Chairman of the Bored, and other clever quips from the pantyhose lockeroom

I have nothing to say. I haven't had much to say for weeks. In the past, when I got to this point, I would take off to Mexico, or go on a drinking binge...but, I have responsibilities now, and am not likely to do either. Which, frankly, hurts my feelings. I have hurt my own feeling. Iggy Pop may have said it best..."I'm bored. I'm Chairman of the Board."

The highlight of this weekend, I suspect, is going to getting some new clothes. And not just any new clothes, no, not just any old thing. I will be buying respectable, boring, professional clothes. These are to make me appear to be the professional, that every sick fuck in my office thinks I can be, if only I had on the right clothes. Our President of the company is coming for a visit next week...we must look like we're doing something.

It doesn't matter that I'm tired from marketing my ass off. It doesn't matter that the people she's meeting are the meetings that I cultivated and set up. Nope, I gotta' look like a powerhouse. I'm feeling itchy already.

I hated to point out that I got these contacts, etc., just with my dirty crap on, and my winning personality. I hated to make that point. I hated to make the point that perhaps part of my charm was that I wasn't intimidating in my own clothes, that people thought they might want to work with me/our company because I wasn't a bulldozer in pantyhose. Just maybe, just maybe, just maybe, I was on to something. No, we don't say those things.

I also didn't point out that a talk, that my boss was going to present, that I had to label, was from a list of corporate words that I had found online. This was a list of corporate words that a website was making fun of, and I just pulled some of them off the list and labeled the talk. Everyone cheered at my clever wording...no one knew, that I had it in me, to use the big words. Everyone was so impressed. I thanked everyone, and turned to stare blankly at my computer screen, I just stared blankly...not really knowing what to say to them the rest of the day. Where to you go after such a spoof on the English language?

I do sometimes get a bit passive aggressive. Perhaps it's my only saving grace.

When we were all trying to think of a place to have our "team" powerlunch with the bigwig, some place that was uniquely Texas, everyone picked this fancy-smancy Mexican food restaurant. Everyone, stated how it was really Mexican, very authentic, from the interior of Mexico and everything. I piped up that it was crap. Oh, how everyone disagreed with me. And one person, stated that she had been in Mexico, and it was in fact, very, the most, authentic, that we had here. She was just a vacationer, a person who only went to the fancy, well guarded spots of any country. I replied that she was just a tourist, and I had lived there for about two years, so, I knew more than she did, and I was the winner. Yes, that's what I called myself, the winner. I said outloud, that I was the winner and I win. I also said that our President wasn't going to know the difference, just as she didn't know the difference, and it was a very nice restaurant, so what the hell. We weren't doing it for the authentic flavor, we where doing it for the shiny silverware and the service. Then I did realize that I might be sounding a little on the bitter side, so I pulled back the attitude a bit, and went back to smiling and nodding. Good monkey, good puppy, good girl.

And this week, I went to a marketing function for women and minorities. And everyone was so happy and gaining strength from eachother for being a woman or a minority. It was so awful. There is was, listening to this gobblity goo. And I smiled and shook hands. And at lunch there was even a rep from the Governor's office. It's an election year. His whole entire speal was just: Governor, Governor, Governor...Governor, Governor...Governor, Governor, Governor. I made a side be with the man next to me, on how long he was going to talk, and how many times he would say Governor in the talk. I'm not sure the many even took a breath or said anything else. Luckily, I was distracted by my the many layers of my giant piece of chocolate cake, so I don't think that I was brainwashed too much. Only time will tell.

I thought to myself, I wondered to myself, if there would be a time, in my lifetime, where I was just paid for doing a good job...just that. Not for my clothes, not for my gender, not for my color. I wondered if people would get that for themselves, so I would have to stop dealing with it. Not likely. It will not happen in my lifetime. Even now, around me, I watch people cultivating crap in their children. We, in this county send our kids in flag suits to war, a war that they didn't even start and know nothing of the history of. Just great. Just fucking great. Here's a gun, go get 'em tiger. All of this technology and science around us, and we are no better than where we were centuries ago. We still have people believing in ghosts, goblins, and fairytales.

You can look at the face of Mars. That belief changed just in our life. It has been determined to be just a rock formation...not alien art afterall. Well, unless you are of the group the believes that our trip to Mars isn't real, that's it's just computer generated art, and until you go to Mars yourself to see it, you're still going to believe that Mayan Aliens did it, to watch us from outer space.

And what about me. I'm bored. And I'm going to buy my powerbottom clothes for next week, to get my paycheck. But the lure of drinking until I puke, snorting cocaine out of the end of a straw in some dirty bathroom, and spilling shit on my powerbottom clothes, and screwing some guy, who's name I'm too screwed up to pronounce, is looming in my mind and in my heart. I'm not that special, or that smart, I do just truely think out of the box that we all put ourselves in. And that's sometimes a lonely place to party. Enjoy the freedom of childhood, because growing up sucks.

signed,
Chairman of the Bored

Death Becomes Us

I chewed off all of my finger nails last night. I knew when I was doing it, and somehow just couldn't stop myself...all but two survived. I'm mulling stuff over in my head. It won't stop.

I don't want to go to work tomorrow. I mean that I REALLY don't want to go to work tomorrow.

I feel asleep going back and forth between a murder show and a terrorist show. Such great choices to view, and I pay for this privilege each month, out of my own pocket. I find it so tasteless, the hollywood version of things that I watched myself happen. As if these actors could really capture these moments. Well they can't.

These days, I find myself not even wanting to eat any meat. A dear friend pointed out, that you can associate killing meat for food, or you can associate killing meat for sport. I believe that I have begun to associate eating meat with the latter, as it's so prevalent in our neighborhoods. It grosses me out, the little arms and legs, the flesh, and fat, and bones of something that used to be living. On occasion, with me, this has come up. I'm not a vegetarian, I just automatically associate the meat with carnage...without really even thinking much about it.

We pay more money to watch football, than discover new ideas. I have witnessed this excess, just this weekend. With the flyby of the jets before the big event. The jet flew right by my house. With the loud noise that usually is supposed to signal a tragic event, that death and destruction is forthcoming, it flew right over my house, and gave me chills. We've sent these jets to kill people, to kill other people's children, using our own children to drive them. Maybe some would find me unpatriotic, but that is not the case. I just believe that items such as fighter jets should be recognized for what they are...killing machines, not toys to show off before a game of sport. Death should not be hailed as a sport. A fear driving machine should not be seen as a cheering toy.

This weekend, I learned of a friend's death. She had been poor and in pain for some time. She was basically alone, and no one to take her in, she was in pain and still had to do odd jobs to cover the rent, as her social security just didn't cover everything. She took so many pills. And in the end, she took too many pills and died. She didn't leave a note, so it probably was an accident. I always meant to spend more time with her, and I was busy, so I didn't. Now there is no more time with her. And the building where we met has been mowed over to make room for a new highrise. I failed her. And I didn't take the time. And I wasn't helpful. And I didn't share.

And the jets flew over yesterday. I am ashamed of my people, and I am ashamed of myself.

All the fucking things we choose not to become.

miraculous phenomenon

The thing about doing major drugs, be they legally induced or not, you can have epiphany or two.

The whole time that I've been taking these steroids I've been thinking...lots. A bit of a side effect of the medication itself. And I've gotten to take a good look around, being a bit out of the scene. I mean to say that I'm physically there, somewhat, but it's really more like I'm watching rather than participating.

I spent the week in observance, and in commentary. When I've been bored I've been leaving phone messages on a friend of mine's ole school answering machine. He is so kind to allow me that. Little fucked up nuggets of wisdom that I incurred during my trip. He says that their brilliant. Maybe they are...but maybe I'm just leaving a piece of myself to be retold later. The best way to live forever is have other people tell stories about you. I'm not without ego.

I found out this week how ordinary I am. How ordinary everyone is. I sometimes get fooled. I'm terribly insecure...at what age to do begin to shake that? Maybe now...hard to say if once the drugs leave my system I will still think this way.

A few years ago, it was my birthday. There was a party and I was completely smashed. I was in my CP-30 pj set wrestling for beers against my friend who was wearing my Mexican wrestlers mask. My landlady came over and said there had been some complaints about the noise. I told her to come back at six, then there would be something to complain about. I always wondered why she didn't just call the cops. She could have, but she didn't. I was drunk and horny. I slept with one of the guys at my party. I didn't really think that I would have much to do with him after that. I didn't count on it. He was just some guy...he didn't even look like one of the guys that I normally attached myself to...just some guy.

Two weeks later, I was taking the pregnancy test. And me, the dog and the cat, all sitting in the bathroom watching for the double pink line. I already knew...maybe, I knew right when it happened, the jizz and the egg, swirling...micro changes that come from that to be so huge it can take your breath away.

I was to be somebody's mother. It's a weird feeling. Sure it's one of awesome weight...but, then there's just this sense of being ok with it...it's just nature...it's what is supposed to happen.

I didn't have insurance. The doctor at the free clinic told me that people like me shouldn't be having children. I asked him if he had been to Wal-Mart lately. He fucked off.

My own father and his new wife told me they thought it was best if I had an abortion. I quit speaking to them...it was only logical.

During my pregnancy, I wasn't like other mothers. I didn't feel like my son was a part of me, in the traditional sense. I felt this other human. I felt like he was just renting space in me. He was already making his own decisions. I was only to guide, support, and bare witness. He was his own human. There would be things that I would get to see, and just as much that I would never get to know, because he was a different person than me, only connected by some blood lines and some tissue for a bit of time.

Tomorrow by son is starting school. His first day. We've met the teacher. My son thinks that she is pretty.

We bought him school clothes, and supplies. He has his lunch money ready, all ready...in his new velcro superhero wallet. He does not want to take his lunch. My son is handsome. And he's funny, really funny. He's smart, and has feelings, and generally likes most things. He is prepared. He's now going out of the house to start the next phase. It's a big deal. I am proud and my heart aches. He is not just a little baby anymore...whispers of the man that he will become have started. Be they whispers, I can still hear them.

We have a family. The three of us, have a family.

I stood by while he picked out his first day outfit. I watched his small hand lay the socks next to his pants with care. Then changing his mind, and changing what pants he was going to wear, and laying the socks back down again.

If we are such fuck ups, and weirdos, and the kind of people who could have been contenders, etc. How could I have been so fucking lucky to end up with such a big man who helped me bare such wonderful moments with this tiny human as these? Not luck...no not luck.

We are that cool. We are just that cool. My family is just that cool.

All of those stages of dying...short for some, not for me

So, here we go again. Another flair up of the MS. I missed my friend's art opening, and I didn't even publicize about it much. That's when I knew that I was loosing it. I didn't want to miss that. He's badass...and I missed it. Fucking disease bullshit.

AND: Right after a rather shitty work review, by a person perhaps stepping off the deep end a bit...but, nonetheless, it stung. I knew it was the MS. I've been trying to fake it a bunch, as my thoughtfulness goes down the tub.

What stung about the review, was the lack of being able to talk back. Jeez, for those that know me....that really fucking kills me. I was told that I wasn't living up to my potential. So, I will write my response here:

Who in the hell ever said that I wanted to live up to my potential in the first place? And who around me is doing it? The Prez? That bike guy? Who? There seems to be a fair amount of cheating and improvised potential....enough to go around. And who said that I was going to live up my potential at a job like the one that I have? Are you kidding me? Seriously. I am smarter than that. That is perhaps the part that makes it hardest for me to live up my potential in some job that I know, if I completely applied myself and did every this just shiny, fucking perfect, I would knitted buttlint for and have to seriously flog myself into oblivion for doing such a good job at, in the first place. Are you kidding me?

I did not have a golden family, nor do I have anyone that can slip me creamy testos for my nads. I hate to say it outloud, but I come from the hardknock, passive/aggressive, school of hard time, that allows me sometime the opinion that I should be getting lots of stuff for free. And cut...scene fade.

So, I've been dragging my tail about going to the neurologist. I waited until it really was beginning to hurt and show. It's the same thing every time. And I hate it. AND to make it worse, I watched an episode of some cold case TV show. And do you want to guess what it was about? Well, I'll tell you. There was a serial killer, and he was catching people and making them write out their will, and pick out their death spot, before he killed them...and the kicker was that he had MS. He was having trouble dealing with dying.

It was kinda' fucked up. I mean, I sometimes get in the mood to be reflective in not the most positive of ways...but, jeez, dude, I never want to take people with me. It was a downer to watch...I didn't want that to be representative of "my people". I almost wrote a letter, but my hands are numb, and I can't think on cue, and the Family Guy was on...I got distracted.

I went to the doctor, and I knew the answer, I would start the chemo drugs. I hate them. I never thought that I would say that I hated drugs, but I do. I hate them with all my heart. I hate the stinging needle. I hate the warm goo that runs into my veins so much that my mouth can taste it and I vomit. I hate it. I left the doctor's office and went to sit in my car...in the ever so cool handicapped parking space. The label sucks, but the parking is cool. I just cried. I wasn't mad, or sad...I just hated it...not the angry hate, just the here we go again hate. I cried. There wasn't anyone to need to call or anything like that. I just need to cry...it wasn't really even that dramatic...it was just a cry...an it made me feel better. And then went back to work until injection time.

I went at my prescribed time. Sometimes, there's no clocks in the waiting room. I get it, but everyone has cell phones now that tell the time. It's kind of just stupid. We all sighed. The only decent thing about this place, the infusion lab, it that you're not alone. We're all fucked up. We can all agree with that. Not matter what, being in a room full of other fucked up people has it's privileges .

My eyes met with the guy. His neck was swollen. He has hotchkins lymphoma. He looked like he had swallowed a chicken bone, but bigger. He was worried. He was newly married and they had a baby on the way. He asked if this was my first time. Oh God no, I'm old hat at this. He looked scared. It felt weird to have something consoling to say, but I did. I told him that it seemed like a big deal, and it was a big deal, but people had strength in them that no one knew they had. He was worried about his job. Me, too. But, it's just a fucking job, and you can get another one. It's easy to concentrate on that, but really, you can just get another one. I, also told him that it was boring. It was really fucking boring. And the second time wasn't nearly as bad as the first. It's the first time that's the kick in the pants, but you can get the routine down. And I told him to eat whatever he wanted and buy lotto tickets if he wanted...whatever was fun was an absolute must.

And that there were tricks, yes, tricks. What tricks, he asked.

I laid it out.

Always try to schedule your shit in the late afternoon...that's when the old people are gone, and you have the bigger chance of getting the remote control, or at least getting something bearable to watch. Otherwise, it was strictly Judge Judy and Oprah. And if bossing healthly old people around was super bad...well, fucking with Sick and Old People just got you a bad needle sticker, and no juice box...it was the death of you in the lab. Not even worth the trouble of trying...straight to hell, my friend, straight to hell.

They have juice boxes and cookies, crackers, and peanut butter crackers. If you were hungry, just ask nicely, and say that you had to fast for your morning labs. They'll totally give you more than one helping.Or, pretend that you're feeling nauseous...then, they break out the spread.

Also, it's ok to sit next to someone who's worse off that you or even dying...they will remind you that you're not, and there's strength in that. There is strength in that. And people have stories...it's important to listen...they gain strength from that.

Also, wear easy on and off pants, cause if you start your drugs and have to go to the bathroom, you can get the pants down, but it's getting them back up that sucks...so, you either have to open the door for help, and everyone sees your business or you stay in the bathroom forever struggling and when you come out everyone thinks you took a big shit.

AND, when in the bathroom, when on drugs, you always need to get some toilet paper pre-grabbed with your good hand...if not, it's a real bitch to be in there alone, high, wet and trying to grab for the squares in the big, plastic cage.

My last trick was to steal something...or ask for it, if you're chicken. I usually take a few extra butt cancer pamphlets, or breast cancer pamphlets...or whatever you can find...and then give them/mail them to friends and co-workers...an preferably anonymously. Face masks, big tongue depressors...whatever. One time, I scored a ton of How to Put On a Condom pamphlets, in Spanish and in English, with pictures of a real wiener. Very high prize...very indeed.

He laughed. I did, too. But, he would learn that I was totally serious. Time was up...we went to the "back".

I was sat in the prime spot. I got lucky this time. I had the chair right in front of the tv, and I was blessed with the remote control. It was just right there. I never had that spot.

I sat next to a woman, who was a dangerously enimec. I started laughing, and asked her if business was so bad she had to drive up to the infusion lab. Everyone laughed. She had really almost died. Her medicine was liquid iron...thick, blood-shit, brown creeping. And to my other side was an old woman who bone marrow quit working and she was having leukemia...her progress might turn out ok...might be remission...or she might die...to soon to tell. We all felt like shit.

As keeper of the remote, I wasn't a tyrant about it. We all agreed that no war, no stocks, no barrels, no deaths, etc. We watched Flava Flav. We had quite a debate about it. There women that fought over him on the show. He a little older now. And so is his wiener. I said that it my look like a beat up mangy pitbull at this stage of the game. Yuck!!! Saggy, too, was the concencious.

And there were women really fighting over it. BITCH!!!! OH IT'S ON NOW!!!

Who is the looser there? Are you the winner because you didn't win the hog slop wiener? OR, are you even a bigger looser because you didn't beat down the hog slop wiener lover? It was a hard call. And how romantic is it to think of Flava Flav going down on you when he has all that metal in his mouth? Lookin' like the also fro lovin' JAWS from the ever so hip 007 James Bond movie. Thoughts of him coming back up with girlie hairs stuck in the bling, and the painful bald patch it might cause.

Don't get me wrong, I like Flava Flav, too. I just have enough sense not to ever want to get me any of that. I'll bet I have to rumble some getto stake who wants to defend his honor now. That's funny. Did he live up to his potential...Yeah, chew on that for a minute.

The man that I spoke with in the waiting room left before me. He had a juice box in his hand, and one in this pocket...he winked...and we both said out good lucks. I think that he will be fine. I really believe that...of course, it could be the drugs, but whatever.

I have two more days of pumping, then a few days of the come down. The drugs keep me up at night. So, I'm sure this is to be continued.

The aptitude of the home grown eConomist...Con being the opt word there.

In my lifetime I have seen so many examples of when people get a little money, they, then, begin to desire to have more money. As though these little slips of paper and shiny metal coins become and entrance to freedom. I would argue that it becomes more of an entrapment. And I find myself sometimes in that trap as well, forgetting my humble roots.

I ran away from home more than once. I ran. I bolted. I would sacrifice and give away...in order to be free. I wanted the opportunity to see. I wanted the opportunity to become. I took the risk and landed on my own, with nothing.

A bar is closing down to make way for a new condo complex. I used to beg for spare change there. Spare change for food. I had one of my great loves, and most terrifying events come out of that place, too. Ok, maybe more than one terrifying event. But, there was also laughs. And what doesn't kill you does make you stronger. Whoever first said that, was right.

Back to the money, though.

I was living on an apartment roof top across from this bar. Yes, the roof top. There was one way to climb up to the top. And it was a bit of a run down complex, so no one was going to check up there. I lived directly on top of a drug dealer's apartment. So, I did have to be mindful that I didn't get caught by some of the comings and goings of his customers. In years later, he would clean up his act, and become a normal citizen. He knew that I was up there, but he didn't tell. We both had secrets on eachother, so we bonded in a don't ask, don't tell relationship.

Sometimes, I would come down from my perch and he'd let me use his shower. And we would talk on his porch. I traded listening and girl advise for a towel and some hot water. There was a certain freedom in sleeping on a rooftop. All the breezes and stars, very simple sometimes.

One day, I went to have Chinese food with a friend. I had leftovers in a togo box, that I planned to eat for dinner. As I began to climb to my roof perch, I saw a man, about my age. His clothes were dirty, and he was digging in the trash behind a Wendy's. I looked at my container of food, and knew that I wasn't that bad off. I was clean and had just gorged.

I said, "Hey. What are you doing?!?" The man replied, "I'm looking for something to eat." I explained to him that I had plenty of food and had just eaten, and he was welcome to my leftovers, if he wanted. He took my leftovers and said only, "Thanks". He never looked me directly in the eyes.

I climbed to my perch feeling better about myself. And that I had enough to share with someone less fortunate than me. Good feelings can feed a lot of sorrow.

I settled down to read, when I glanced up to see the man digging in the trash can again. What did he do with my food, I thought. There was a ton left, he could not still be hungry. No way.

I asked, "What are you doing?" The man replied, "Looking for something to eat. I don't like Chinese. I threw it out."

Tell me what the hell you're supposed to say to that. Tell me. 'Cause I got nothin'.

I was floored, and mad, and floored. He could have just givin' it back. But, now I realized that he might be nuts and dangerous, so I couldn't go get my food back. So, I was stuck on my perch, floored and mad. Fuckin' crazy fuck! And the sheer oddness of what had just happened.

Years later, I was driving pizzas around. I grabbed a run, and it was to a crappy student complex, near the college, but still crappy. One does not equate big tip, or any tip, from so called "starving students".

As I pulled up to the complex, I could hear the heavy metal. Great, I thought...Drunk, shitty tippers. I could hear the ruckus as I neared the door, number 201. I knocked, and heard the stumbling to the door, through the beer cans, and the shush-shush, in case I was the cops, not the fucking pizza they had ordered fifteen minutes or less ago. I waited, and geared up, for the jokes and sneers. At that time, it was me and one other girl, in the entire town that were pizza drivers. Yes, even with fucking pizza sauce, baked cheese and greasy hair, a girl can still be harassed. (Just on that thought for a minute.)

The door opened. I looked up, from under the brim of my pizza cap, to give my usual speech. But, I stopped.

Again, for the second time, in my life, I was floored.

Who was it? Ah yes it was!

After all these years, there was the slightly older, young man, who threw out my Chinese food. It was his apartment. There was a couple of rock posters on the wall, a crappy worn couch, one lamp, and a jambox. And that was it. Well, there were beer cans everywhere, but that was it. It was a shithole...nothing homey about it. On the other hand, it was a shithole with a roof. So, as my mind raced, I realized that we both, in fact, had moved up. Then, I wondered if he would recognize me. He did not.

The man shoved money at me, and grabbed for the pizza. I counted the money. There was the pizza money, for sure, down to the change. Then there was a hundred dollar bill. I stared at it. One hundred dollars for a tip...shit, that could make my life a bit easier this week. But, the angel vs. the devil. I caved. I have a good heart. I can't take money off a drunk, crazy fuck. I sighed as I explained that this one hundred dollars wasn't necessary, and he must have given this to me by mistake.

This man, looked up, dead right in my eyes, and gruffly told me it was no mistake, and to take the money, and get out of here. Ok, crazy guy, you don't have to tell me twice. I'm outta' here. I took the money, put the old car in gear, and went back to the pizza shop.

Upon my arrival back in the shop, all the guys were standing around. Even though there was pizzas to deliver, they were waiting. All waiting for me. They all wanted to know what kind of tip I had gotten. The man was famous around the pizza joint. That address was notorious. And I just happen to get the luck of the runs to get it...all the pissed off faces told me that. I told them all that it was none of their fucking business, and what was so special about that crazy guy anyway. I did not pipe up that I had met this man before, and I did not explain what the circumstances were when we first met. No way!

Then came the story. The man was a millionaire. He was loaded...super loaded. When he was a child, his rich parents died, and left him the fortune. However, the money was no trade for his parents, and he went nuts...he didn't want to have anything to do with the money. Sometimes he was homeless, and sometimes he would show up at that shitty apartment. The complex owner was an uncle or something...so, he could be a nuts as he wanted to be and never get kicked out. I felt like an even bigger dirty shitbag for taking the guy's money. A dirty shitbag in need of taking his money.

It was three in the morning my shift was finally over. I sat in my shitty car. I took my hat off and ran my hands over my greasy face and through my greasy hair. I put the one hundred dollar bill on my dashboard, and sat there, tired. I sat there eating cold, chewy pizza and staring at the money. I knew that I would spend it. I knew that I had to spend it...all the bills right?!? Yeah, all the bills. I would spend it.

But, I needed to have that money just sit there for a minute, and not be spent. I supposed I needed it to be recognized for something. Also, the sheer weirdness of how this man and I met twice in a lifetime. Both times, being such odd things. This bill, this man, this me, his life, my life, this life...something. Something was there that needed to be recognized.

I spent the money. I never saw him again. Or maybe I moved on enough that I wouldn't recognize him if I did see him again. Whatever....

Right now: Yes, money can be a thing of entrapment, and being mindful of humble roots.

God, Guns and Guts. Let's Just Do All The Things That You Want To Do.

It is my job to give advice. It is my job to keep secrets. It is my job to be supportive. I'm good at it...I can do the job. However, I note, that just because I'm good at it, doesn't mean that I really enjoy it.

This week, those items, above mentioned, were tested. I had to be thoughtful. Really being thoughtful is mostly against my nature. I'm ultimately self-centered and a bit harsh. I do have a sense a fairness for all, but not at a complete cost to the completely unreasonable. I loathe being trapped into being professional, polite and courteous...which is the business norm. What a crock of shit that is. I would much more prefer to just say what I mean, and let the chips fall where they may; however, people don't like honesty. I should say people don't have the stomach for honesty.

So, when confronted with too many things that I have to be thoughtful about, man, oh man, does that ware me out. I found myself thinking this week: What?!? Are you kidding me?!? And, lacking the position to really say that outloud.

I found myself surrounded by klans, as well. We are all so traditionally comfortable with being part of a group, or klan, that we will cut off our noses to spite our faces. It is impossible to make everyone comfortable at all times. You can still be fair in the middle of being uncomfortable, that is possible. But, so many people lack the balls to do just that. Sometimes you have to have the ability to say no. You have to have the ability to say no, in order to reach the bigger goal. So many people lack the balls to do that. And we see examples of this in the larger scale of the world currently.

So, I was thoughtful and mindful this week...oh, yes, I fucking was. And I still watched as others blunder their way. I really have been liking where I work, up until now. The company wants to grow without making it's people grow with it. That is impossible. You will not grow if you people don't. They can not stay the same, small company, klan, family like people. And who said that I wanted to be part of a family at work. Are you fucking kidding me?!? I have a family, and I use my work as a way to provide fuel for my family to work. I do not go to work to include those people as part of my family. Yuck! Blah!

Thoughts of sarcasms boiled in me. Thoughts of why were these people try in sabotage themselves boiled in me. Then more thoughts of sarcasms boiled in me. I'm not trying to say from some mountain top, that I am the greatest thinker of all times...More like, I'm not the greatest thinker of all times...so, you guys must really be dumbasses.

I will use today to think of loftier things...take a break. With only whispers that me and all of Japan have the balls to say no, and sit in the uncomfortable chair.

I'm turning Japanese, I really think so.

The Art of Seduction, and why men cannot be Superstars

In out society men can still do pretty much whatever they want. Women, on the other hand, have to be so clever and take on so much. And now, there is a group of men, who have stolen and produced the secrets that women have used in the dating world for centuries. I watched the television has these couple of men claimed to have the answers, the full proof systems, even had seminars and coaches for this room full of chumps.

I was so angered. I wasn't angered that they were practicing this fine art...only that they thought they had perfected this art...that it was, in fact, their own art. THIEVES!!!!

I recalled how many Woody Allen films I had once endured to catch the prize. All those hours of Woody Allen. And once I finally slept with this guy, I was done...I wanted no more. In fact, after a long night of lovin' and tequila, I awoke groggy and heavy headed, to this guy asking for just one more hand job. I told him no, and got up to find my pants and get the hell out of dodge. He was so sad.

I also recalled the same scenario with a lover of Jim Jarmusch movies...with the same end result...looking for my pants and leaving.

In my time, I learned that buying the drinks often helped in the seduction.

And I learned that one should date the pretty guys, only every once in a while, to up your street cred, but ultimately, those guys were not very good lovers. It was the geeks and the freaks that could really do the deed correctly...the only trade off with them was the emotional baggage, or their obsession with something (i.e. film, star trek, etc.), that you might have to endure a bit of to get to the weenier. All the talking about them...can be tiresome.

I also thought of a guy, who once was big in the music scene, that a friend bet me a Taco Bell, Bean and Cheese Burrito,WITH a drink, that I could not get to ask me out. I had three weeks to do so.

I immediately got to work.

I completely showed up wherever he was, and completely ignored him. I was not a hot, rock n' roll babe. So, I had to be extremely precise and careful. I ignored him completely. And he began to come around. What could the fat chick have? Why isn't she interested in ME? I am a bad, muther fucker!?!

He finally ended up in a conversation with me and another guy, of less stature than he. Oh, he tried to talk to us. And I have to say, he was a cutie, but I could not falter at this time...this was the deal breaking moment. I gave away my attentions to the ugly guy, and even poked an ever so tiny amount of fun at cutie. Then, without a moments notice or hesitation, I abruptly got up and left.

Would it work? Only time would tell. The wait had begun. This entire process had taken almost the entire three weeks. Would I succeed? It was the final night, before the final day of the three weeks. My entire reputation and my lunch was on the line.

The next day, I was sleeping my hangover off, and the phone rang. My roommate nudged me from my sleep and handed me the phone. All croaky, I said hello.

It was cutie. He had even gone to the trouble of finding my number on his own. Fucking bonus!!!!

Cutie asked me out. I held the phone up to my roomate's ear and asked cutie to repeat himself. He did. I had won the lunch. I told him that I had only tried to get him to ask me out for a burrito and drink, and thank you, but no, I didn't want to go out with his conceited ass. I hung up and went back to sleep.

Years later, this same guy would show up fat and road worn from his rock and roll life style. And he pointed to me, came over, and told me that I was the only girl that ever said no to him. I told him I was sorry about that whole mess, I was young...blah, blah, blah. And I'll be damned if his fat ass didn't ask me out again. I told him no, again. End game.

So, all I'm saying, is that these men, these super stars of The Game, did not invent the game, they did not master the game, I'm not even sure if they even know were the game is. Because, even though I have retired my gimmicks and my gags...there is a whole new generation of plump, slightly off in the looks department, young women, who have generations, upon generations, upon generations of women gamer's blood running through their veins...a wisdom the likes that these men have only begun to barely even catch a wiff of.

Nigga' please.