If Only I Had No Common Decency Or Sense Of Shame, Then I Could Work For Extra.

CROCODILE TEARS!

Dang, how am I going to get this woman to move out of Stefanie's spot? I think I will have more luck if I will some of the hipsters down the end to go somewhere else. This one knucklehead keeps getting Vickery and Victory mixed up. Vickery Park is a bar on Henderson. Victory Park is a made-up destination downtown that contains that lame bar at the W, amongst others. Don't go there. Paris Hilton goes there, ya dig?

Say, mack, I gotta line on a crackerjack pony. I'm gonna amscray, but keep an eye on that dame in the corner. She's poison, see. A fella could get filled fulla lead hanging around a broad like that, see. So long, bub. Don't take any wooden nickels.

So the editing section of Monster is filled full of jobs that have nothing to do with editing. I think people are trying to trick me into about 57 different pyramid schemes. I can't click on a link that has more than one exclamation point in it or tells me I can work from home. They'll have me licking envelopes for Tom Cruise if I'm not careful. Looking for a job is so boring. I'm sick of doing it and sick of not making progress and sick of reporting nothing. I really have to figure out all the really technical crap on my computer. Some day. Stef's here. I better bail.

I Know Where Hell Is. Grapevine, Texas.

I used to think Hell was Branson, Missouri, but now I know I was wrong.

Hell is much closer than you think. The Devil isn't pulling his greatest trick anymore.* He's advertising, with a catchy jingle and harmless cartoon animals. Wait, harmless cartoon animals? When was the last time you thought WOLVES were cute? Wolves aren't cute. They will eat your face off. Wolves will eat your friends so they can haunt you in increasing states of decay, give you rabies AND turn you into a werewolf. Those fuckers are smart.

And so is the Devil's advertising agency. Satan wants your children and he will get you to happily deliver them at no charge to him by means of an indoor water park and fake-timber bunkbeds in a reasonably priced hotel room. So go ahead and book Satan's Vacation at Great Wolf Lodge and offer your children to The Beast. Then you can go catch a farm-raised, mutant clone fish at Bass Pro and follow it up with a nice complimentary Mai Tai at The Glass Cactus because the souls of your fat, functionally illiterate spawn made such a juicy snack for God's Chief Frenemy that you're on the list and don't need a reservation.

For God's and your children's sake, take your kids camping for real in actual woods with animals that weren't drawn by an underpaid computer programmer in Taiwan. You do not need a climate-controlled water park, you need The Schlitterbahn. Your kids need to make the most kick-ass lanyards the Hill Country has ever seen, not become processed cheese food humanish space taker-uppers with in-room PS3. I will shrink wrap your face and keep you alive FOREVER LIKE A TWINKIE if I hear any of you ever went to this place, even on accident. Don't even stop there to ask directions on your way to Enchanted Rock. I am not kidding.

Listen, I know this is a little unlike me to advocate being outside when you all know I love concrete more than Jesus loves the little children, all the children of the world. But, dang, there's concrete, and then there's BUILDING A FAMILY FRIENDLY VACATION DESTINATION ON A FOUNDATION OF EVIL SHORED UP WITH REBAR FORGED IN SATAN'S METAL WORKS.

Frankly, I'm willing to get chiggers if it means I don't have to become Beelzebub's wife.




* Making you think he doesn't exist, duh. Jeez, watch The Usual Suspects again, you moron.

Dang, Hollywood Stars, Stop Dying!

Remember how heartbroken we were when River Phoenix checked out way too early in the most squalid, stupid, meaningless public display on a sidewalk ever? Talented doesn't have to equal crazy, people. You can make awesome movies without being miserable. You don't have to be insane to be great. Yeah, a lot of the great ones were nuts, but the times they are a-changing and wouldn't it have been awesome if Van Gogh had been in a support group and kept painting? I mean, have you SEEN his work? I was never a big fan of the Van Gogh. Until I saw his self-portrait in the Musee d'Orsay in Paris and instantly got it. If you have the ability to make such stunning acts of beauty that they can literally, in an immeasurably quick flash of instantaneous connection, change the mind of someone else a hundred years later, then you owe it to the Universe who gave you that gift to protect it and not wastefully die long before you've used every drop of creativity you were blessed with. Of course I have no idea what happened to Heath Ledger, and it wouldn't be any less horrible if some unexpected but natural cause killed him. We're all cheated just the same.

In short, knock it off, talented artist-types. I don't want to see a single tragically lost artist soul ever again. Get your asses into therapy, stat.


I don't have any shame about my Mondays, btw. Conflicted maybe, but not shamed, fyi. Thought I should clarify, if only for my own ends. I feel better having said it. Ok, I'm done. I'm going to look for a job while I wait for my baked potato.

I Love You, Blogda!.

Here I am sitting on the sofa wrapped in a blue and green beach towel after having washed off the shame and regret of another filthy Monday morning, listening to Dido (Shut up.) and plotting the end (The end? Of what?), realizing I've bathed three times in the last 24 hours and worrying I might be getting germphobic, and feeling a little sorry for myself I admit cheerfully (Well, semi-cheerfully. I'm hardly ever 100% cheerful.), when I decide to catch up with my ol' pal Blogda via the World Wide Internet. Then I laughed. So yeah, I'm obviously moody, duh, but it's nice when your sad sack state can be instantly cured just by your friend writing about sandwiches.

I was about to knock off blogging and make myself a sandwich, then I remembered I am out of Coca-Cola so I need to page my dealer before I can have said sandwich. You are crazy if you can eat a sandwich without a Coke. I can't eat any typically American food without a Coke accompaniment. Hot dogs? Needs a Coke. Hamburgers? Needs a Coke. Frozen Ding Dongs? Needs milk, and then a Coke later to keep the sugar high going. Have a Coke and a smile. I take that shit literally.

Dang, that means I have to ditch the beach towel and get dressed. I guess that's ok, I am a bit cold. What is the wackiest outfit I could wear to Tom Thumb? Obviously, it's this beach towel, my tiara and boots. I would do it on a bet, but I'm not doing it for free. Do I want to go to Target or Tom Thumb? I haven't been to Ghetto Target in a while. Nah, I'm too hungry to enjoy Ghetto Target. I need to acquire my stash and get out so I can have my sandwich ASAP. It would have been nice to have it while watching Teletubbies, but I missed it already. And yeah, I said Teletubbies, and yeah, I know what time it comes on. That show calms me down like a handful of quaaludes, it's amazing.

Ok, enough fucking around. I need a sandwich post haste.

Good Monday. Excellent Work, Smithers.

This morning, The Foreigner bought me some blueberry pancakes and made me laugh real laughs, the loud kind that make people look, if there were people trying to read the paper in my living room. He has an Uncle Pasquale. Awesome. Good times, the just hanging out for a couple hours. Ambivalence currently at bay. Also, I'm not drunk and despairing, unless my pancake buzz has lasted 12 hours and now I'm coming down.

Then I picked up my CPR textbook, recycled a ton of magazines dating back to 2005, took an hour and a half nap, had a sandwich, watched Entertainment Tonight, How I Met Your Mother and The Big Bang Theory, and played a few hands of Free Cell until my neighbor fired up the wi-fi for me to steal. Then I checked my email and got a note answering my resume email and requesting my divine presence at an interview on Friday. Holy crap!

It's been quite a day. I'm exhausted.

In The Interest Of Full Disclosure...

Last Tuesday, I got over-served at home. I couldn't pick up any stolen wi-fi, so I just wrote me up a document and saved it to post later. Then I forgot about it, until now. I even had a title. It's surprisingly cogent for having been written during a good shellacking. Enjoy my unedited glory, and no, Dear Reader, I don't want to talk about it.

Pinot Noir Tuesday.

Hey Franklin Gothic Medium Font, you’re ok, I guess. I love the way Lane’s boyfriend on Gilmore Girls said “I guess.” He conveyed all the ambivalence in the world with two syllables. Which brings me to the point. I am ambivalent. Shocker. IiiI Like you didn’t already know that. I am ambivalent about continuing to fuck The Foreigner. I have this horrible suspicion that as long as I go about servicing this man, I am cutting myself off from meeting someone who actually loves me. The best I can hope for with The Foreigner is if I say “I don’t love you,” he says back, “I don’t love you, either,” and then we laugh. That’s about the closest we could get. There’s nothing wrong with a moment like that, because at least you’re on the same level and you both KNOW something together, the same way, at the same time. I absolutely adore it when you have that whole Chasing Amy moment with someone, two fingers coming together, face to face or across the room. I live for it. The oreigner and I don’t have that. It makes me sad. I’ve had that with people I haven’t seen naked. I would like to have that with someone I HAVE seen naked. It would cool if I had that WHILE I was seeing someone naked. That would be perfect. I saw P.S. I Love You last week and cried my eyes out. I love Hilary Swank and Gerard Butler in love and fighting and on the same page, in their tiny New York apartment that they thought was too small, but I thought was adorable and perfect. It was perfect for two. I love the separate dressers on opposite sides of the same wall, talking to each other while dressing or undressing. It’s not too much to ask. Somebody once told me I would marry a short Jewish lawyer. I say bring him on. I saw this documentary tonight about a dude with Asberger’s and the thing that struck me about this New York family was not their whole Asberger’s issue, it was that they quoted Shakespeare at the dinner table and their hall was filled ceiling to floor with books. I am nearly desperate with longing for such a life. Ridiculous. Wine-fueled. Claustrophobic boredom setting in. I shouldn’t be left alone for so long. As much as I hate people and just want to be left alone, this is ridiculous. I am a woman who needs to be managed. Handled. I am reduced to buying staplers. Stapler. It came with staples and a remover for under four bucks. I also bought two manually powered flashlights today. I suddenly realized at Target that I did not own a flashlight. I KNEW that if I did not get them immediately that I would be slain by Buffalo Bill tonight. I will put one in my car. That is how alone I am. I buy flashlights because I am an old maid. Oh sweet Jesus, thank God I never fucked a guy in a band who wears capes. Not a guy who wears capes, an ENTIRE BAND that wears capes. At least I am not that uncool. And then they wrapped up their song with a snippet stolen from The Doors. I hate them, whoever they are. Yay! Craig Ferguson who was in Ft. Worth last Saturday and I should have forked out the dough to see him, he amuses me so. And damn it all if he’s not a foreigner. I need foreigner rehab. Oh thumbs up to you, Craigy. I bet we could be two fingers closer together if we tried. And he wouldn’t be drunk. I smell like Ireland. I don’t know what you think Ireland smells like, but to me, it smells like moss, the moss-scented solid perfume I bought in Kilkenny to be exact. I have kept it for all these years, in its little seaglass bottle, hardly touched. I used the soap and the bath salts long, long ago. I love this scent. It’s sexy and domestic all at the same time. Craig Ferguson would cheat on me, I’m pretty sure. I am a caged tiger. I want to get the hell out of this room. I’m looking around, narrowing my eyes at everything. It’s all out to get me. Also, I am aware he is Scottish, fyi. I should collect a Scot. File. Save As. Pinot Noir Tuesday, The One Where I Became An Aunt. Again.

P.S. I don’t love you.
P.P.S. There’s nothing sadder than shouting “Braidy McBraidson!” in the middle of the night and inhaling your own hair.
P.P.P.S. Note: There was wodka in the freezer after the pinot was gone.
P.P.P.P.S. So there.

Hey, I Made My Avatar!

It changes here automatically. Don't I look the sexy as a Praetorian?

I Love You, Wireless Mouse.

I am not all electronic gadget girl, you know that, but I got a wireless mouse for Christmas and an Ipod, so I'm all loaded up on new toys, thanks.

I have also officially hit the wall with how much time I can spend by myself. I nearly went nuts with boredom over Christmas. The Willie Nelson Holiday Film Festival just didn't cut it, especially when Songwriter wouldn't play on the VCR. I pulled all of Willie's movies out of the archives at Premiere Video, which means I had to climb the ladder. Willie Nelson as movie star is pretty good. IMDB him and enjoy.

Also, I bought boots. Not cowboy. Kitten heel. Tres sexy. Depose The Foreigner if you need proof. I think they supercede silver shoes.

Why is supercede always a spelling bee word?

What else? I got nothin'. No job. Total boredom. Decided not to take microbiology at this juncture. Not vital. Must learn CPR officially. Remembering the poster in the break room two jobs ago that also mentioned treatment of snake bites not good enough. I always thought it would be awesome if somebody got snake bit in the cube farm.

I drank a lot on Christmas Day night, and I remember dancing with some guy, but I'm not sure if he kissed me or what. It's not important. Some guy with blue hair had been buying me a lot of drinks before then, so details are sketchy. In any case, I went home alone and slept on the floor. I don't remember why. It was not comfortable.

Ok, it's getting cold up here in the WRC loft, so I'm going home. It's dark outside and literally freezing ass cold out there. I should have put something in the slow cooker so I would come home to deliciousness and warmth. Oh yeah, I skipped New Year's Eve. No point. So really, you're not behind on anything.

Except for how I stood up for myself as a woman and got what I wanted in response and how proud of myself I am for not taking it lying down. I am ReadBecca, hear me roar.