So you're having impacted teeth surgery...

I should have brought this junkie back
Get to make her parents happy
Plus there is a monkey on her back
And it won't stop starin' at me now

Unquestionably a freak, an aberration, a mutant sans comic book stardom, my jowls are swollen in a mockery of royal inbreeds from the Hapsburg dynasty – mandibular prognathism in a modern day Mexi-Germanic-Frencho kingdom. Only my influence is limited to the declining number of men still caught in the throes of want what I can't have, and as a beneficiary of fine American customer service. I get my ego trips from the fine print in the employee handbook that reads: the customer is always right. Respect my consumer authority.

Early in the bitter cold of a Friday winter morning, boasting -5 degrees at its inception, quadruplet impacted [impacted: tightly or immovably wedged in] wisdom teeth were pulled from my then nicely formed jaws, a component of my inherited gourd-shaped head, but only once I had completed the informative pamphlet so you're having impacted teeth surgery… It was folded in half (hamburger style) –to give it bulk and jurisdiction. It included a discussion of a menacing IV Sedation, but what was really a blessing in a clear plastic bag- drip, drip, drip.

Prior to surgery I was informed it was to be "conscious sedation", but its memory recall resembled black-out drunk (I did what?). As the victims of black-out drinking sessions will tell you, what one does not know, will not hurt. I did not want to know what was said or done. If I mumbled pornographic secrets of fetishisms and vibrators, or confessions of an undying love for X, Y, or Z, I have no desire to possess knowledge of such uninhibited drug-induced utterances.

I awoke wrapped in the fuzz of a blue blanket, peering into the grizzled beard of my uncle, tasting blood. I soon realized it was not produced by a lip bite from another pair of teeth, but still too high to be sexually frustrated; I resigned to its taste. I was escorted by the blonde fiancé of a man, the skin of her arm felt soft against mine, her voice sugary. In the coherency of a temporary sober state, I worry I may have blown her a kiss, from gratitude, or my closet lesbianism.

The click of locked doors, "we wouldn't want you to escape", and my uncle smiled.

I was in a bad Rob Zombie-produced horror movie. Accepting an untimely and gruesome death as fate, I leaned a heavy head against the glass, only to awake in a grocery store parking lot, dozing off periodically, dreaming of half man/half lollipop creatures I could lick at will.

He returned with the goodies of a soft food diet – instant mashed potatoes, jell-o, pudding, and ice cream. I attempted a smile as he displayed his treasure with pride, but it was lopsided, numb, and bubbling with saliva and blood. He lovingly shoved sterile gauze in my half-open mouth and rubbed the top of my ponytail, strands of hair slipping out around my face. I wanted to profess my love for him, to tell him he was the best surrogate father in the world, and that I had once looked for a Hallmark card to describe, but I only moaned and puffed antiseptic air. I think he understood.

The numbness in my face and lips provided endless amusement, a consequence of the drip. I looked over at the sizable man stirring the boiling water and "potato" flakes, their true identity unknown – A Betty Crocker in flannel and work boots. All feeling in the facial area lost, the union of cup and lip did not seem to exist, but the cold water dripping down my chest did.

He returned with two white pills, circular and intriguing. Eat, pop, and then drink was his command. I scooped spoonfuls of counterfeit mashed potatoes into my mouth and swallowed. Chewing was not permitted.

"What are they?" I asked. He rolled the bottle across the table. I was eager to become a legalized drug addict.

Oxycodone, it sounded legitimate. But it was discovered to be generic for Percocet, missing the much needed I after the d, and hardly worthy of the classification pain killer, more like attempted murder. I swallowed the allotted two anyway. My nerve endings were beginning to discover the unnatural holes in my gums, infuriated, they retaliated with throbbing pain. I prayed to the pharmaceutical company gods, and they answered after the time release.

Now I'm high like all the time, but only for the dreams I say. I hope they will result in a Twilight series of my own. I am not a follower of the Book of Mormon, nor will my character abstain from sex, and my inspiration will be drug cajoled, hardly kid friendly. Let the competition of gross earnings begin.

Paper eating

Silly little girl, simple little girl

Some people enjoy the climax, the unsteady ladder climb to explosion, the involuntary muscle contractions, shaking, and discharge – of the perfectly concocted climax to a story. Some people like to present a well-prepared thesis after a lengthy introduction – anecdote, facts, Webster definition – but I am not some people.

I ate paper last night.

One third of an invoice to be exact, the palatable parchment shared with two friends, an appropriate culmination to arguably the worst night of my life.

"We must get rid of the evidence," she stared into the dark backseat with all the gravity she could muster.

"We will have to eat it," I announced with all the esteem I could assemble in my then inebriated state.

And so we did, with the assistance of her boyfriend, conscripted into paper-munching by the threat of an imposed sex ban, fallacio included. The contents of Burger King plastic cups acting as lubricants, hypoallergenic and dye free, we rolled the tablet for credit card numbers into balls and inserted. Chew, grind, swish saliva, and swallow.

I choked, laughed, producing an animalistic gurgle, which in turn distorted two puzzled faces into looks of concern, pink lips smeared with ink, tongues working paper balls into edible mush. So it had come to this.

I was celebrating my successful admission into the business world as an administrative bitch to the office manager with The Marquis, music, and self-inflicted torture. A position to "prove my girth" (I thought only applicable to penis size), as my mother says, albeit in a field I would never, even under the threat of figurative professional decapitation, consider for a career. My apologies to the administrative bitches in the world, however we are assigned a national holiday in exchange, in appreciation for the vital services we (I can say we now right?) provide.

"Hey guys (insert interpretation of my voice here), shots are on me. Uhh…one Washington Apple, a Whiskey, well please, and Tequila (gagging noises here)."

If I was to spend my night in a venue with the guy whose name always follows the words: I wish I would have…, then I was to do it with the backing of Jack, Jose, and – uh Absolute? - The whole if-then equation.

Our numbers scrabbled, the mathematical statement, applied to three career slip-ups produced: one if, and several thens. The result: paper eating.

A patron of the music lifted my jacket. While I was busying myself with thens, she was stuffing my jacket underneath her in-style, maternity inspired tent-shirt, or he was shoving it in his girlfriend's purse turned miniature doggie carrier. I could excuse this blatant music-foul – and you call yourself a fan – but my keys were tucked in the inner pocket pf the coat. They not only committed theft (A crime against one of the Ten Commandments. Moses would be pissed), but they took my hard-earned access to a motor vehicle, displeased my parents, and drove me to the brink, and subsequent fall into voluntary consumption of paper.

We exited the venue, having lost one member to lewd promises, accompanied by the sound of hurling insults, slurred and incoherent. Apparently we can be obnoxious. I wore my hood up, my identity fashionably cloaked.

The locksmith arrived, in the guise of a savior and sporting a sexy Russian accent. It was only a farce and an argument ensued as to his deceitful first appearance. Drunks: 3 – Sober: 1.

"You didn't make the right key!" I rolled the insult down the lane. Spare!

"You didn't tell me which one to make!" Strike!

We ended with the lower score.

His pen moved in slow motion, the debit card numbers dripped like molasses onto the invoice – 4...5...2 – the scratch was deafening, like The Chipmunks on sedatives. Discovering an opportunity, my coconspirator, a rebel both sober and tanked, snatched the slip from two burly hair adorned Russian paws and ran, stumbled, then ran. We curled into flesh balls, convinced we were successfully hidden from view by the camouflage of beige leather. Our skin lightened by the approaching winter.

Her soon-to-be-paper-eating boyfriend returned to the car and informed us that the fine officers of the law had been called in for investigation. The Law: 1 Civilian: 0.

We had to dispose of the evidence immediately. So we did what any right-minded girls would, we ate it.

I have (had) a job interview

She can be the office type
Or like to strip

The third interview in the series neared – monetary funds chewed and swallowed by business suits and sheer nylons (a byproduct of my inherent clumsiness), and I decided to embark on a last night of freedom, complete with booze, venereal disease free prostitutes, and 70's hair band music, like a bachelor on the eve of his wedding day, one last stripper fuck before the dreaded monogamy of a legitimate gig: wife, kids, eco-friendly picket fence, and dog.

I was soon to become a black polyester suit, a peek of lace cupping my perky breasts, and high-gloss heels. The only person to acknowledge my boasted WPM, and superior skills in spreadsheet creation would be the office pervert, all while staring down at my dwarfed breasts. This was to be my uniform, to herald a professional's entrance, and the precursor to the mundane. I was scared shit-less.

[Side note: I never have understood the term "scared shit-less". One is so frightened that they cannot shit? I was unaware that fear dictated bowel movements.]

I tiptoed across the plush carpet of the stairs, craning my neck in suspicion to the four cardinal directions: north, south, east, west, (knowledge of cardinal directions made possible by the new T.I. song) and upon reaching the last step, made a mad dash for the CD collection, wedged in between looming forest green law books, clandestine nests for nudey mags. The two creative succubi stared up from their homespun macaroni n' cheese, but I only shook my head, a signal I was off-duty, no longer the go-to. The condensation from the bottle lapped at my palm, the other wrapped The Rolling Stones – sorry kiddos, but I am no longer mommy.

I sipped the beer and waited…no luck. Writing, the maid of honor, the notary of my very existence, was a no-show, a fraudulent RSVP. I entered into a vicious cycle of one-liners, fuck linked to –ing in place of an adjective. My bachelor party wasn't amounting to much – me, myself, and I guest list the cause. My characteristically bare legs glowed with reddened irritation from an earlier mock interview dress. The floor littered with the items. The night threatened to go unnoticed – a party dud.

The head hunter from the staffing agency had suggested I make a list of strengths to prepare for the final interview. I took her advice, only to waste some time before the stripper arrived of course. The pen wiggled in my fingers, I nibbled at my lip for nourishment.

My Microsoft skill level is proficient, below par in Excel. I managed to circumvent spreadsheet construction through my less-than-conventional college employment. I am organized, except for my closet and car, which I have come to blame on a freak twister that only ravaged my room, car, and then mysteriously folded back into the clouds. I have first-rate interpersonal skills, unless it is a douchebag, turned so by a pre-lunch-break hypoglycemic attack.

Well, I'm – umm… charming? I could charm the pants (or skirt) off of anyone, or at least their checking account. However, I do not perform acts of fallacio on females. If the interviewer happened to be a woman, I had no real strength to speak of. The lines of the paper taunted me with blank monkeys riding their backs. The only words read: "I'm nice".

A yawn and stretch. The notepad had found its way to the floor, inching to the heap of clothes in the middle, to ridicule over the water tank I presumed. My pesky grandmotherly sleeping habits had come to crash the party. Sleep was imminent. The low caffeine content iced tea licked by the two cold brews. There would be no unprotected sex, no "oh shit", and no streaking. I was ready for the adult life, my sleeping habits already there.

A Catholic-Jew

A purposeless and scope-less quasi-preface:

I have grown weary of my characteristic despondency, and my self-loathing is in hiatus. A temporary relapse from ex-boyfriend-provoked introspection has begotten a transient lucidity.

All are a direct result of my wandering Coldplay album: a selection of pirated tracks extracted from all albums known to be in existence, except Viva la Vida – explanation not necessary – and of my Itunes' mysterious "inoperability".

This is a happy blog. I'm riding a play-doh high baby – the perks of being a surrogate mother.

(Page break)

I went to a Bris – the naming not the cutting – for the Guatemalan adoptee of my lesbian step-aunts, a conversion to the faith that stakes a claim to all of the potential baby names highlighted in a thrift store buy "What to name your baby?" – Isaac, Joshua, and Abraham. I was the visiting Shiksah pinned in between the gregarious and now invalid McCain supporter Mohel and a shelf of African tribal masks. In the awkward silence born from covert jabs, disguised as humor, at Christianity and Islam respectively, the kosher brother of the faith managed to pierce my religious skepticism.

"In Judaism we believe that a good and righteous person, regardless of his/her faith, goes to heaven."

He had baited and hooked himself a heathen. A good person? Check. A righteous person? Check – err wait – am I? No bother. The odds for heaven are far greater within Judaism than within my previously ascribed faith. The ratio sin:repent is exorbitantly disproportionate and the omnipotent is aware. I do not engage in enough acts of repentance to balance, and subsequently gain entrance through the pearly gates.

When the silver and ornamented Kiddish cup sloshing with wine passed along the semi-circle, I refrained, from fear I would gulp more than the faith allotted amount, and because I was unsure of my right as an un-baptized albeit Catholic gentile. A slow to open smile and quick, Father, forgive me, for I almost sinned followed my cast down eyes.

He inserted an inconvenient joke about Ishmael, the illegitimate, yet almighty condoned son of Hagar and Abraham, and his adolescent circumcision as cause for the Judeo-Islam clash. I silently pondered the veracity of his earlier devout declaration.

What about hell? – And purgatory? – Limbo? To where do the un-baptized infants go? The questions threatened to verbalize. My disobedient hand shot up in the air pumped with Miracle Grow.

"Rabbi – umm Mohel, do Jews believe in hell?"

He scanned my loose black dress, tights, and army-green boots skimming the bottoms of my knees. Fortunately I left my cleavage and the 24k gold cross at home.

"Not really my child."

Weakened by the words "my child", remnants of past Sunday communions, I swooned with pious love. I am a girl-child perusing men for a father, an agnostic looking for faith. He looked upon me with new eyes; those reserved for hopeful converts, slipped his business card into my sweaty palm – Mohel, jeweler, and Rabbi – and jotted down the intersection of the nearest synagogue.

I decided to keep the card perched on my shelf of saints, next to Christopher, in front of Mary, and behind Joseph, for future consideration. I have been told that my chances of a Catholic wedding are improbable, and my parents would certainly appreciate a nice Jewish boy's request for my blasphemous hand.

Funeral home fetish

The silence isn't finished being awkward yet

I have an inane fascination, a compulsion ludicrous in its morbidity, and one of which I have spoken to only the few, the beneficiaries of my drunk-speak, or individuals in possession of the capacity for unconditional acceptance, but now to the masses – or the few misguided souls mistaking my words for excellence. [Note: I am still turned on by self-deprecation.]

I have a funeral home fetish – a preoccupation with death by extension, or perhaps the reverse.

Far from necrophilia, the sexually perverse may now disperse. Images of cold flesh, sans vigor, past from this life, do not titillate, nor do I wish to procreate in the plush satin of a coffin.

I am brimming with fixations – men, mental instability, and potato chips, to name a few, typical, eccentric, and mundane, a conundrum like their possessor. This noteworthy unsound fancy is the more interesting of the lot and worthy of exploration, or at least exploitation. Foot fetishists and enthusiasts of S & M need relief from their high ranking on the freak list; of the existence I am sure. I have come to deliver.

The seed of fascination self-fertilized in my soil at a tender age. It was an open casket viewing, placed in the arctic ground of Iowa, removed from civilization, with me, clad in black, kid gloves, and a rosary gripped tight, standing antsy in line, fussy, tapping my feet and picking nervously at my bottom lip. What does death look like I wondered? I was eaten alive by my innate curiosity. My bob coerced into place with hairspray, face scrubbed clean with strawberry soap, I was high from the combined scent, sniffing the air like a starved hound.

There was my late horizontal great-aunt. I posed beguiled above her, the made-up face, artificial curls in the thinning hair, the puckered flesh, the bible glued to her hands. I nosed the adhesive, my feet lifted from the floor, beating the air, my freckled cheek climbed to touch the powdered deceased version. My grandmother instinctively swatted the suspended backside and pointed to Jesus hanging crucified above. I stared sheepishly back. Shit. A quick sign of the cross and I jumped from the line to let the others obtain a ghoulish fix. The day closed by munchies, smoked weenies, celery, and pudding, scouting the caverns of the funeral home, crumbs trailed the click of my glossy shoes.

And so it began.

Funeral homes became a sense of satisfaction, not the carnal, but the emotional. Court approved weekend visits to my father's house were accompanied by a red stop light perpendicular to our local chain mortuary. I stared from my position in the backseat with nose stuck to the glass, fogging up the window to etch cool into the resulting film.

When my mother, with kid in tow, skipped states in search of higher ground and financial independence, I inquired at the local corner store for the Colorado equivalent, conveniently located two blocks from our borrowed living quarters. Snacking on allowance purchased candy I stood on the corner after-school watching the rare commotion, but mostly inventing its internal scenes. This was before I acquired new friends, whose after-school activities were deemed normal and more suitable for the healthy development of a young girl – or so my mother put it over take out Chinese.

Elated by a glimpse of freedom at sixteen, I abused my legal appointment as operator of a motor vehicle and 1991 Volkswagon to quench my unwholesome obsession at the Horan & McConaty family mortuary. My mother led evening inquisitions to determine the current status of my infatuation, but adept at lying I thwarted her questions with ease. I practiced my violin in plain view and ran up excessive phone bills for a cover. Upon discovery of a parent friendly boyfriend the obsession entered into remission.

Five years of almost sobriety (and counting) a recent relapse caused me to obtain a bootlegged copy of "Six Feet Under", now tucked underneath the mattress for the next. Aware of the location of the local funeral home, I take great pains to avoid its looming white walls. I attend the meetings (with myself of course) and document my daily urges. The road to recovery is painted with the living.

I am under the guise of normalcy now.

Fuck you Lucy

This is for all the artists who know that work is just a drop in the ocean

but do it anyway, hopin.

With two eyes made into clefts, a soporific body hangs listless over the porcelain edge; a perverse hand uncurls, one digit leading the next, and reaches for the bathtub knob. Sounds of the holiday morning deafen transient chimerical images: the twins, the snap of sizzling butter, and the intervals between tantrums. I turn the knob to the left, it yawns; hot water spews from the rusted faucet in choked gurgles. It sputters, it falters, a warning to the mortal user.

Good Morning, are you sure you want to go there? I reply yes.

The bathroom is devoured by the progeny of hot water and a closed door. My back against a sea-green, Miami reminiscent wall, head back, condensed air tiptoe on my exposed not-yet-brushed tongue, limbs tucked under a childhood blanket, or "booby", I decompress.

I feel a twinge of guilt, an itch in the middle of my back, unreachable by furious scratching. We're still running out of water right? But I excuse. This pseudo-sauna is my own peculiar, non-environmentally friendly, but still efficient, form of self-medication – mental health board approved, no alcohol, drugs, or promiscuity required eco-group boycotted therapy.

This year I do not like Thanksgiving Day, apart from the accessibility to calories, which serves a dual purpose: an accelerant for cardiac arrest and epicenter for comfort. All years prior, Thanksgiving was acceptable, stuffing, moderately enjoyable company, and whipped cream. An uncle of mine has been spiking my cranberry juice since the time of training bras.

This twelvemonth I am reminded of the infamous turkey day 2007, a day to taint its predecessors.

I slept undisturbed on the couch, walled in by Adobe, and subdued by the carnivorous smells drifting in from the back door, the barely audible shuffle of slipper clad feet stuck onto the limbs of my then soul mate, now defunct. I awoke to the weight of him joined to my back, his uneven breathing in my hair, resin and smoke, the slow pulse in his wrist beating against my forearm, and the fire alarm. We dined on slightly burnt turkey and locally brewed beer harnessed in frosted mugs – my contribution, his teachings.

This time around both heart and stomach are caged in his clenched fist, bleeding, pulsing, and oozing. I will undoubtedly find relief in the celery and cheese dip – a vegetarian evening on the mend.

My uncle from the other side (sobriety not sponsorship) took me out for an independent artsy-fuck film last night at the Chez Artiste. It was called "I've loved you so long". Admittedly, I was enthralled with the title albeit the narrative was between two sisters; I saw it as fitting for pre-Thanksgiving torture. We sat in the decrepit seats, defeated by their battle with age, and sipped Dasani water. My local conspiracy theorist has warned me about the hazardous amounts of Lithium in tap water. This health hazard might actually work to my benefit. I am a still undiagnosed Bipolar-Borderline Personality Disorder-Neurotic.

A wave of nausea crept up from the red fabric of the seats. I thought of all that still needs to be completed, or begun – the screenplay, the quasi-autobiographical novel, the Vanity Fair article, and the occasional obituary. My stomach threatened to force its contents against gravity. I rushed to the restroom and crouched over the toilet with eyes closed; in fear the toilets shared the same birth date as the theatre.
In the coolness of the bowl, my sickness subsiding, I saw myself standing on the stage before a modest amount of people, the bright lights blinding, with knees shaking and the smell of vomit pooling to my side.

I address the crowd: Ladies and gentleman welcome to my world, step inside my head. Please feel free to look around; touch, and even lick what you may find. My mind is your temple.

The theatre goers shift awkwardly in their seats and shoot uncomfortable horizontal gazes. The conforming normal folk are weeded out, the critics scribble notes for ridicule, but the appreciators of the mundane and strange remain, a piece of me wired in them, a piece of them floating in the product of my nerves. I scurry offstage to resume involuntary regurgitation. The whole we are all one bit complete.

One might say the missing ingredient and the root of my nausea is motivation, and the lack thereof. So instead of preening my ego with you, I'm going to go celebrate a dysfunctional Thanksgiving, and write love poems to my now obsolete soul mate on paper napkins adorned with pumpkins and leaves. Perhaps ambition will doodle its way in between.

You say you sick of me and I say I'm sick of you but we're crazy about eachother

Live fast bleed slow

[Editor's note: This is not a pity blog, nor is it a disguised plea for virtual empathy. I do not need, nor do I want, benevolence, but a one-sided conversation with you is all I ask, a cathartic ego trip. This will be self-deprecation at its finest. Commiseration is always welcome. Thanks.]

The only thing I do right is write (clever, but grammatically incorrect) and even that is not always exact. There exists a substantial amount of proof to the contrary of that statement, including, but not limited to, the episodes when I write complete and utter shit, the kind of word mash-up that compels me to question my role here on planet Earth; the previously thought literary role turns pornographic. Jenna Jameson and her deluge of drones were put here for good reason.

And now an examination of the aforesaid statement:

I am terrible in monogamous or committed relationships, or any combination of the two. I lie, cheat, and steal – figurative theft that is. For testimonials please see ex-boyfriends. The malfunction during said monogamous and committed relationships is a direct result of the red snakeskin suitcase immutably stuck to my right hand.

I carry baggage, and not a good extra-load, the infamous junk-in-my-trunk, or the ex-boyfriend purchased puppy, of which I now have joint custody. My junk is a contender in the mental health arena.

I come from a long line of crazy bitches, both male and female, the prodigal daughter of the prototypical dysfunctional family – anxiety stricken neurotics and middle-aged peeping Toms. Thus, I never do relationships justice. To my credit, I do seasonal flings and holiday lovers very well.

I am not a paragon for daughterhood. Yesterday I used a collection of both four and five letter words during conversation with my mother. This particular choice of words caused my auditory-sensitive mother to cringe and later blame my smutty lexicon on my father, which consequentially led to a tearful reminiscence of the time he sat on our family parakeet Dick. Aversive to tears I attempted escape, but a barrage of loving insults had already begun in the fleeting silence between hiccups.

It was of course the tattoos, ex-piercing(s), that God-awful rap music, the flying of the coop, only to return graduated and in debt, but without the possession of a legal gig, a 9-5 with benefits and a 401k. Lastly, it was the time I told her I was going to inmprison her in a retirement home as soon as she reached the minimum age requirement. As I reached the doorframe she turned my back with an inclusion of her recent discoveries: the condom in my purse, lube, and the immodest photos on my camera. In addition to a lineage of mental instability, I also descend from snoops.

I am not a functioning adult. My naivety and child-like face inhibit my capacity to do so. I do not have a television set in my room (subject to change), and so the news clippings I receive come from the MSN homepage, NPR, when reception allows, and my more politically aware cohorts. The lack of both technology and motivation are the precipitating factors for my world news ignorance. Of late I have begun a routine of news watching while shuffling shoeless around the kitchen, imitating news anchors and considering a life as a TV personality, similar to that of the attractive brunette on the OnDemand menu.

An incessant curiosity further inflames the suspicion of my naïvety, and especially to those on the receiving end of my questions. The recipient hears seemingly obvious questions and sees an adolescent face peering quizzically back. I am a real-life Peter Pan.

I would like to engage in self-deprecation for awhile longer, as it is both humbling and cathartic in its self-abuse, but I know there must be those readers frustrated by what I label my "inadequacies" – Like drugs users, ex-cons, and prostitutes. Instead I will return to the accepting wafer-thin arms of my paperback and count my blessings that I have never been in rehab, committed a federal offense, or taken sex for money. That would be a whore, and I prefer the term slut.