REPORT A PROBLEM
After two weeks of 90+ degrees, I broke down and installed the air conditioner. I lugged the two-ton unit into the living room window. All fine until 45 minutes later, when the power went out. Damn thing blew a fuse. I fumbled around the dark and went to change the fuse. 3 times. I couldn’t have the refrigerator and the air conditioner running at the same time. I moved the beast into the bedroom. Success! 100 extension cords later I am able to have the ac set at an ineffective low 1 setting and now I can sweat in comfort.
I’M GOING TO RUIN YOUR DAY JUST LIKE MINE WAS. I was craving ice cream, so I went down to Georgie’s and got a scoop of Blue Moon. It is one of my favorite flavors. Part of the fun, besides it being this cool blue color, is trying to figure out what the flavor of it really is. Well, after enjoying my Blue Moon ice cream, failing to recognize the flavor and was thinking about going back for more, this nasty woman who I work with asked why my tongue was blue, then proceeded to tell me “It’s made with . . .”
It has been one long day. We started arguing immediately after waking up. Both of us were cranky, overtired and needed to get away from each other. I wanted to sleep, he wanted to see the city, and we had only a day left of vacation. Stayed up late the last few nights until 3 or 4am. Drinking, dancing, enjoying our time together. Until this morning. I am wiped out. He is annoying the hell out of me. I need my space. I crawl out of bed and go out onto the balcony overlooking the streets. I am in love.
I’ve decided to stalk Tori Spelling. Attractive, in a not really beautiful but definitely not ugly sort of way. I’m sure having a rich daddy makes her appealing to me. Maybe it’s because she’s not on TV anymore and I’m not sick of her face, her ordinary acting talent and the lame zip code show daddy produced for her. It could just be that I want my own pathetic TV show and think Daddy could base it on a rich little girl being harassed by a dog faced boy week after week. Maybe I could get Jason Priestly to direct.
The band played its noise until midnight. For four hours I got to lust over the bass player. He was slim, wiry. Dark, wavy black hair. Skin tanned and smooth. He was shirtless. Nice pectoral muscles. Really nice washboard stomach. Tight black leather pants. Incredibly nice, sexy. I was riveted. Couldn’t take my eyes off him. Wanted to put my hands on him. I moved closer to the stage song by song, until I was standing right in front of him. I made eye contact. When the set ended I remained. I found out his name the next morning. Davey.
I stopped at the bar to get out of the heat, out of the sun. I figured I would get a citron and soda, relax a little and enjoy the cool darkness. There were a few patrons and I didn’t recognize the bartender. I sat down and ordered a drink. I settled in and watched the bartender prepare a drink for one of the other customers. He noticed I was watching him. He began flipping bottles around. They began to break. One hit the bar in front of me, shattering into a million pieces, showering me in glass and liquor.
Nothing on TV again tonight. I’m am out of candy corn and the iguana is screaming. I open the shades to let in the reflections of headlights bouncing off the trees and people and sky to calm my empty glass of ice. One thought morphs into another and I’m talking to the fern next to the wood nymph sculpted out of a bar of soap. The water faucet cries out in pain, I am awash in fear and confusion, drowning. Sweat pouring down my face, I jerk awake, stunned, taking in my surroundings. I realize I should go to bed.
I am so appalled with the parenting skills I see when I’m shopping. Kids are so well behaved. Climbing on things, running around, yelling, throwing things. “Stop it.” Exasperated mommy speaks out from 15 feet away, resigned to the behavior of her brat, “I told you to stop it” Effective discipline as her child continues the rampage, bumping into people. “Stop it”, echoes aisle after aisle. Where is the discipline? Where is the control? I am completely amazed at the sheer stupidity and ignorance of parents today. I don’t want to deal with your brat, nor should I have to.
All I wanted was sleep. I stared at the ceiling. I tossed. I turned. I tossed off. I turned on the black and white TV. I tossed off the blanket. I fussed. I fidgeted. Nothing helped. I was awake. I lit a cigarette. I feel asleep shortly there after. I awoke shortly after that. To heat, flames, smoke, alarm wailing. Like a dream, reality unfolded, panic unfolded. I rolled off the couch. Kept to the floor. Crawled. Out the front door. Out to the street. Like a dream, unfolded, lights, sirens, flames, water, smoke, questions. All I wanted was sleep.
After I got control of myself, I realized the seriousness of the situation. I still couldn’t help but laugh. I think you would too. We were all sitting around the campfire having a good time, eating, drinking, talking, enjoying ourselves in the great outdoor. I was sharing a tent with her. She had way too much to drink. I noticed it earlier in the night, didn’t give it much thought. I went to sleep around 1:00am. Around 4:00am, she came to bed. They opened the tent, rolled her in. She landed on top of me, pinning me to the ground.
I want to look at cute boys. I’m not in the mood to stay home and rent movies and order out. I want to mingle with some hotties. I want to sway with them, sweat with them, have body contact with them, flirt with them, hit on them. I want to wear my new industrial clothes, smoke my jade cigarettes, look cool and dance my ass off to some great electronic music. I got my glow stick, my Adidas, and am ready. I can’t wait to have all them sexy boys taking off their shirts and gyrating for my pleasure.
I don’t know whom I detest more. All I know is that my life would be much better if they were gone. Luckily, I won’t have to put up with them much longer. I have decided to take them out. I have spent hours and hours on the Internet, researching, plotting and devising the perfect crime. And it is perfect. I hate them so much. They are getting what they deserve. I am not sitting in judgement of them. They have just been the most annoying, idiotic and useless people I have ever encountered. I must wreak my own havoc.
The radio was playing Eminem for the bajillionth time. I didn’t have the energy to get up and change the station. It’s been too many days in a row stifling the heat. I have lost all track of thought and memory. I needed ice, the sink was backed up with Coca-Cola and the refrigerator needed to sleep. I wanted to cool down the stairs with my flashlight to keep the lamps from air conditioning the upstairs, water. I would have danced, but my clothes are attempting to take me off and the night is active, I need the radio louder.
SEX. I think about SEX all the time. With the guys on TV, in the movies, on the radio, at the grocery store, the library, driving down the street, walking through the park. SEX. With the guy in the elevator, the waiter, the mechanic, the fireman, the guy on the corner, driving the Audi, the guy downstairs. SEX. Just thinking about thinking about SEX has me thinking about SEX. With him, with that guy, that guy, him, he’d be fun to roll with, him too. SEX. How I want to have SEX right now. Time to get out the videos.
One day I just might tell them. I don’t want to right now. I didn’t know until about 4 months ago. I wanted to figure out exactly what was going to happen before I started to let them know. Nothings happened yet. After all this time is it necessary to tell anyone? I probably won’t tell anyone now. I haven’t even told him yet. I don’t know how he would react, don’t know him well enough. I want to tell him. He’d probably tell them. I don’t know if I want them to know yet. I should have told them.
Just once I would like to be able to drive down the street without dealing with complete idiots. Does anyone know how to drive? Apparently not. Nobody goes the speed limit. It’s acceleration, whip around the slow vehicles and slam on the brakes. What the fuck is that? No common sense, courtesy or consideration. It’s my road you’re in my way. Fucking idiots don’t know how to handle four way stops, pull into intersections to make left hand turns, cannot handle vehicles around turns, stay in their own lanes. It’s a fucking obstacle course every morning to get to work.
I really just want to be at home lounging on the couch. I am not in the mood to be working at all. I am staring out the window. Hey, the window washer is here. Oh my, is he sexy. I roll my chair up to the window to get a better look. He was moving to wash my window. As he got closer to where I was, I made my presence known. Soon he was watching me as intently as I was watching him. I put on a show for him. He did the same for me. Incredible body.
The cavern was immense. The underground passage leading up to it varied in size while we traveled along its course. There were points where we had to crawl, wade through water waist deep, scale steep inclines. We were about half a mile beneath the earth’s surface. I was exhausted, dirty and completely exhilarated by the experience. The temperature was a balmy 63 degrees constant. From the cavern, there were numerous trails branching off, but I stood in awe of the stalactites and stalagmites that dominated the cavern. This has got to be one of the greatest moments in my life.
I want jello and whipped cream. I have an overwhelming craving. Black cherry jello to be precise. I don’t like chunks of fruit in my jello. That ruins the whole intent of the dessert. Jello is a treat. I’m going to have to go buy some during lunch. Orange jello is really good too. Black cherry is my favorite though. It’s got to have whipped cream on it. Then it is the ultimate dessert. No, the ultimate treat would be Robbie Williams in a tub filled with gelatin, covered in whipped cream. I’m definitely getting jello at lunchtime. Black cherry.
Hot. Been scorching for days. No relief. Been naked as much as possible. Too hot to enjoy it. I have virtually no laundry to do because of it, just towels mostly. I dread getting dressed for work in the morning, only time I have clothes on during the day. I break out in sweat as soon as I put on pants. By the time I have my shirt and tie on, I am drenched. I leave my apartment as soon as I get my shoes on, get in the car and turn on the air conditioner immediately. Instant relief. AAAAAHHHHHHHH!
State Fair. I want to go. I want to scream and wail on the giant slide and complain about the crowd, gaze unblinking at garbage for sale in the exhibition hall, sit on the curb and get a dirty ass, talk with corn bits in my teeth, see and smell the animals, pretending I’m enjoying the experience, win some useless picture of Ricky Martin in the arcade, fall with my arches, sing you're the one that I want at the top of my lungs in the funhouse, ride the tilt-o-whirl and then puke my guts out after exiting the fair.
Too much time to waste. I must be more constructive. I shouldn’t sit on the couch lamenting my life. Blaming Katie Couric for my problems. Hating Vanna White for turning vowels gracefully. Despising Kelly Ripa for lacking a personality but hosting a daytime talk show with that insufferable ass Regis. These people are SO FULL OF THEMSELVES. Their ideas and opinions are RULE. What? Most of these people are ignorant. Yet people fawn all over these pieces of shit. Oprah says this; Rosie says this, blah blah blah. Why are they influential? TV viewers have too much time to waste.
I’m excited about going to the concert tonight. I will be wearing my new outfit from TJ Maxx, complete with matching footwear, which will cause blisters. I will drop my disposable camera repeatedly, getting just dark pictures of nothing, blurred pictures of nothing and big asses. I will by a patch for my jacket, just like the one I lost when I was 8 and my mom made me feel terrible about wasting money and being irresponsible and wouldn't let me eat cotton candy because it was too expensive and gave me the runs. I’m going to rather enjoy myself.
I was showering, noticed the wasp. It was trying to escape the bathroom through the skylight. It did not like the steam, dampness and water spray. I watched in horror as the wasp decided to come after me. It all happened in slow motion. It flew directly through the water spraying, inhibiting it’s flight path. I jumped out of the shower stall, grabbed my underwear, snapped the elastic band towards the wasp. Direct hit. The wasp fell to the bottom of the tub. I grabbed my hairspray and covered the wasp with half the contents. The wasp froze in place.
Who does she think she is? She’s not my boss, yet she acts like it. She’s the most unprofessional bitch I have ever had the unfortunate opportunity to work with. She refuses to train anyone, that way she is more knowledgeable, so she thinks. She belittles everyone in front of the boss, lies through her teeth in agreement of everything the boss says. Today she is trying to dump her workload on me. I say fuck off. I can keep up with my work; you need to keep up with your own instead of surfing the Internet all fucking day.
Oh my. The phone guy is here to install more lines and I want him. There is something about him that drives me wild. He has shaggy brown hair, beautiful blue eyes; his pants ride his hips perfectly. There’s more to it than just that. I can’t explain it; he just does it for me. I stare at him anytime he’s here. His name is Tim. I fantasize about him whenever I see him. It’s most sexual of course, but when you’re that sexy, what else would people think about? Hell, he could call me anytime; he’s that damn hot.
Terrified. Thunderstorm raged outside. Power out. I remained. Heat rising. Air heavy, alive. Night pitch black. Lightening constant, spreading. I watched. Trembled, reverberated with every crash. Sweat poured down my brow, ran down my body. Nervous, edgy. Batteries dead, no light. I quivered. Anticipating each flash and crack and howl, excited and spent all at once, the rush of adrenaline strong, fierce. Wind and rain strong, fierce. Faint siren. Louder, louder. Howl of the wind. Louder, louder. Pulse racing, I listened to the storm. I watched the storm. I lived the storm. It was over as fast as it started.
I am just like her. I am not like that. I can’t be. I always said I wouldn’t be. I am not going to live like that. I am not going to treat people that way. I am not. I will not. I am. The distrust, the unease, the complete lack of confidence, the suspicion, the temper, the impatience, the tongue, the wit resides with me. I am what I am, and I am not ashamed. I am like her, I don’t have to walk in the footsteps, I can be myself, I can. I am different than she was.
He was my best friend growing up. He was always there. I wasn’t afraid of anything whenever I was with him, I could do anything. We spent our days and nights playing, being adventurous, growing up together. It was the best time of my life, with him. As we got older, we remained close, vowed we’d be part of each other’s lives always. I think of him often, miss him, talk to him like he’s still with me. Somewhere along the line we grew up, we lost contact with each other. Sometimes I feel just like my best friend, invisible.
I can’t believe there’s going to be a movie based on the life of Martha Stewart. Is she dead? Is she important? Is she significant in some way? Besides making millions off the backs of poor immigrants, from other people’s ideas pushed off as her own, from incredibly stupid people who believe she is talented and buy into all her bullshit, from the inferior product line bearing her name. Hmmm. I wish I could find me stupid people to blindly invest in me. The movie should be about the people she screwed over. She is not worth a life story.
One day I will be able to sit on my couch and not scream at what I see. I will have a clean apartment (yeah, right), a boyfriend (yeah, whatever), matching furniture (like that’s going to happen), state of the art entertainment system (keep dreaming), a brand new car (yeah, 1990 is new to me), a mountain bike (yeah, like I’d ride the damn thing), a job that I love (yeah, sure), I could scream. Why am I so disappointed? Why am I so disillusioned? Why am I so disgusted? I plead the fifth. I’d need more than 100 words.
The Tip Jar