A Semi-truthful Story of a Half-breed

“You love the people that love you.”

 I read a marticle last night – the title “marticle” a result of my newfound political correctness, a correctness I gathered while speaking with my Washington D.C. intern friend; he awoke in me an awareness of my vulgar speak, and unintentional overuse of “loaded words.”  My political correctness now extends into the social network arena. I have come to favor the term “marticle” (slang for Myspace article) for my daily creative expressions of bullshit over the now extinct “blog.”

The author of the marticle enlisted the services of a word I had long forgotten, and one for which I hold a great fondness – and that is half-breed. I will momentarily ditch my political correctness in order to explain the term half-breed, and how, my fellow half-breeds, I became one myself.

Half-breed is a term used to describe anyone who is half of one race and half of another.

I am half white-trash and half illegal immigrant.  Twenty-two years ago my mother, herself self-proclaimed white-trash, met a man by the name of Anthony, nicknamed “Ant.” I still chuckle over the irony in the given name of Ant for a son of illegal immigrants.  I hope that my fellow American readers, and those foreigners well informed on American politics, can too see this irony, and enjoy a hearty chuckle at my expense. Their brief 1984 union produced an 8lb baby on the morning of August 18^th  who they subsequently named Marissa after they witnessed the crying display of her father’s dark genetic footprint. If I had  been born with my mother’s Arian looks, then I was to be Emma. That is not to imply that the names Marissa or Emma distinguish dark from light. It was the reasoning of my young parents, not my far superior college educated self.

The author of the previously mentioned marticle also discussed his feelings of neglect being born a half-breed, and his childhood inability to successfully blend into one color or the other, but instead forced to be the sand colored crayon young color book-age kids leave with the dust bunnies and cat hair under the couch. I can relate to this quarantine in the middle, neither side fully accepting my impure blood. My father’s Mexican family poked the skin of my pale limbs and imitated my poor skills in their native language of Spanish. I must give a quick shout-out to my Nina, who covered my half-breed body with spf30 during the intense heat of California summers, and bestowed  upon me the title of “mija,” the only girl in the family to receive such an honor. My mother’s family of rednecks watched a dark flash darting in between the fair heads of my cousins on holiday celebrations; my unruly curls and big eyes frightening their neighbors.

On order from the powers that be I have been asked to differentiate between the terms redneck and white trash. Let us get our anti-politically correct words straight shall we? I use them interchangeably, but apparently this is a grave mistake on my part. However, I supplied them with my birth certificate and a blood sample, as it turns out my bloodline allows for such improper use. I must also add that the term redneck is most often used by and with Southerners, and not us Yankee folk, but I have presented to the authorities my forged creative license, and thus my misuse has been temporarily allowed.

Yearly trips to Tijuana and Greeley contributed the environmental factor needed to complete the now adult half-breed my genes dictated, and I stand today as a testament to the need for a federal law to ban such mixed breeding, accidental or intentional. Actually, last I checked dark hair, pale skin, and a hacked understanding of Spanish is cool. At least that is what my boyfriend tells me when I am experiencing a level 4 freak-out, a direct consequence of my excessive amour-propre (intelligence bomb), or insecure nature – whichever you prefer – after counting the ever growing number of freckles on my skin.

Scene: A mid-July afternoon in Southern California three adolescents bask in the heat of the day, picking bugs from their knees, tracing circles in the sweat pooling on their bare stomachs, and sipping glasses of lemonade.

Jeremiah: (the eldest cousin) Do you know you are a half-breed?

Marissa: (the naive 12-year old) What is that?

Daniel: (the younger dirty faced brother) It means you are not like us.

(A distant voice yells from the house “Mija”)

Marissa: (the scrawny girl stands with both middle fingers in the air) Fuck off.

And that was the day the younger version of myself used her first f word, and discovered its blissful payoff.

 

 

 

 

I looked 'round, and I knew there was no turning back

"They feel I don't deserve them, cuz their friends say I'm worthless -- inappropriately portrayed in my words."

It was 6:00PM on a Tuesday evening; disproportionate heat enveloped my partially dressed body sitting cross legged on the floor of my room, where I futilely fanned myself with July's T-Mobile bill. I had drawn a circle around my seated figure -- made of next month's bills and love letters from Wells Fargo. Enclosed in my spherical debt I organized a vanity contest to judge who was most deserving of my money. Wells Fargo used an obnoxious font in their cover letter; T-Mobile did not include my middle name when addressing, and student loans: they have a policy of deferment. And so, it was judged that there was no winner – the prize money to be donated to the BCH charity (booze, clothes and hair). Money woes tend to kick-start my junk food hankerings, and in less than five minutes my seat belt was securely fastened – boiled air blowing through the open windows, a pilfered Annie Lennox album thumping through the speakers.

I pulled into the gas station parking lot at approximately 6:20PM with thoughts of chocolate and Gatorade (considered junk food when you are the antonym of an athlete). I ruffled through my oversized bag for coins and fugitive dollar bills. In my rearview mirror I could see a woman yelling and gesturing rapidly to what appeared to be a dark-haired skinny 10-year old girl. The woman was shaking her daughter's arm and moving her lips rapidly. I tried unsuccessfully to decipher the message filtering through her hideously frosted pink lips. My fascination with body language now proved itself a necessary survival skill, which I always knew it to be. Through close observation (of the why don't you take a picture it will last longer family), I was able to re-construct the events leading to the verbal punishment. The girl had apparently stepped in a puddle. Where the water had come from I do not know – we are in a drought here folks. The mother was now scolding her for ruining her white sneakers, and for what I presume to be her carelessness. I stared down at my own brown tinted sneakers.

(AC/DC's "Back in Black" comes on – playing from an unknown origin.)

Out steps my alter-ego Betty, wearing hot pink shorts, half of her small ass hanging out the bottom, a red and yellow bathing suit top, dark sunglasses, and dirty sneakers. She walks, no she strides, over to the mother and daughter duo.

"Pardon me ma'am," Betty removes her sunglasses. The woman glares at Betty's long legs, the tattoo crawling up her stomach, the lousy attempt at cleavage, her dirty sneakers, wild hair, and thick eyeliner.

"What?" A pair of cold blue eyes stares back at Betty.

Betty spits to the side of one heeled foot, picks a wedgie from her round pink butt, "You know my mother used to talk to me like that." "So?" The mother pushes a thick strand of $100 highlights to the side.

"Well, you wouldn't want her to end up like me would you?" And with those words Betty smashes her dirty sneakers into the puddle, splashing the woman's nylons with a mixture of water, oil, and filthy revenge. The little girl looks up with a smile. She doesn't have to say it, but Betty knows what she is thinking: I want to look just like that when I grow up. Betty slides her sunglasses back on, snaps her gum, and walks into the convenience store for a candy bar, fruit punch Gatorade, and cigarettes.

(The soundtrack returns to its original tiresome score.)

In case it was not obvious, Betty is me, but with balls. I did in fact witness such a blatant spectacle of anal mothering, but I chose to play this additional scene – starring Betty – out in my imagination, and in the safety of my two-door Honda. If it can be any consolation I was wearing Betty's wardrobe, but with my boyfriend's ripped Rolling Stones t-shirt for that extra look of riffraff.

When I picture myself as a mother (I shudder), I envision my son and I speeding down the highway, listening to classic rock 'n' roll -- some hip hop mixed in for culture -- the wind blowing, and my son bobbing his fro head to the beat. Perhaps, when I have matured I will see a SUV, an Ipod full of children's music, and air-conditioning, but until that sad day let Betty rock on her mission to prevent a future of uptight, clean sneaker wearing, puddle avoiding robots.

I returned home at 6:40PM. This was my question to my own mother:

How does one go from -- "welcome to the jungle, it gets worse here everyday, learn to live like an animal" – to soccer games, PTA meetings, and G-Rated movies?

She had no answer, but instead chose to call me a selfish twenty-something. I yelled a "hell yeah" and sang the the lyrics to "Thunderstruck" up the stairs.

"You know where you are? You're in the jungle baby."

What is a pansy?

"Once upon a time, a long time ago, before I lost my mind, I was good, I was fine, I was faithful. Now I'm crazy, and I'm lost, and I hate you."

I had a knock-down, drag-out, cat fight with my writing last night. I threw insults, she threw them back, I slapped her, she pulled my hair, I stepped on her toes, and she bit both of my index fingers. I stormed out of the room, slammed the door behind my stunted rear, and yelled one last "fuck you!" I blew off some of my sobriety induced rage pacing the front porch, watching my neighbors drive into the cul-de-sac, returning from their 9-5 careers to re-visit the familiar pull into the driveway, and greet their snot faced kids. I was scared, and I needed her to comfort. I returned to the bedroom twenty minutes later with a Fat Tire, frosted beer mug, and apologetic face. I said "I'm sorry baby." She responded with an exhausted "I forgive you," let me rest my head in her lap, stroked the ends of my hair, and rubbed the tips of my fingers. I even let her have the first sweet sip of my beer, with just a taste of the head – the perfect sip – and I gave it to her.

I have tried to take my leave from my romance with writing several times, and always returned with head hung low, eyes misty, to accept more of her abuse, and reply with a meek "thank you, may I have another?" Most people, and especially us sensitive pansies, know self-abuse, and our cowardly return to its prick.

Self-abuse: reproach or blame of oneself (I thought I would add that self-abuse is also a woman).

I will write Freud tonight as to why I attach a female gender to so many things in my life, or perhaps a séance (I will buy the cigars) -- but I digress. I often say that individuals do not need self-abuse, that it will only make for a miserable life riddled with alcohol, prescription drugs, and insanity, as Hunter Thompson so eloquently put it, but alas, we do. After a night of repeated abuse, the sensitive side of us emerges wearing a canary yellow t-shirt that reads "I love my mommy," and we are once again able to produce. Is that only me? Most of my writing follows a night of self-abuse, spent curled in the fetal position, listening to Portishead, and whispering "I hate myself" in between tearful animal moans. Actually, this is not true. I do not moan.

I must distinguish between the self-abuse to which I refer, and the kind to which my Psychology text books refer. The self-abuse I so candidly discuss, and for which I will accept all forms of ridicule, is of a mental quality. There is no actual physical abuse, that is unless you count the alcohol, and then we can call them equals. But if we remove the added substance abuse, then self-abuse becomes a mental jumping, with five men/women throwing their best at you. I think it is time to change the subject. I fully plan on being the wife of a future American president, and I do not wish for my mental health to become political gossip. I foresee a divorce if my husband should lose the presidency because of his wife's unstable blogs, and just think of the other side's political commercials.

"Who wants a candidate with a self-abuser for a wife?"
(Paid for by my conservative business friends)

If I had Photoshop I would supply interesting and revealing photos to supplement my words, but I own an outdated Dell, and so mental images will have to do. Most look better naked in our imaginations anyway.

How about religion? On the bus this morning I read an article in National Geographic about Abraham, you know the patriach of Judiasm, Islam, and Christianity. I just did what I like to call an "intelligence bomb." This is when someone wants to make it known that they are smart, and that they do, read, and say smart things. In all truth, I usually sit in my imagination and play in the sand box with a red plastic shovel.

As I read through the article I found myself with tears in the corners of my eyes. I quickly wiped them before they could ruin my flawless eyeliner job. There is something about religion I wish I would have grabbed onto. During my childhood, I went to Mass on Sundays (unbaptized as I was), said my prayers at night, and listened to my superstitious grandmother explain the Saints, but I never grabbed it by the leg and held on. I don't have the faith for it. But on the bus this morning I found myself fighting the tap of the world to cry (see link), and the urge to fall to my knees and beg for mercy. Instead, I continued the article with sheer determination, and blamed my whimpers on the monthly cycle. I will name my first-born son Isaac, find religion when I am close to death, and call it even.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bFF13O7MaIo

Dear Father, forgive me for I have sinned.

Prescription Drugs

"I wouldn't recommend sex, drugs, or insanity for everyone, but they've always worked for me."
- Hunter S. Thompson

My favorite simile: Listening to Reggae is like popping a Xanax. My second favorite simile: Listening to the song "Lolipop" by Weezy is like reading erotic fiction. I spent the last five minutes trying to properly distinguish between a metaphor and simile, because it is so much easier to live your life by the motto: spelling is sexy.

Xanax (Alprazolam): is a short-acting drug of the benzodiazepine class used to treat moderate to severe anxiety disorders, panic attacks, and as an adjunctive treatment for anxiety associated with clinical depression.

Wik-a, wik-a, wikipediaaaa.

For those who have never experienced the effects of Xanax: please do so only under the supervision of me -- sharing is caring. I do not advocate the improper use of prescription drugs, and I will not be held liable for the future addicts reading my blogs.

Fine Print: Although I do not have a prescription for Xanax myself, and I choose to steal from the family medicine cabinet, does not mean that you should as well. Prescriptions are for pansies. Actually, I am only kidding. Do not steal or buy off market Xanax, and if you choose to sue me, I will sick my team of lawyers on your sedated ass.

I have taken this drug a total of twice, and both times were for legitimate reasons (legit). They were used to treat the F5 of freak outs. Levels 1-3 can be treated with masturbation or alcohol, level 4 requires a significantly higher amount of alcohol, and masturbation, but level 5 requires Xanax theft from the medicine cabinet.

I discovered yesterday (Sunday) while experiencing a level 4 freak out, with no open liquor stores, a dry downstairs bar, empty Xanax bottle, and an occupied boyfriend, that in times of drought reggae can be used in place of alcohol and Xanax. I should note that I had not yet reached level 5, which in that case would have required frantic phone calls to all known drug dealers ( unfortunately there are not many). I sat atop an orange pillow, legs crossed, facing the window -- in full freak out mode (it is not as Shining-esque as it may seem). In my desperation for sedation I skipped down the stairs wild eyed and frizzy haired, and combed through the family music collection for a Black Uhuru album. I looked around suspiciously, and finding no one in sight ran, and subsequently fell, the flight of stairs to my bedroom, locked the door, and put the album in my cd player (what the hell is that?). The muscles in my arms and legs began to relax, and my head filled with mini David's to stone the bastard Goliath on the war path (thank you Catholicism). Once the album had finished I was horizontal, calm, and far removed from the danger zone. In a state of tranquility I floated to my desk bobbing my head and swaying my hips, and found Lil Wayne's Myspace page present amongst the numerous Internet Explorer windows still open. What I thought: what harm could a sample of "lolipop" do?

What I learned: plenty. My head bobs and hips sways mutated into a heavy panting and frantic heartbeating monster. Damn Weezy and his dirty descriptions of fornication. I was at first ashamed to admit my absurd obsession with the song, but then I realized that on a primitive level, escaped from the inhibitive ego, we all desire for it to be sex, and not love or baby making. I spent the next thirty minutes scrolling through my itunes for auditory porn.

I awoke this morning (after ten hours of sleep) groggy, but relatively mellow. I say relatively because after ten hours of limited bodily functioning, what more can one feel? I like to use the excuse: "gosh, my body must have really needed that," when I have slept for more than the usual eight hours. I poked my braided head out the window to gather the morning Tamarisk (parent's housing development) news, and who did I see? No, not Jose the gardener, or Jennifer the cleaning lady, but Fred the dog poop scoop man.

http://www.petscoopservices.com/

I took the time to look up this Colorado Company in case you should need the valuable service, or as an amusing way in which you too can combat your own Monday blues, sans Xanax. They have a very user friendly chart that displays their prices, and I must say that they are very reasonable. I always thought I was too selfish and irresponsible for a pet, but now with poop services offered, training classes available – your presence not required – and dog psychologists, there is no way for me to screw up my dog, that is unless I forget to feed it. PETA has me on their blacklist.

And in closing I would like to share a dream I had last night, as I find it pertinent to online junkies such as ourselves, and to the new breed of online language evolving. In the dream I made a list of online lingo and their equivalent punishments if they should be used. I will now replicate the list for you.

LOL = two sucker punches
OMG = three kicks to both shins
OMFG = only two kicks to both shins
TTYL = one raspberry on each forearm

*All punishment to be dispensed by me.*

There are more that make up this e-language, but they hide from my rod of punishment behind the curtains of social networks. Would you be as kind to share the ones of which you know?

Did you know?

"You say it's in all in my head, and the things I think just don't make sense."

Marshmallows (not the mini colored ones) dipped in a bowl of Dreyer's half-melted chocolate ice cream – the organic treatment for depression. Unfortunately depression is often coupled with a lack of appetite, and thus I have not finished the dessert a la coronary. Lil' Wayne's Myspace page is up in the background of my computer screen, with his new song "Lolipop"(which is actually spelled lollipop, but I forgive) pumping through my speakers, which emit only a muffled version. I am hoping that the calories will travel south to my rear end to battle over for who can contribute the most to its growth. I want the butt featured in many rappers' rhymes. I suppose bigger breasts come in a close second, but I will eat enough for both to swell. Chocolate ice cream and marshmallows beat out nine months of pregnancy in the race for lovely lady lumps.

"But man I never seen an ass like err." And thank you Dwayne Michael Carter Jr.

Masturbation can also combat depression – an organic treatment for the weight conscious. I cannot imagine why, but I have been told that there are some women who desire a runway model's butt. What is that you ask? I do not know. I can never seem to spot one. At least I am not too serotonin deficient to crack jokes. Since I took a vacation day yesterday, I shall fill you in on what you might have missed in the department of naked confessions. I want to bring back the dying Roman numeral to help highlight the most important points of an unimportant day.

I. I received a slap on my wrist by my grandmother for using the Lord's name in vain.

II. I told her that I already had my place reserved in hell, or limbo, whichever is reserved for unbaptized babies. Yes folks, that's right, I have recently learned that I was in fact not baptized. I think they forged my records in order to get me into catechism classes.

III. I had two popsicles for breakfast, and was then promptly lectured by my boyfriend on eating "properly." I honestly thought this morning's meal classified as bragging rights.

IV. I drove home from school with windows down, and sang loud and out of tune lyrics to Ben Harper's "Live from Mars" album.

V. I decided to take a break from writing at midnight, only to be confronted with a closed McDonalds! Shameful.

Well, that sums up my Friday, apart from the secret missions I took part in, those I cannot reveal. This is an "online diary," but I am a CIA operative, and I can keep secrets for the sake of my country. This morning I took a bath, said my favorite four letter word a total of five times, and was asked by my mother if I was in my room popping anti-depressants. I told her yes. Since the theme of today's blog seems to be the random and unimportant, I present the "Did You Know" show with your host, the sexy Susie Q.

The "Did You Know" show with the sexy Susie Q.

Did you know that Christian Bale, also known as one Batman, is married?

In conversation with my mother's friend Lou Anne* Mr. Bale's name was mentioned, and she said "You know Marissa; I don't think Christian Bale is married." As if I could just call his mobile and ask him out for a date. But alas, this fine specimen of a man is in fact married. He politely turned me down.

Did you know that Megan Fox is engaged?

Tears have been wept over this news in all of the developed countries worldwide. I even read on Perez Hilton's page that tears have also been shed in the developing countries of the world. Actually, I do not read his gossip column. I am sophisticated as shit.

Lastly, did you know that the girl I hated during my post-high school days is engaged?

Is that not important? Oh, but it is, that is one less woman on the market of the average income unknowns.That concludes the Did You Know Show with the beautiful Susie Q. Please join us next week for more senseless gossip and Susie's fabulous ass. Maybe this is all old news for you lot, but I don't get out much.

I am one who rewards patience. My first boyfriend waited patiently for 364 days, and on the night of the 365th day he was rewarded with my virginity. I will now reward you all for your patience, that is for those of you still reading, and not for those who have left Myspace in search of Megan Fox and Christian Bale Google photos, the Kleenex box, and cooking oil.

Can you Guess who is writing a book? That would be me and all of the other wannabe writers populating this country. My plan is to out-curse them all, and win the hearts of the readers with my inventory of white trash proverbs, and unrefined sense of humor. It will be a blog first, that will then hatch into a book when I send in the manuscript seven months pregnant, and after being denied government welfare benefits. It will be an exaggerated auto-biography, for my childhood was not interesting enough for publishing, but with a stretch of the truth we will have: The Childhood Every Writer Should Have Had. As long as I don't lie about my child abuse and drug use Opera will have me on her book list soon.

My theory is that a certain type of childhood produces a great writer, and one that can be modeled with future generations. I have not researched my theory, I have not formulated a hypothesis, nor have I found statistical significance to support; instead, I decided that exaggeration and no claims to the truth are the only way in which to proceed. I do not like cautious treading, and I never clean the mud off my shoes.

It will double as a parenting book for ambitious parents who eventually come to live vicariously through their children.

* Names have been changed because I now know that my address is listed on the internet.

"Now she only fools around with losers with tattoos."

Ramblings of an Addict

"And me just another sunken dream trying to deal with it calmly"

You weren't expecting me today? I know. I was not supposed to be sat in a corner of Starbucks sipping a "shaken passion fruit iced tea" (unsweetened) writing another nude (well, not quite nude) confession, but here I am – with pink tea, water marked journal, and large unhip laptop. After I have rambled for a sufficient amount of time, I will reveal the reason behind my blogging on a day reserved for other meaningless and non-contributory tasks – such as Google binges, Maxim surfing, Myspace refreshing, and Starbuck's barista staring.

But let the rambling begin.

This morning as I shoveled a spoonful of semi-soggy cheerios into my mouth, and brooded over a Stephen King novel my step-dad had given me, (traitor) my mom says to me through sips of her cream diluted coffee, "You do know you're NOT going to be the next Stephen King right?" The high pitched tone of the question mark scratches at the inside of my ears.

I looked up, dumbfounded, my mouth full of half-chewed cheerios, and mumbled, "No shit," as skim milk dribbled down my chin. I turned my attention down to the stack of google grammar lessons next to my bowl, and to the proper use of the semi-colon and comma.

My step-dad gave me a Stephen King novel, whose title I cannot recall – a direct result of my meager 5 ½ hours of sleep last night -- as a token of his appreciation in my new "writing interest." Oh silly parents. It has taken them years to catch on to my "interests," and one can do nothing but smile and shake their heads at the lack of perception on the part of parents. I would not allow the novel to sleep in my room with me last night, despite its pleading, but instead insisted it sleep on the ledge outside of my locked door. I set it gently down on the ledge, clapped my hands with a "well, that is that," and blew its front cover a goodnight kiss.

As I curled in my bed to attempt slumber, covered in a damp film of sweat, I began to think of all the things in the world that scare me, and of the strange nightly rituals I engage in to relieve my anxiety over these fears. Stephen King ability bordering on pathological to write horror stories had driven my mind to the things that go bump in the night.

Ritual 1: Poke head under bed each night four times, or if that magical number should be interrupted, then in multiples of four – 8, 12, 16. One must be sure that there is no boogy man underneath their bed, or any other man for that matter.

Ritual 2: Check closets for monsters and promptly lock them in.

Ritual 3: Open shower curtain and check for ax-murderers socializing by the water plug.

Ritual 4: Look outside of both windows for ladders.

Four rituals may seem excessive, but they used to number higher than four, and only with time, maturity, and sex was I able to hogtie my fears. I did not want to scare the potential orgasm with a series of odd check and lock rituals.

And now for the part where I tell you why I have dumped my day off for a less attractive and mentally abusive blog. Following each envious stare of whipped cream topped Starbucks drinks I engage in the process of creating my new blog. I cannot reveal to you the idea behind it, for I possess paranoid tendencies, and I fret that some amoral soul will steal my brilliancy and bottle it in a tube for study. I cannot have my secrets revealed; so you must excuse my paranoia, and suffer along with me through the new experimental treatments.

Ladies – are you feeling moisture in between your legs? (I shudder – the word moist should be removed from the English language).

Gentleman – perverts.

I have no release date yet; I suffer from procrastination as well as paranoia, and I cannot determine its due date. I have yet to identify the date of conception, although I do have my suspicions.

The idea for the new blog came about this morning as I brushed my teeth, and daydreamed about the perks of being famous. I can tell you that the discounts on plastic surgery came first to mind.

"I had my boobs done by Dr. Schmoo from the Loo Clinic on Poo Blvd in Hollywood."

My raw and reckless blog idea is being cultivated by a friend of mine who is much wiser in the ways of writing than I. I have promised to surrender my next booze binge for research. This research will step out of the Google and Wikipedia arena. Expect only the finest.

Question: If you were a member of the opposite sex who would you be?

We're Headin Out West for the Gold

On July 22, 2008, when the clock struck high noon, the sheriff stood in the center of the town square -- her horse ropes in one hand and pistol gripped in the other. The barrel of her gun read “blog it baby.” The dust blew up around; she eye balled the people gathered around with one wild eye, spat, and scrubbed the dirt with the toe of her boot. She was refusing to relinquish her title as Blog sheriff, and held the gold badge in between her clenched Crest-strips whitened teeth.

"I aint givin it up!" She mumbled, wildly pointing the pistol in all directions.

A wave of whispers breaks.

The sheriff spun around untamed, pointing her long index finger, she hurled drunken obscenities at the four cardinal points.

To the North she cried, "I aint passin it along ya hear me?"
To the South she raged, "It's all mine bitches."
To the West she lowered her voice to an eerie growl, "You'll be mighty sorry."
And to the East she spotted a young lady hiding her face behind an umbrella, putting both hands on her hips, the sheriff cooed, "Well I know you like me darlin' don't ya?"

The sheriff uncorked her flask and took a long swig -- keeping her one wild eye open for movement, she wiped her mouth on the corner of her sleeve, "Now Goddamn that is good."

The crowd began to advance on the mad sheriff. Inch by inch they pushed forward their heels into the circle carved out with her boot. The smell of whiskey and drugstore perfume snaked into their nostrils as they approached.

"I said get!" The sheriff fired a shot of warning into the afternoon sky. The bullet sailed into the belly of a lone bird flying home to the nest with dinner for its young; it thumped to the ground, feathers scrambling for space with the dust.

"Ah well damn, now I feel bad."

Later, after hours of rambling, fired shots, and whiskey spilling, the sheriff was reprimanded, handcuffed, and tossed into a jail cell to sleep it off. The night passed with songs, a sprinkling of added curse words, and delusions of grandeur.

Attention: Yesterday’s declaration of “I’m stupid” has now been validated by this man. I debated giving the link; for fear that all those who read my blog would jump ship, but I won the argument -- after locking the twins in the closet with a broom stick.

I read his latest blog. Giddy with my soon to be written response of wit, I donated twenty minutes of my allotted study time to formulating an intelligent response, spelling and grammar check, and back patting. I then read the responses below and above mine, and retracted all three of my back pats. I have been humbled by this man – a frequent occurrence for me, as I am often humbled by other authors of blogs, and if I take a moment to reflect, all other forms of literature. I marvel over the research many individuals embark on to write their blogs, whereas I chose to use wikipedia and dictionary.com, and if it cannot be found in either of those, then it does not find its way into my blog.

His name is “Christopher (searches for intelligent people),” and in my humility I have changed my name to: Maverick (do not look here).

As I scrolled through his blogs, post-test that is (results will reflect my lack of studying), I was reminded of another young, and seemingly very intelligent, gentleman in my summer course. I do not know the name of this man, but I have been made aware of his intelligence, and my lack thereof. During lecture he brings up topics of which I have never heard – which provokes a glazed look to cloud my eyes -- makes articulate remarks, and engages the professor, while I merely excite him, and that might be pushing the envelope. It’s back for another round.

I am alerted of my intelligence level when I see advertisements for online IQ tests or read Stephen King’s collection of short stories. I received a message alert regarding my intelligence level this morning on the bus when I glanced to my left and noticed a woman reading a Stephen King novel. In my jealousy I did not bother to notice the title of the work; I only pushed air out of my lips, fluttered my now telescopic eyelashes, and thought of Mr. King’s breasts.

Many discuss matters of great importance in their blogs, debate the workings of society, and analyze the state of our economy, healthcare, and environment. I discuss masturbation, my ego, and gingers. Once again I have been left in the void of inconsistency; where I will sit on my lawn chair, and sip strawberry daiquiris with plastic swords hanging from my teeth, until my knight in shining armor comes to lift me from my ignorance.

Actually being a closet feminist has allowed for me come to a final conclusion: I will not wait for a man to lift me from my ignorance, for I will instead gather the rope, the spike toed shoes, my stainless steel canteen, and rock climb that son of a bitch. Tonight I will read the newspaper, discuss political matters with my parents, and read scholarly journals.

Ta ta!

(Pause)

Is that the goodbye of the intelligentsia, or that of the high maintenance country club wife?

Dr. Horton Hears a Who

I fought with my therapist's $300 loafers today. Just for the smell of it, I let his $90 co-pay linger under his nose; I watched the twitching nose itch with greed, and when a sneeze was looming, I pulled the check from underneath the jungle of nose hairs. I tore it into hundreds of small pieces and threw them in the air – to dance underneath the confetti as I hummed AC/DC's Back in Black. I tap danced out of his third story office into the loving arms of my unstable mental health. I drove home with the windows down to let my perfectionist's combed hair knot into a state of madness, and now here I sit gorging on birthday cake and Coors light – the only FDA approved relief.

The scuffle with the Dr. Horton followed a muttering of two blacklisted words: I'm Stupid.

My therapist thumped his round fist on the table and cried "Lord Almighty woman." The sweat dripped from his forehead and cheeks; sinking into the scooped pool of his neck, his glasses fogged, and the women in the front fanned their perspiring faces whispering "Sweet Jesus." Wait – I think I have confused my childhood minister with my therapist. Religion and Psychiatry – the winning combination to bliss. If only I could muster some discipline and subscribe to both; I would have no need for the laptop, impending carpel tunnel, and resulting addiction.

I should say before I continue that I do not in all truth have a therapist. If this frightens you – that they would allow someone like myself to roam these streets unchained - please remember: Coronas are on sale at least once a week at the local liquor store. I cannot afford a $90 co-pay, and so my therapy is something of the unconventional type, a long neck bottle and Muddy Waters album. Dr. Horton is the union of my little sister's Dr. Seuss book and my Theory of Personality professor - - a native of New York with a permanent tan and strong affection for himself.

I did however call myself stupid and gorge on leftover birthday cake at 10:30PM last night.

What would cause one to risk the wrath of the NIMH by vocalizing the two blacklisted words?
A relapse into a period of anti-social characteristics -- soon to be followed by a booze binge.

The truth: I once had a therapist – during my post high-school I hate myself days – and she had me make a list of words I would not use when referring to myself. The first one on the list was "I'm stupid."

(I stand tall with both palms on the desk – my voice booms) But now is the time for these two words to make their glorious comeback!

The I'm Stupid Sessions with Dr. Horton

Marissa: Last night while shoveling bits of white raspberry cake into my freshly glossed lips I unwillingly concluded that I had re-lapsed into an anti-social phase.

Dr. Horton: Uh hum. How did that make you feel? (scribbles on pad)

Anti-social Phase: Client does not partake in social gatherings, and declines most, if not all social invitations. Client chooses instead to brood in her room, with the blinds open or shut depending on level of anti-social feelings, and write stories about "characters" she watches through her window. Side note: Investigate accusations of stalking. Client finds her writing to be of a low quality as she can only find so much to say about the neighbor mowing his yard or her "girl-crush."

Marissa: This period is often followed by a booze binge.

Dr. Horton: What is a "booze binge?" (and he uses the two finger quote sign)

Marissa: I drink -- whenever possible.

Dr. Horton: (scribbles some more)

Booze Binge: The client consumes more alcohol than is usual. Accepts all social invitations that include alcohol. Engages in late night drunk text. Client's only nourishment comes from 3AM diner runs. Experiments with "anti-hangover" pills she finds advertised in the back of magazines.

Dr. Horton: Well that about does it for this session. I think we have made real progress.

The End

This was not meant to insult the therapist, after all, I am a student of psychology for 22 more days.

FYI: I have an absurd obsession with Freudian beliefs despite their low place in modern psychology.

"When you're tired of wishing on a falling star, you've got to put your faith in a loud guitar"

An Observation

July 29, 2008

I have retreated into the basement to write under the watchful eyes of strange tribal masks. A most peculiar contraption used for running in place stands behind me (the confusion over this clouds my thoughts), law journals adorned with elaborate gold inscriptions gather dust to my left, a large machine sputters – I have come to understand that its purpose is to push cooled air into the many rooms of the house. My nose is suddenly overwhelmed with the stench of death, and I silently mourn the hundreds of bug lives lost in the cracks. There sits a freezer at my back -- filled with paranoia I nervously glance over my shoulder; waiting for the zombie corpse victim to emerge, hungry and vengeful. The square electronic typing machine I once used, with the curious name of "Dell" printed on its front, has malfunctioned and I am unable to use the top and bottom left of what I have learned to be the keyboard. For someone with an extensive vocabulary as mine (puffs chest), the missing letters present a problem. When I realized that I was no longer able to type the word fuck, I gathered supplies -- black cherry yoghurt stolen from the ice box, my journal, a blue sharpie, and spoon – tied them up in my knapsack and descended the two flights of stairs into the basement. I fear that my host family will soon discover the missing yoghurt and that I too will find the basement freezer as my final resting place.

My rear end has frozen to a metal folding chair in the sub-arctic temperatures of the basement; with teeth chattering and frost bitten toes, I sit in a white sweater and hot pink leg warmers. My fingers stride across "Sally," the forgotten family computer -- exiled to the basement when a newer model was created. She is a classic beauty; her ancient monitor and lack of speakers allow only the music in my head for butt wiggling and foot taps.

I reflect upon the night that has passed. My guide amongst this bizarre culture took me to the most amusing place. A place where many of these curious people sit in a dark theatre, lick their fingers of some chemical compound they call "liquid butter," drink from large cups filled to the top with a dark carbonated elixir, and stare, while bits of buttered popcorn drop down their clothes, at the large screen.

I find the men of this tribe to be of the most unusual and highly arousing appearance. I have observed their attempts at monogamy with the women of the tribe, and have found the wandering gaze present in the males to be worthy of study. In the lands from which I hail the men are only allowed to look at the woman with whom they have been bound. If they should look at another woman they are branded defective, and promptly sent to quarantine where they live the remainder of their days with the animals. Not surprisingly, bestiality occurs in high percentages in our village.

Last night I encountered a young male with beautiful art decorating his arms. This male seemed to be bound to another young female of the same tribe. I wore the traditional dress of my village – ripped black jeans, purple tank top, and black rose in my hair. I found that my pale exterior stood out against the backdrop of bronzed legs clad only in denim shorts. The male bore his eyes into me as we formed what is called "a line." He removed the layers of my outer garments, and consumed what lay underneath. I prepared myself for the attack of the female; I hunched my back and curled my lower lip, but she did not advance to exert her dominance, and the male locked his black eyes onto mine. With no knowledge of how to act in such a predicament, I did what females of my tribe do when confronted with a defunct male – rolled my eyes and lifted my head high. The young female looked in my direction as we picked our way through red backed seats; I offered a smile of sympathy with the undertones of disapproval.

We exited the theatre with the moon high in the sky. The wind blew through the rips of my jeans and I wondered if I could one day assimilate into this foreign tribe. I looked to the stars and sighed in longing for the men of my tribe, but then I remembered; as if hit with the warm side of a hand, that long ago the men of my tribe had been wiped out by the men's magazine, strip club, and MTV.

Fuck.

Sincerely,

The Observer

"Anyone who has ever had a heart wouldn't turn around and break it"

Cartman Made Me Do It

"Better red than dead"

I’m hungover. Today’s hangover is of the painful type – complete with the sweats, pulsing temples, and pale countenance. I resemble the walking dead; a zombie dressed in a hand-me-down Mickey Mouse t-shirt and X-Men underwear from the little boy’s department at Target. There is no need to spend your weekly food budget at the cinema when you can come and gawk at me [Inserts home address here]. I have not showered, I smell of whiskey and the perfume department, but I have no plans to do so until last night has released its death grip from my still wobbling stick figure.

Last night receives the seal of shit – in bold red (the hideous red in the Crayola box that no one used) letters it reads: S H I T. The night ended with a very drunk Marissa swerving through downtown Denver in search of her car wearing impractical snakeskin shoes and a frown (Dear PETA, they are faux, but the frown was the real deal).

Breathe easy my friends, for I will not be filling out the complaint forms today. I have been told by the blog wise that such moans would only deflect readers from my clotheless confessions. I will instead put on a Smashing Pumpkins album (to which only the smart listen), and begin a discussion of gingers.

If you are an avid South Park fan then you are already familiar with the term “ginger” (from episode #911), but if you are of the lower class of ignorant fools, then I shall invite the beloved Cartman to provide the definition.

Marissa: (dressed for the teacher role with black glasses and cleavage) Go ahead fat boy.

Cartman: Hey fuck you.

Marissa: I’m sorry. Please continue.

Cartman: Gingers are people with red hair, freckles, and pale skin. They are disgusting and inherently evil; they have no souls and are unable to walk around during the day because of this.

Kyle: (finds his way through the messy room that is my imagination) I have red hair, and I can walk around during the day.

Cartman: You Kyle are a DayWalker ; an individual with red hair but not paired with the usual pale skin and freckles.

Marissa: (leans over the desk to maximize cleavage exposure) Thank you boys.

Now I realize that the title of ginger may seem like an insult, but there is in fact a biological explanation for the trio of social banishment. Like alcoholism and depression, a ginger appearance is explained and accepted through the science of genetics. Was that too harsh? Fuck me I am getting terrible in my old age. I learned in my Genetics class – in which I spent most of my time writing silly stories in the margins of my notes – that pale skin, freckles, and red hair is actually the result of a mutation on some gene located on some chromosome activated by some protein. I really should do my research before I insult, but like I have said before -- my humor is largely influenced by South Park, the amusement park clowns in my head, and John Stewart. Forgiveness is necessary for my salvation.

All is not doom and gloom for the gingers of the world, for I believe that 2008 is the year of the ginger. The defense will now present the evidence in favor of this statement.

Exhibit A: Paramore

Exhibit B: A Fine Frenzy

Exhibit C: Bryce Dallas Howard

As you can see from exhibits A, B, and C, gingers, or at least those of the daywalker breed, are widely accepted by society as talented, beautiful, and even possibly in possession of a soul. They are on our television screens, our air waves, and in our print. We welcome them with open arms, and at times even attempt to duplicate the ginger with bottled hair dye and anti-skin cancer campaigns. Gingers will now longer be the subject of jest! (The court room grows silent) For this is the year of the ginger! (Thunder rolls in the distance – lightning cracks – the lights cut out) Beware all of you “normal” non-mutants the time of the ginger is upon is!

Shut out the sun; hop, skip, or run to the grocery store before the red hair dye sells out, and the brown eyeliner has left the shelves.

For those who refuse to conform: lock your doors and close your windows.

The time is now.

If you think I am a ginger hater:

My boyfriend is ¼ ginger.
I have a great-aunt twice removed who was a ginger.
I have freckles on my cheeks and shoulders.
I am pale.
I embrace all walks of life.

I watched two drunken episodes of Law and Order last night. This is the product.

“I’m going to stir my brandy with a nail – I’m gonna guzzle that poison down.”

Ban Ignorance

"I feel like I've gained a lot of principles – a drinking problem and a melted pot of little boys – but at least I'm honest in my words."

I am not going to blog today I told myself. I had allowed for Thursday July 17th to be a day of selfish indulgence. I fell back into my unmade bed around 8:00AM -- realizing that a 6:00AM rising is too early for the unemployed -- and crawled into myself. I put my phone on silent and locked the door -- to allow myself undisturbed sleep until the need to study would break from its cornered position in the cage. During my slumbering I dreamt that a friend sent me links to porn websites, but subsequently my internet went down, and I was unable access them. I awoke to the alarm aroused, stretched my curled figure, and wrapped my legs around the pillow.

Marissa: (knocks) Let me in yo.

Dream weaver: Fuck off.

Marissa: Come on, I couldn't access the websites.

Dream weaver: Pervert. Go wash that mouth out.

The thoughts of new sentences to be written pushed me from my bed. I raised my two middle fingers in the air and rolled out of bed. Here I sit at 10:00AM, with unattended study notes by my right, a super-sized glass of iced tea to my left, and a tribute to masturbation on the tip of my fingers.

Masturbation: refers to sexual stimulation, especially of one's own genitals (self masturbation) and often to the point of orgasm, which is performed manually, by other types of bodily contact (except for sexual intercourse), by use of objects or tools, or by some combination of these methods.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Masturbate

For the five years of my adult life -- prior to this blessed summer -- I had been undereducated on what was located in between my two twig branch legs. While living in the dark ages I chose not to look down unless necessary, or for reasons of an urgent nature. Masturbation never surfaced during discussions of sex, and I was never forced to admit my ignorance. I honestly thought no females took part in such a primitive act. Those were terrible days when such beliefs were allowed to roam through my mind. Apart from the night when I watched the South Park movie, the clitoris remained an elusive entity.

But then one fine night I learned the true meaning of the word orgasm

Orgasm: (sexual climax) is the conclusion of the plateau phase of the sexual response cycle, and may be experienced by both males and females. Orgasm is characterized by intense physical pleasure, controlled by the involuntary, or autonomic, nervous system.[1]

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Orgasm

A pioneer arrived in the desert; complete with an REI sale rack backpack and Swiss army knife (he knew not what beasts he might encounter). He hunted; placed piss soaked t-shirts on his head, and ate the guts of bugs for survival in the harsh terrain. He emerged from his journey malnourished and smelling of urine, but with a completed map – a map that would be used for future expeditions. From this map I was educated in the mystical powers of the desert clitoris, the wild flower that blooms year round in the scorched desert dirt.

Clitoris: is a sexual organ that is present only in female mammals. In humans, the visible button-like portion is located near the anterior junction of the labia minora, above the opening of the urethra and vagina.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Clitoris

When the months of summer were upon me I could no longer find the map amongst the heaps of clothing and discarded scraps of paper in my room; I wandered through the desert for many days and many nights with out a map or a compass for direction; in my despair I concluded that I would never find the flower – I was merely another victim to her camouflage. My methods of survival became clear: find a new pioneer (but there was none superior to mine), or continue on, parched and sleep deprived, in my search. On this long night my relationship with masturbation was forged in the fiery pits of infidelity. I chose chastity and dehydration to that of a life shackled in the fiery pit of infidels.

At approximately 0300 hours on June 27th I stumbled upon a single flower growing from seemingly barren ground, and since this discovery I have furiously gathered information on how to best care for the rare specimen.

Conclusion 1: I don't like porn -- porn makes the petals wilt. The men are disgusting and the women are poor actresses – their lack of enjoyment blatant.

Conclusion 2: A boyfriend provides the best fantasy material. There is no better than the gardener.

Conclusion 3: Erotic literature is better than one might think. I have heard of research where plants grow best when talked to by their caretakers. For the flower clitoris, erotic literature is a bedtime story that packs a punch.

Conclusion 4: Both men and women can stick their hands down their pants.

Ban ignorance. Masturbate.

But remember: everything in moderation. No one likes a masturbation junkie.

FYI

FYI: I have taken down "The Story of a One Night Stand."

This reason is this:

The story is currently under repair. She is the author's pet at the moment and I would like to tighten her a bit with botox and breast implants.

I hope this was not being used for porn. If so, I apologize, but I can suggest a few good websites until the story can make its return.

It's Weezy baby

“She wears her dress to the T…like the letter.”

I begin today with a quote from “Weezy.” It is because he is so often capable of saying things in a way which I myself could never attempt. He is such an articulate bastard. For the avid Dragon Tales fan -- I am referring to the rapper Lil’ Wayne -- not the Dragon Tales character (Thank you twin sisters for making this apparent). I am sat in the UMC, or the glamorized cafeteria, of my university, watching an incoming freshman argue the fall’s monthly budget requirements with two matching periwinkle polos who I presumeto be her parents.

What ever happened to Periwinkle? Did Crayola evict if from the box?

I had to change the track. I lent my ears for the sake of humor, but I can only stand horrendous grammar for short blocks of time. To preserve my intelligence level I revived my vocabulary with a plethora of new words; words to satiate my Weezy induced hunger. Erykah Badu is now wafting through my headphones. I have blocked out my surroundings, the students with science majors sure to bring them more success than mine, and the conversations of liberal politics I know not of. Ms. Badu was my first girl-crush -- and a first love never flies far from the coop.

“And if you don’t want to get down with me then you don’t want to pick from my apple tree.”

I still sleep in hostile territory, and fold my hands in prayer each night that I will find a man with whom I can make my own home. It has been a week since my last marriage proposal. I feel I have fallen on hard times with no new prospects. Today, with no men worthy of a proposal and a rockstar boyfriend out of my grasp, I have decided on an evening drive to my local strip club.

Local: a location two exits south on the highway, three stoplights, and a left turn.

I want to sit on a stool, twirl the straw in my soda, and breathe in the sex, taste the money, and maybe even touch the bottom of society. I will however, assert my right to slap any middle-aged man who dares to step within the white chalk circle I have drawn seeking the attention of a clothed female. I have been practicing my response in the event I am confronted by such a specimen.

Man: Well hello there little lady.

Marissa: (with a wave of my hand and an air of arrogance)
Go home to your wife, your wrinkles, and chest hair is frightening me.

Man: (said with disgust) How dare you?

Marissa: (slides a pack of Viagra and blows a kiss) Take care sweetheart.

I have been reminded that my post lengths are often excessive, and that I may, or may not, be making a few certain fellow future Olivia Riley’s look bad.

I will end with three questions of great importance:

1. Why is everyone an aspiring writer? I loathe competition.
2. Does Subway contain nicotine?
3. Are back muscles sexy?

I am not an aspiring writer. I am a Maxim Hometown Hottie.

Shaving cream, underwear, and tattoos....these are a few of my favorite things

On Saturday July 12, 2008 Olive Riley passed away in a nursing home in New South Wales. Olive Riley was the world's oldest blogger.

http://www.msplinks.com/MDFodHRwOi8vd3d3LmNubi5jb20vMjAwOC9XT1JMRC9ldXJvcGUvMDcvMTQvb2xkZXN0LmJsb2dnZXIvaW5kZXguaHRtbD9lcmVmPWliX3RlY2hub2xvZ3k=

This is a tribute to you Olive. Pour some liquor out for our lost homie.

I have just emerged from my cubicle shaped bathroom with hair combed and legs shaved. I patched the relationship with my femininity. With soft hair and smooth legs my womanly charms can commence. I am still bare faced, but tucked away safely in the privacy of my room, the world need not be aware. My jizzy eye has now freed itself of the shackles of infection and has returned to its original glory. Paired with eyeliner and mascara I will once again use my eyes to exploit the world and its two-legged creatures. I have abandoned my usual clothesless appearance and opted instead for an orange bathing suit.

The reason behind the bathing suit: I have begun a routine of open windows and rolled blinds; in order to capture whatever gusts of wind might be traveling through these parts, and I believe that my neighbors would prefer the sight of an orange bathing suit to that of my mismatched underwear. I also wear purple sucks on this warm morning which speaks to both my inability to color coordinate and my impractical nature. If I must – I am in truth wearing orange, red, gold, and purple. I chose only to don ½ of the bathing suit; the bottom end covered by fading red cotton underwear.

I am still in recovery from this morning's 6:30AM spectacle. I shall provide for you a semi-truthful account of the events, for it was early, and I am suffering the effects of PTSD. I awoke at approximately 6:25AM to a muffled knock on my door -- the sound of a tiny fist pounding. I opened the door to my little sister, a look of shock stuck to the round face of a ballerina; she stared at the curls sticking out at all angles and my eyes half closed with sleep.

"Yes?" I grunted.

"Will you put me in my car seat? I have to go to school."

Before I continue I must reveal the best part of the story. I sleep in my underwear. Now it is not that great if you are a female, or have lived with females, as you will certainly know that most of us XX containing beings do. I stomped down the flight of stairs in my canary yellow t-shirt reading "Little Miss Sunshine" and lime green underwear -- one more for those who lack the ability to match their night garments. I arrived at the bottom of the stairs still half asleep when I heard "You didn't!" Oh shit. I know all too well that tone of voice; the shrill beginning that dips into the low growl. I looked down at my belly thinking I must have looked pregnant – a consequence of the chocolate I have been shoving into my mouth for the comfort from my shallow jizzy eye insecurities. But then I remembered – my tattoo. She mumbled something in what had become a throaty rasp that I did not quite catch, but it was followed by a slammed door – the message rang loud and clear.

"Fuck me"

"What did you say Mimi?" My sister's G-rated ears opened wide..

"Nothing"

I stood paralyzed in the hallway waiting for the two most feared words: "get out." They did not come, but I know that I am not in the clear -- the words of one well versed in my mother's vocabulary of wrath. With a fire lit underneath my underwear covered bottom, I ran back into my room and hid under the blankets. I tried to fall back into a slumber, only to be frightened with a nightmare of virtual reality kissing and space ships piloted by monsters bearing the emblem of my mother's head. This morning's show displays for you the reason why a 22 year old wannabe ink masterpiece -- such as me -- should not live with her mother. If I possessed even an ounce of courage I would have stood my ground, touched my nose to hers, and flashed my boyfriend's name tattooed in bold black letters across my breasts. (She chuckles) There is no boy's name on my goodies, but I have a lover's urge to one day do the taboo deed.

I emptied my irritation out on a bowl of granny smith apples sat in the line of my pout. I inspected the group for signs of imperfection, and finding them all flawed, pushed the bowl across the counter, and continued on my rampage into the bedroom. I munched on some banana peppers until my mouth hurt – my amateur version of self harm. Placing my anger aside with the discarded apples I made the trek to the People's Republic of Boulder where I sat through a 1 ½ hour lecture on cognitive psychology.

I came to five conclusions while in lecture -- now highlighted by the both beautiful and useful bulletin point.

• I wish I lived during the pre-credit card debt era.
• My professor has a scar in the shape of a zig zag on his left temple. However, I did debate the possiblity that it is actually an object implanted in him during his alien abduction some years ago.
• I would like to begin a new habit, and that habit is politics. I played the part of fool while all of my apparently politically aware classmates chuckled over some imprudent remark made by (blank) from (blank) state.
• I am going to start reading trendy alternative newspapers with my morning juice.
• I am pale.
  

I must bid farewell for my thirty minutes with the treadmill. The twins have been pinching my hips and patting my stomach. They dream of Maxim once more.

Does anyone know if half-naked photos would ruin my chances at having a career in journalism?

Or if listening to Weezer is still cool?

I will end my night with a glass of booze in honor of Olive.

"If you love me won't you let me know"

Guacamole

I am angry. I know that you will not ask why -- so I will tell. I cannot seem to write this fucking (spit comes flying out of my mouth) album review.

Hint: I use curse words because it calms my nerves and makes grandmothers blush.

I spent an hour in the afternoon sun collecting pools of sweat on the various places of my body, (the breasts, neck, and back) and all I managed was four short paragraphs of scribbles. My hour spent trapped in the mouth of hell – often mistakenly called July – produced three sentences of wit; and even that is pushing the envelope.

To push the envelope

Meaning: To attempt to extend the current limits of performance. To innovate, or go beyond commonly accepted boundaries.

Origin: This phrase came into general use following the publication Tom Wolfe's book about the space programme - The Right Stuff, 1979:

http://www.phrases.org.uk/meanings/push-the-envelope.html

My frustration over my impotence stems from the fact that at roughly 1300 hours I signed a pact with my blood: the blood was taken from a cut on my left fuck you finger; the cut was received while under onion triggered emotional direst. The "pact" was made with my left brain -- represented by a middle-aged man wearing a purple beret, a joint hanging from his lips. Before the worry begins to harden, and accusations of an affair fly, let me say that this French pothead is actually a figment of my imagination. This may frighten some, but this is the x-rated version of Alice in Wonderland boys and girls. Piss like the big dogs or get off the pot. It is either that or shit. I never seem to remember my white trash proverbs.

I swore with the signature of my type AB blood that I would not allow myself the comfort of a social outing until I had completed the album review. Since I am a [insert obscene word here] -- I will not be purchasing the much desired 12-pack of Corona, two limes, and a container of shoplifted salt this evening. I despise dieting, I lack the commitment of a cult, and I have never subscribed to established religion -- in other words I suffer from a lack of discipline. Writing is the only thing for which I will deny myself the luxuries of sex, drugs, and rock n roll. I tend to drink while writing, but not in the mass quantities I so wanted for this evening.

I am driven from fraternizing by my incessant need to be more (a currently undefined more). My motivation to be this still undefined more appears to me in the form of a nagging wife. She allows me the occasional beer and baseball game, but then she appears in our doorway disguised in curlers and mud mask; to drive me to the bedroom in demand of sexual pleasure. I slave over the laptop until she is satisfied. When I suggested Sex Addicts Anonymous she slapped the words right out of my mouth.

The nagging wife simply adores my boyfriend. She finds my boyfriend's talent to be unrivaled; this which only furthers her disappointment in my bedroom feebleness. His band is currently touring this fine nation; and as they play gigs, sign skin, and maintain an essence of cool, I sit in my all too hot room teasing apart my life in clothesless blogs.

Inconsistent: lacking agreement, as one thing with another or two or more things in relation to each other; at variance.

We have yet to settle this inconsistency.

I am off to paint my chipping toenails and think of new ways to become famous.

P.S. Anyone heard of Angry Ape?

P.S.S. Homemade guacamole rocks my world.

For those who live in the afterthought: I am in pursuit of an affair with grammar freaks worldwide.

"Funny thing how things change when you got a little liquor in ya"

The Animal Kingdom

I had been single for years when the forces that be eventually intervened and granted me sacred powers of the feminine. I used my powers on all sorts of creatures – a toad, snake, and ape – and even tried my powers on the butt of an elephant. The toad could only think of his flies, the snake only knew to slither through the tall grass, the ape offered his affection by removing the bugs from my hair, and the elephant's butt was an honest mistake. It was difficult to tell the front from the end. It was not until I met an English bumblebee that my place within the animal kingdom was secured -- I took my position inside the hive where I remain drunk off the taste of his honey.

But then I came to visit my relations in the land of the human race.

I encountered a dilemma while on a visit to the home of my human parents. Why is it that when a previously single female gets a boyfriend her male "friends" are looking for the lifeboats; that, or throwing rolls of slander up in her trees? I will admit that my future seemed to point to a life of cats and moth balls. Tears were wept over the possibility that I was a closet lesbian. That fateful day when I received my feminine charms my place in the hierarchy of sexuality was secured. The decision to embark into the dark forest of bestiality (often misspelled as beastiality) frightened my two-legged parents, but I left for the jungle a heterosexual female with their blessing.

I am in the process of losing a good handful of my male sidekicks. The men in my life seem shocked to learn that I, Marissa Mills, could actually maintain an intimate male-female relationship. My track record does not point to longevity as a strong point, but I find myself offended at their disbelief. What have I become -- the Virgin Mary? It is well known that I am not a virgin – Immaculate Conception is not possible in my womb. It was once said by a now deceased great-uncle that I possess the face of a child, and that my life would be filled with men who either want to fuck me or take on a paternal role. It is more often the latter.

I will assert my title as a woman capable of independence with these three facts:

1. I had my period when I was 13.
2. I frequently wear a bra.
3. "All the women who independent throw your hands up at me" (Thanks Beyonce)

Tired from my all too human dilemma – wishing we could all just mate -- I ventured outside with a borrowed camera. Photography is trendy. Only those who are vegetarian, who recycle, listen to Indie music, and ride a Vespa can practice the art of photography. I don't do any of those things, but I thought I would be more popular if I could add photographer to my growing list of useless titles. I brought a bag full of props with me -- a Washington apple, blanket, and glass of lemonade. Nature is beautiful (or so they say). I asked her to be my subject and she sent the fiery heat in reply. I determined after much clicking that nature is not photogenic through my lens. I spread out on the Jose mowed grass to close my eyes and dream of being Maxim hot. Much to my disappointment, my photos didn't resemble those on Myspace. I took a bite of my apple, placed it on the grass, and attempted to capture a message/feeling/stand through a half eaten Washington apple. The bite mark would be my version of an artist's signature. Post-death my work could be identified by my dental records. Yes, this was my logic.

Fifteen minutes had passed -- I found myself bored and uninspired. I took three more bites out of my subject and watched a rolly polly walk across the rocks. I peeked over the fence in search of my girl-crush, she was not to be found; I wondered which animal she was shacking up with. The hours passed with photos of my toes; of the rolly polly walking across my calf. The heat began to crawl up my legs, I glared down at her, cursed the sky for sending its summer heat, and gathered my props. Bidding farewell to my insect friend I retreated to the air-conditioned cool of my house.

The lesson to be learned:
If you desire to be an accomplished photographer – recycle, purchase a Vespa, join ranks with Peta, and listen to Indie music.

It is better than another morning drive past the strip club.

I apologize for my animal references. I watched The Pan's Labyrinth late last night.

"I wanna taste you one more time again."

Bono Wants Peace

"Act tough but your blood's exposed"

I took the bus this morning – because I am the environment’s pal. (Throat clearing and nose growing) It is not so much a newfound eco-friendliness, but rather the mode of transportation for an individual with less than $500 in her checking account. I prefer to spend my dwindling funds on booze and beauty products. My mother has told me that it is rude to discuss financial matters with those outside of your immediate family. I invite all individuals reading this blog to my dysfunctional family -- you can have the seat at the dinner table next to me. We can discuss our bank account balances and credit card debt. Apparently discussions of finance are seen as bragging -- this cannot be the case when you are not far from the coat pockets of debt collectors. Those greedy bastards are sat in waiting, with greasy fingertips and fat pockets, for me to dip into the negative. Fortunately for this warrior she has the sword of online banking and a shield of parents desperate to not have a stripper daughter.

FYI: Unlike yesterday’s shallow excuses I did attend my class this morning; and as I feared the eye jizz prophecy came true. The guy next to me called my eye “gross.” In retaliation I rubbed my hands over my eye and touched his arm with counterfeit warmth. Take that you inconsiderate frat boy. For those unaware of where I gain my college “education” – I attend CU Boulder -- a campus overpopulated with Gucci bag carrying hippies and East Coast prep kids.

I thought about all of you last night. I lay across the front seats of my car twirling the burnt ends of my hair and thinking of what you might be doing in that moment. My feet hung out the window; with a stolen Tom Petty album playing on the stock stereo. As gas prices soar beyond my means I adapt a new lifestyle. I have left therapeutic night drives into the city singing off key and too loud, for my driveway parked car; dreaming of fame, sex, and clothesless readers; that was until my twin sisters came running down the driveway to tell me I was an “ugly poop boy,” and to add insult to injury planted a dead spider under my bed. This is far worse than the occasional early mornings in my boyfriend’s bed awakening to the feel of a hard object pressed on the small of my back. That I know how to “handle” – dead spiders I do not.

To exploit my stripper infatuation one last time I present to you: My stripper song: “Peace and Love or Else” by U2.

Lay down

Lay down

Lay your sweet lovely on the ground

Lay your love on the track

We're gonna break the monster's back

Yes we are...

Lay down your treasure

Lay it down now brother

You don't have time

For a jealous lover

As you enter this life

I pray you depart

With a wrinkled face

And a brand new heart

I don't know if I can take it

I'm not easy on my knees

Here's my heart you can break it

I need some release, release, release

We need

Love and peace

Love and peace

Lay down

Lay down your guns

All your daughters of Zion

All your Abraham sons

I don't know if I can make it

I'm not easy on my knees

Here's my heart and you can break it

I need some release, release, release

We need

Love and peace

Love and peace

Baby don't fight

We can talk this thing through

It's not a big problem

It's just me and you

You can call or I'll phone

The TV is still on

But the sound is turned down

And the troops on the ground

Are about to dig in

And I wonder where is the love?

Where is the love?

Where is the love?

Where is the love?

Love and peace

When I hear this song – which I often do while living with an ardent Bono fan – my thoughts turn to the pole. In my alter stripper reality this song is my specialty. Late at night; smoke drifts through the room, booze knocked from the table; the song echos from the speakers -- out walks a small brunette wearing a shredded tie dye shirt, braids, and tall cowboy boots.

The lyrics do not support such a fantasy, but when that guitar riff – or what I would call the dur dur dur durrr – sets in; I undergo my metamorphosis. I am the Hulk -- only scaled down in size, more flesh colored, and horny. U2 created the national anthem for my alter stripper ego Cum Drops. I don’t actually know if it is the guitar makes the summoning, but regardless of its origin, it trumpets Cum Drops; she starts to tap her foot and shake her hips. Oh Bono, if you only knew the true effects of your call for peace.

Cum Drops has a “This isn’t my war” bumper sticker on her 2008 Honda Accord.

This is my new Myspace girlfriend. She added me and then gave my computer a virus. Tough love she calls it.

P.S. Two more hours till lecture and blog idea doodling.

Jizzle Bells

"Pain; I like it rough, cuz I'd rather feel pain than nothing at all"

I am eating a fudge Popsicle, wittingly coined a "fudgsicle" by the ice cream industry experts. It is fat free -- I still have hopes of marrying rich. Prior to enjoying this delicious fat free, but still high sugar content treat, I squeezed two drops of liquid jizz into my eye. Yes, you read right – liquid jizz. Along with my "cum drops" (sounds like candy) – to be "dispersed" every four hours -- I also have a bottle of pills to pop 4x a day. This treatment plan means that I will be popping and shooting drugs all day long. According to the doctor (and a real one) this combination will most likely fail in treating my infection, but hell is was worth a shot.

And my $25 co-pay was for that?

We must not forget the $66 prescriptions and bottle of mascara -- both purchases on recommendation by my PA Darleen. My left eye will look like an accident of misaim by my boyfriend, but at least I will have "telescopic" eyelashes. For those men and Brits out there – that was my poor attempt at humor – the brand of mascara I purchased for $8.99 is L' Oreal Telescopic. It promises eyelashes that are:

Telescopic:
1. capable of magnifying distant objects
2. seen by a telescope
3. capable of viewing objects from a distance

I would like to thank L' Oreal; for their brilliant marketing scheme. Lucky for their CEO's three digit salary I looked up telescopic after purchasing the product. However, the bottle is shaped like a miniature gold telescope, and my boat is floated by all the little and meaningless things in life. Despite its physical downfalls, my infected left eye has given me a good reason to ditch lecture today. That reason is: I am a shallow bitch, and I do not want to ooze jizz on my fellow classmates.

Is this clever but disgusting description of my eye infection not funny? I apologize; but Southparkzone is back up and running again, and my humor is paying the consequences. I watched the episode "Make Love, Not Warcraft," and nearly wet my pants in laughter. More than good music South Park comforts the loneliness in my heart.

On a more literary note – I have been highlighting sentences in my "American Short Stories" collection in search of the proper way to use semi-colons, commas, and those lines I use, but don't know what are called. You all must unfortunately suffer while reading through my blogs until I discover the truth in my numerous grammatical errors. I might pull a Google and rummage through the World Wide Web in search of grammar help; that, or I will bother my new Myspace friend Ari. I stole him from my boyfriend; and this was done pre-telescopic eyes.

Lame FYI: Stephen King is the author of sixty books and 400 short stories. He may have 460 works on me, but my face is cuter, and breasts perkier.

Today while sat in the doctor's office, with straightened hair and bare face, I decided that I would like to become more observant in my old age. I made this decision while counting the scars on my body. I had tired of highlighting semi-colons, and decided to occupy my time with other means. I counted 11 scars on my body. The best sits on my lower back from a drunken night in the hot tub. The elderly women to my right stared at me in horror as I lifted clothing and ticked off fingers.

I am bored in my self-confinement – come and tell me the stories of your scars.

I continued with my plan of observation; and watched a Walgreen's employee playing a musical instrument in his car. I could not make out what instrument it was. All I know is that you blow into it. I sat and watched him instead of teasing my hair in the rearview mirror. My vanity is disappearing with age.

(A special thanks to the omnipotent man in the sky.)

Before I bury myself in my book, lurk a few Myspace pages, and let the inner nerd free; I have a confession to make. Shit, I better get undressed. I drove by the local strip club this morning. It was ..10:30.. and thoughts of naked women came to rub the sleep from my eyes. I have come to a disturbing conclusion -- that I need to get a job at a deviant and socially unacceptable workplace. There is a simple reason for this: I could write far more interesting stories with such inspiration at my fingertips. This is the same reason I advocated my use of drugs, but my boyfriend gave a better counterargument, and I still say no to drugs. I need inspiration that I cannot find in a 9-5, in a front desk position, or at the upscale restaurant. Tell me if I was more than a wannabe writer I could find inspiration anywhere – or else come by the local strip club to find me in the corner dressed like a prostitute scribbling notes in my journal.

My mom tells me that she did not pull herself up the boot straps for me to end up as a stripper in a night club. (Sigh) I will stay unemployed, and hunt this city for stories. I will look under the tables, in the bathrooms, and behind the buildings allocated for mischief.

I need a rich husband to fund my new lifestyle.

"Found a hollow hole in the Colorado snow. It's like I follow anywhere that El Diablo goes."

From one infected eye to the next

"Hard to be confident talkin about my losses and bruises"

You are expecting the next chapter to my tale of a one night stand? I am too. I have become attached to the young narrator of the story, and if I can be my twisted self, I am even beginning to grow a crush on him. It is a shame he does not exist, but is rather a fusion of all the men in my life. I sat in the glow of my computer screen late last night fighting with my muse. He did not want to come out and play. I dismissed his lack of interest, scanned my itunes for a replacement; finding none, I unwillingly played a "borrowed" 112 album, and found myself cursing my boyfriend-less status rather than writing a chapter two. I believe that it was my pervasive self-doubt playing its evil tricks. I spent more time in the backspace than I did in the alphabet.

Marissa: (typing) Oh my, I am on a roll.

Twins: No, that was shit. Delete.

Marissa: (index finger of right hand glued to backspace button)

If it is any consolation to you, I currently resemble the love-child of Esmeralda and Quasimodo. My left eye is experiencing an allergic reaction to some allergen in my life -- (coughs) Men. As a result of this allergen I have a red and swollen left eye that looks like it is about to burst. The doctor (my mom) has assured me that it will in fact burst. I, in an attempt to ease the pain, have rubbed ointment into my left eyelid. That, coupled with my inability to wear eye makeup, has left me looking even more the hideous monster. I am disgusting. I am sorry to the male readers who held the belief that I was actually sexy; recent evidence argues to the contrary.

My late night writer's block may also have been the product of my knowledge of the early rising to come. Summer school has begun today -- at 9:00AM to be exact -- and this sat like a heavy cloud over my laptop last night. For some 9:00 is a late rising, but do not be fooled my early birds. I have to be on campus at 9:00AM, but I must wake from my slumber at 6:30AM in order to shower, dress, eat, and dabble. The drive is another 45 minutes of "beautiful" scenery. If you add all of the above numbers you should reach a total of 150 minutes. You must add on another ten minutes as I am rarely on time. Adhering to my fashionably late nature I arrived on campus today 5 minutes late -- to find not a student present in classroom D346. Either I missed the memo or better, the class has been cancelled. As you all know I mumbled a "fuck off" instead of a "rabbit rabbit" on the first of this month. This will certainly mean only bad luck, and no cancelled class.

In the event that you think I am an innocent law abiding citizen, my issued warrant will drop from the ceiling. Please fix the masks tightly around your nose and mouth -- the masks will not inflate, but the truth is still flowing. That's right folks -- a warrant. It was for keying my ex-boyfriend's car. I didn't serve any jail time on account of this cute and loveable face, but I am still a hardened criminal. Well, if I am to advocate honesty, I must admit that I exaggerated for effect. The warrant was issued after I failed to appear in court for a traffic ticket I received while in the pancake of shit, or also known as New Mexico. I was in England during my scheduled appearance before the court, and my loving parents "forgot" to fax proof of my insurance to the courts. My only option upon my return to the Motherland was to please guilty to the warrant and pay the $259 fee. I guess I will not be getting that job with the CIA.

The state of New Mexico has taken my money. As a result of their "laws," and my inability to ration, I am now in the red. My mom assures me that I can "float," as she calls it, through this summer before tightening the buckle and getting a proper job. I disagree. I like things, I like pretty things, I like money. I considered a job at the local strip club. I was assured by male friends that I could make , if not honest, then at least a decent living, but I was threatened with eviction and heartbreak -- and so I declined.

The silver lining in this very dark cloud is that I have a new girl crush.

For those unfamiliar with this term I will define.

Girl-crush: to possess feelings of adoration and love, but not those sexual, for a member of the female sex. Marissa has a girl crush on her neighbor's girlfriend.

My girl-crush is beautiful, with skin the color of 100w light bulbs, and not a trace of skin cancer on her. She had a raven colored mullet and emo fringe. Her eyelids were shadowed with black, a screen for whatever color lay underneath. There was a tattoo of an eagle spreading from her shoulder to collarbone. Her nails were painted the burgundy color of my grandma's sofa.

I discovered her yesterday afternoon while sat by the window daydreaming of money, cars, and bitches. She remains unnamed. All I know of my girl-crush is that she writes on the side of her red converse, that there is a rip in the right knee of her jeans, and that there are five lines on each wing of the eagle.

Creepy right? I know.

I found myself giving my stormy Monday afternoon to girl-crush watching. I sipped a southern comfort and lemonade; taking notes in my journal as I watched the mating behavior between the female and male. I didn't really, but I did drink a southern comfort and lemonade. I cannot be in the fault for having box seats to the show. I may have refrained yesterday, but the orange cushioned window seat is patiently awaiting my return.

Alright gentleman, I can sense that there might be some friction in the pants from the sight of my words. I would like to make clear that a girl-crush is not a sexual crush. It is only a crush of adoration for a female from a female. This is not the girl on girl kissing you witnessed at Ted's kegger. This is a desire to spend time with the object of the girl-crush; to go to the movies, watch her tease her mullet, and know her emo secrets. She can hold my hand but not with the fingers entwined. That is for my boyfriend.

I am a stalker. Issue me a warrant for that.

P.S. I am in love with a bumblebee.