive thru. I'm not just typing that, it really is. A lot of formality, a lot of organization, and lot of impersonal caring, and bright lights with bright smells. Some people complain about that. I'm not so sure that I want to complain about that. The fact that they're impersonal made me rely on myself. I didn't want them wrapped up in any emotional state. I wanted them focused. I wanted them precise. I didn't need for them to like me, or to fucking care about me, I needed them to do their fucking job, and do it right. I needed that. I wanted them to please do their fucking job right. And I just needed the I don't care drugs to get myself started. When it was over I had been moved. Just like that, without even knowing, just moved. Yes, they did their fucking job.

People came by. I got some gifts. That was all the ceremony. I really liked it, but it also made me tired. In the end, it really is your body and your mind and your soul, and you just have to take care of most of it yourself. Of course, I could have put down the guard, and ask for the help that I needed taking a bath. Instead I just made a mess, got pissed off, and pretty sure that I broke something I wouldn't want broken if I was sober. But, I'll worry about that tomorrow.

I was in quickly and out quickly. Someone had to clean up my blood and piss when I pulled out my IV, and missed the toilet a bit. Can you believe that kind of job? The girl seemed okay with it. It's a big deal doing that kind of work...being able to go into someones intimate space like that, and not make it a big deal. I gave her all the chocolates out of my fruit basket, and told her not to share them.

I have some pain. But I have more relief right now. I'm on the drugs right now, and the pain isn't so bad. But, just now, when I thought to write my feelings down. Everything is quite here now. I can think. I have some water, I'm fairly clean, I can smoke, and take the pills, and yes, I might have a glass of wine, as well. How immoral and devilish that seems. But, I made need to curb the feelings a bit, and being messed up it the poor man's way. And I am not a rich man.

If I were to say it out loud, I was scared. I'm not ready to die. But, most times, I'm not terribly ready to live either. I don't take the advantages. I do and act as I'm supposed to mostly for my paycheck. How sad that makes me today. I could have coded on the table. Someone could have nicked an artery. I could have gotten an infection. Every heartbeat....all that blood circling around in my body. All the cells trying to repair. How soon before they just give up on me.

Jesus, it's scary to trust in people that they'll do the right thing by you, especially when you don't do it by yourself.

And the sight of my son, I got home. He was in such a bad mood because of his day at school. I loved his bad day more than anything in our entire universe. The smell of my dirty house. My man's forgetful way of remembering that I'm not that tough. The sight of my dogs. My car has a flat tire. I will go to work on Monday. I will be able to walk better. I can cry because I really am safe. I really did make it.

Jesus.

I have at least one more chance.