create_destiny: (Default)
I wanna to be a vegan terrorist because I'm opposed to stuff an' stuff. I'm like an anti-anti-antivist. And a pro anti prohibitist. I wanna tattoo a bunch of vegetables on my face to show how radical I am. And not just normal vegetables like carrots and broccoli, but weird ones like Africanized elephant garlic and Chinese Monkey leeks.

I wanna pierce my third eye with a rusty railroad spike. And not get a tetanus shot just to show how hardcore I am. And then I wanna get another railroad spike and shove it up my butt and have like a chain dangling from it that comes up between my legs and attaches to my nose ring. And people will be like, "that dude is so hardcore he can hardly walk and if he sits down like a normal person he'll puncture his bowel and die."

I wanna go insane from tetanus and smash some store fronts owned by innocent Asians to draw attention to police brutality. I wanna get arrested like 173 times for civil disobedience. I wanna get all disorderly conducty and go limp bizkit when the police arrest me. I wanna eat out of dumpsters and have incurable ringworm and be like the crustiest crust punk who ever lived in this white college town. I wanna have teenage disciples who worship me and make graffiti from all my super cryptic sayings like, "Disobey the fairy shepherd hog."
create_destiny: (Default)


Dear Michael Stipe:

Yeah, so you have some new French photographer boyfriend who is 17 years younger than you. Who cares? I certainly don't, because look at his freakin' shoes!!! I'm sorry, but are you his lover or his social worker? There is just no excuse for a gay man to be wearing bad shoes like that, especially in Manhattan. And to be photographed in these shoes!?! Why, Michael, why? When am I going to be one of the three women for every seven men you are attracted to? Are you going to write songs about his shoes, now? Do you have some kind-of velcro fetish or mentally-challenged fetish? Because I can be so very mentally-challenged. You should see how I dance and fall in parking lots. I can also let some type of crusty fog build up on my glasses if that turns you on.

Whatever. Screw you. I'm happy for you. You better marry this one.

Call me if you need a gaybee mama. But do it quick because my eggs are about to expire. My rates are low, especially if we skip the turkey baster and do it the old-fashioned way.
create_destiny: (grover)
So I pull into the parking lot at work this morning looking fabulous because I just got a haircut and highlights and I park my car and I'm walking through the parking lot holding my head a little higher than I normally do and I'm almost at the entrance (as are a couple of snobby co-workers who can NEVER condescend to look at me, let alone speak to me because what they do is SO much more important than what I do or some shit like that) when I trip on my shoe and lurch into one of those awkward gravity slam-dances where you are running and falling at the same time and I finally catch myself after like FIVE HOURS but not before spilling the entire contents of my purse including a bunch of loose tampons and a box of over-the-counter gas-relief medicine that has a big-ass label that screams "I'M A LOSER BECAUSE I FART A LOT." And these classy jackasses I work with walk right over my rolling tampons and don't say a damn word to me.
create_destiny: (Default)
So I've been having this weird hip pain. Not hip pain as in oh my vintage beer can collection and ironic 70's t-shirts are so cool it actually causes me pain, but hip pain as in it hurts where the hip bone connects to the leg bone. After months of assuming it would just go away I finally saw a doctor and he referred me to another doctor whom I saw today.

Holy Christ! It should be disclosed to patients beforehand when the doctor that is about to examine you is such a sublime expression of manhood that everything you have mentally rehearsed about the origin and subtle nuances of your condition goes right out the window when he walks in and you are rendered incapable of comprehending anything that comes out of his mouth for the next ten minutes.

But let me preface this with what happened before the blue-eyed, blond-haired, Swiss godman of white chocolate appeared before me.....

The nurse escorts me to an examining room and hands me a pair of drawstring shorts instructing me to put them on and the doctor will be with me shortly. She leaves and I change into the drawstring shorts. I sit down on the examining table taking in the black and white photos hanging on the walls of a local covered bridge . Oh cool, I think to myself, he supports local artists. Then my eyes wander down to my legs. My dry, white and HOLY MOTHER OF GOD! HOW LONG HAS IT BEEN SINCE I'VE SHAVED MY LEGS legs?!?! I hop off the examining table and pace the small room, wishing like hell there was a window I could escape through. Why didn't I shave my legs this morning? Or at least this week? I sit in a chair next to the table and drape my pants over my white, hairy legs. Then I think maybe I should sit on the swivel stool, maybe the swivel stool will save me. But it doesn't so I move back to the chair and sit there launching into a minor panic attack, trying to figure out what to do.

But there's no hiding these gams in this harsh medical room light. I ponder taking off the shorts and putting my pants back on. But what if he walks in right as I'm changing!?! Then he'll see my blindingly white thighs, too! I decide not to risk it and then I freak out and decide I have to risk it or I just can't go on. I rip off the drawstring shorts as fast as I can, praying to Jesus the doctor doesn't walk in while I'm in the act. I pull my pants back on with lightning speed and quickly sit back down on the chair like nothing's happened. I start to calm down and then I look over and there's the drawstring shorts balled up on the chair beside me! They're evidence. They must be hidden so I can pretend the shorts were never offered to me in the first place. I shove them behind the chair. But what if he drops his pen and sees the shorts? Surely he'll confront me! I pick up the shorts and try to think of another hiding place. I stuff them in a drawer and sit back down. What if he opens the drawer? I jump up and retrieve them, certain that the doctor is going to enter the room at any moment, see me holding the shorts and ask accusingly, "Why haven't you put on the shorts my nurse instructed you to wear?" As a last resort I shove them in my purse and sit back down in the chair. I roll my shoulders, close my eyes and try to breathe deeply and look innocent.

Then he walks in and introduces himself. His face is like a vision of Christ on Mt. Tabor, it's radiance cannot be beheld. My brain slides out of my jaw like drool from a teething baby's mouth.

He hangs the x-ray of my hip on the light box on the wall and I hear nothing but a hollow whirling sound in my head while he presumably explains what the x-ray has revealed. Then he asks me to lie down on the examining table. I do as he says and he asks me to unbutton my pants and pull them down a bit. I stare at the ceiling because looking directly into this man's face makes things even worse. I'm pretty sure this is where the trouble began in the first place. My hands are shaking and I'm fumbling with the zipper. I pull my pants down as little as possible and he moves in with his large, warm hands and pulls them down a little more. "Show me where it hurts the most," he asks softly. Speechless, I move my hand in a diagonal motion from my right hip bone to my pelvic bone. "Does it hurt here?" he asks as he pushes his fingers into the area between my hip and my lady parts. I try to think, "Does this hurt? It used to hurt, it used to hurt a lot but now I'm confused, nothing seems to hurt now." He presses his hand into every inch of the area of concern, asking each time, "Does it hurt here? How about here?" But the damn engineer who conducts the lines of pain transmission in my brain has apparently abandoned his post and is running around in circles on his tippy toes, giggling like a gay man at an all-nude firemen's ball.

After much pressing and prodding and me giving answers like "Yeah, I think that hurts" or "I'm not sure if that hurts or not," he gives up and refers me to another specialist. I'll be sure to shave my legs next time.

P.S. Don't tell the Taliban about this. You know how they get.
create_destiny: (sewing circle)
So, I'm sitting at my desk at work when my co-worker/friend walks up to me and hands me a hand-written letter. "Read this," she says, "it will put your life in perspective." I read the letter and it's from a 12 year old girl who has leprosy. She's asking our company for school money. I hand the letter back to my co-worker/friend and say, "I think I'll go wash my hands now."

So I'm lathering my hands and arms up to my elbows like a doctor about to perform surgery and I start to panic.

I mean, What the Hell, Man?!? You don't just give an unsuspecting borderline germaphobe a letter hand-written by somebody with leprosy!!!

I tell another co-worker to google "leprosy" because I was just possibly exposed to it and he reads aloud to me from the World Health Organization website, "The exact mechanism of transmission of leprosy is not known."

Great. It's through hand-written letters, i just know it.

I wiped my hands, arms and my entire desk and keyboard with Clorox wipes. This chick is my best Chico girl, but I was tempted to call HR on her ass!

I snorted a couple of lines of powdered bleach and I'm hoping for the best. Unfortunately I won't know whether or not I have it for 3 - 30 years, because that's how long it can lie dormant in your body!

The google-guy reads a list of symptoms and I begin to feel each one as he describes it:

"Sensory loss is a typical feature of leprosy."

"Oh my God. I can't feel my face," I reply.

"And may be accompanied by a tingling sensation."

"My skin is buzzing!"

"You're very susceptible to suggestion, aren't you?"

"Yeah, why?"

"Those suffering from leprosy may also become euphoric and experience a heightened sense of well-being," he lies.

"I'm not susceptible to positive suggestion, though. Only negative ones."

Seriously, though. This happened and it's not okay.
create_destiny: (Default)
Dear Doro,

I am extremely happy with my job and it shows. My happiness really annoys my co-workers. What should I do?

Signed,
Happy Man in the Office


************************************************

Dear Happy Man in the Office,

Ain't nobody wanna see no nappy-ass white boy prancin' 'round the office, 'specially if he ain't got no donuts. Try actin' real depressed til about noon, then break out a little bottle of hooch and pass it around. People be toleratin' yo happy ass better when they be gettin' a little liquored up.
create_destiny: (Default)
Dear Doro,

Help! I think I'm a gay man trapped inside a teenage girl trapped inside an alien trapped inside a lesbian trapped a white heterosexual male, possibly trapped inside yet another alien or another hairy lesbian! What should I do?!

Signed,
My Closet Has Many Mansions


**************************************************

Dear Closet With Many Mansions:

Nah, baby. You just Björk, that's all. You freaky like that.
create_destiny: (Default)
Dear Doro,

I thought my co-worker "Katrina" was done with her loser boyfriend. But now I find out they're back together. All they do is fight. It makes no sense to me! How can I make her see this decision is stupid?

Signed,
Concerned Co-Worker


*************************************************

Dear Concerned Co-worker:

There ain't nothing gonna help that girl till Jesus himself come bitch-slap her.

And he is gonna do just that, because honey, he bitch-slap all of us at some point, okay? And yeah, it sting. But it's for love, baby, love---- 'cause we ain't thinkin' right.

And he gonna bitch-slap that boyfriend, too. Whew Lordy, don't you worry 'bout that. Praise Jesus. Okay, baby. Peace.
create_destiny: (Default)
Dear Doro,

My Russian mail-order bride is actually a man dressed as a woman. I paid $25,000 to fly her over here and marry me. On our wedding night I found out she is a he.

What should I do?

Signed,
Russian Bride Bonus Package


********************************************************

Dear Russian Bride Bonus Package:

Your Russian bride probably just has very small breasts and elephantiasis of the clitoris. Take her from behind. Stroke her engorged clitoris like you would your own penis. Don't worry. It will be fine. You worry too much.
create_destiny: (sewing circle)
I've been to a number of weddings and baby showers recently and it's left me wondering: Where are the "showers" for unmarried women who will never have children?

I'm launching a new tradition: a shower celebrating my life choices and circumstances that have resulted in me being unmarried and child-free. It's going to be called a "Fuckin' A, I'm Free" Shower. I'll register for gifts at the Liquor Barn and an antique shop specializing in breakables.

At my Fuckin' A, I'm Free Shower, my guests and I will play games where everyone guesses how many hours of uninterrupted sleep I get per week. Whoever guesses correctly wins a bottle of vodka and a stray cat.

Then I'll pass around a tray filled with non child-safe items that lay casually around my house: x-acto knives, roach clips, rat poison, glass shards, Vicodin, blow torches, flakes of lead paint, and fistfuls of Comet. Once the tray is out of sight everyone will write down all the objects they remember seeing on the tray. Whoever remembers the most objects wins a years supply of spermicidal jelly. The losers have to do tequila shots laced with progesterone.

Drag queens impersonating Cher and Tina Turner will perform for us and we'll have ourselves a fantabulous drunken disco ruckus until the police arrive. But then the police will turn out to be strippers and the party will go through the roof! Unfortunately the real police will show up and we'll have to tone it down a bit.

Those remaining conscious into the early morning hours will snack on sushi and unpasteurized milk products while watching Diane Keaton movies.

Please R.S.V.P.
create_destiny: (Default)
Can any amount of drugs and alcohol ever eviscerate from our memories that wretched period of our lives known as The Eighth Grade?

My family had just moved from smallish mid-western town USA to big mid-western city USA and I was bused to an inner city middle school. A hickish girl with fried, blond hair and yellow horse teeth befriended me in orchestra class. There was always an underlying threat between us that she would slash my throat in the girls' bathroom if I rejected her friendship. She lived in the one of the cracker jack houses behind the school. The first time I ever stepped foot in her house I gagged and almost puked from the horrendous stench caused by a small herd of unfixed, in-bred chihuahuas.

For Christmas, she had decided, we would exchange gifts. "You're gonna love what I got you," she said, sticking out her yellow horse teeth and grinning. For her, I had bought the sluttiest shade of "Wet 'n' Wild" lip gloss I could find: Crushed Sugar Grape. Smoking Marlboros behind the Handy Dandy on the last day of school before Christmas break, we finally exchanged gifts. I had wrapped hers up like a piece of salt-water taffy. She ripped hers open first. "Oh, cool! Lip gloss!," she blew a big cloud of smoke into the air, unscrewed the cap, smeared her lips with the shiny, purple goo and smiled really big. It made her teeth look even more yellow. "Sexy," I lied. She smacked her lips. "Now for yours." She pulled a rectangle shaped package wrapped in aluminum foil from her fringy, cowgirl purse and handed it to me. I tore it open.

It was a book. A paperback book. A paperback book of porn. A paperback book of porn she had stolen from her step-dad. "You're gonna love it," she repeated. Slightly freaked out but playing it cool, I stuffed it into my book bag and got on the bus. "Call me!," she yelled out. "I will," I lied again.

When I got home I bypassed the TV and went straight to my bedroom where I barricaded the door and pulled the shades. I turned the volume all the way up on my clock radio, sat cross-legged in the middle of my bed and opened the book. There were no pictures, only endless stories of lesbian sex acts. Lesbian sex acts between a mother and daughter. Lesbian sex acts between a mother and daughter involving carrots. At one point the mother was so overcome by sexual desire that she fell down a flight of stairs with one of the carrots in her vagina. It was quite a leap from Judy Blume's Forever. I read until I was thoroughly horrified and nearly out of my mind with paranoia. I was mortified at the thought of my parents finding this book and thinking that I was a horny lesbian who wanted to fuck my mother with vegetables. I knew I had to get rid of this book before it was discovered. The most secret place I could think of at that moment in my bedroom was the four inches of space between the tiles of the suspended ceiling and actual ceiling. I cleared off my dresser and stood on it to reach one of the tiles. I pushed a tile up and slid the book in. I tapped the tile until it fell back into place. This would have to do until I could find a way to burn it.

Every time I remembered the book it was always at an inconvenient time and eventually I forgot about the book altogether. Geography channeled the hick girl and I into different high schools. A year or so passed.

One day during my freshmen year of high school I was slammed into the memory of the book when some kid accused a girl with moles all over her face of sticking carrots up her pussy. "That's how she got all them moles," was what he said. It suddenly became so urgent to me that this book be destroyed that I promptly stuck a finger down my throat and barfed behind the bleachers in gym class in order to leave school early under conditions that would not be scrutinized. My plan was to retrieve the book and dispose of it in an alley dumpster six blocks from our house.

It was 1:00 in the afternoon. No one would be home, so I knew it was the perfect time. When I got home I hurled my backpack across the living room and sprinted up the stairs to my bedroom. I remembered exactly which tile I had moved to hide the book. Standing again on my dresser, I pushed the tile up and felt around for it. It wasn't there! I got a flashlight from the hall closet and peered into the dusty space between the ceiling tiles. There was nothing there! Nothing but cobwebs! It was gone!

I sat on my bed in shock and tried to think above the roaring static in my head. How could this be?!?! How could this book just disappear?!? I was sure that my parents had found it and were entirely too scandalized to confront me with it. Clearly suicide, I thought, was my only option. But how? I went into the bathroom and began pulling items from the medicine cabinet. Hang myself with a gauze? Swallow band-aids? Electrocute myself in the tub with a curling iron? Stab myself in the heart with some tweezers? Slash my wrists with my Dad's electric shaver?

I had started to wrap an ace bandage around my neck when I heard the front door slam open. It was my twelve year-old sister, Karma, home from school. Of course! It had to be her who took the book! She's was always snooping around in my bedroom, breaking into my Nancy Drew diary and stealing my stuff. I flew down the stairs and grabbed her by the shirt collar. "Where is it?" I screamed and pumped my fist. Her eyes flashed with shock. "Where's what?," she gasped. "You know," I hissed, "Now where is it?!" I could tell by the wild look in her eyes that she didn't know what I was talking about, but still I had to be sure. I wrestled her face-down into the carpet and stuck my chin hard between her shoulder blades. "Where'd you put it? Huh?!? Huh?!?" "I don't know what you're talking about," she winced. I was screwed. If she knew, she was certain to bribe me and eventually rat me out to Mom and Dad. And if she didn't know, then where the hell was it?

"God!" I rolled off of her, catching my breath. "You're such a lesbian! A horny, stupid lesbian!" I sneered. "You're a lesbian!," she huffed back. She probably didn't even know what that meant. I turned to her and squinted my eyes. "I know you masturbate with carrots," I said slowly, "I've seen you do it." "You're disgusting!", she snarled. I kicked her in the leg with my heel. "If you say anything to Mom and Dad I'm going to tell everyone that you're a gay lesbian!" "Gah!," she huffed and stood up, "You're such a psycho! A gay lesbian psycho!"

Years later, when we were best friends, I asked her about that book. She claims she never saw it, never knew anything about. We just cracked up about it. I know she would have told me by then if she had taken it. Last fall I told my parents this story and they said they never saw it, never knew anything about it. The whereabouts of this book still remain a mystery to this day.
create_destiny: (Default)
You've got your glass is half-full people and your glass is half-empty people.

Then you've got your not only is the glass is half-empty but it's filled with toxic by-products, a rotting goldfish, some unidentifiable floating crap (oh my God is that phlegm?) and somebody with bird-flu probably peed in it and if we drink this shit we will surely die, but since we're dying of thirst (because of global fucking warming) and we're locked in this concentration camp (because of George fucking Bush) we have to drink this water anyway and therefore we are fucked no matter what people.

I'm actually feeling a bit better. I've been listening to The Gay Fun Show and now I want to form a support group called, "Hags Without Fags." We'll sit in the basement of the community center, chain-smoking, drinking stale coffee from styrofoam cups and bitching about how nobody ever takes us dancing. Maybe one day some lonely gay men will form a "Fags Without Hags" group and a Christmas miracle will bring us together! Oh the gay times we'll have then!

An old boyfriend used to grind his teeth at me and snarl, "Please don't end your sentences with prepositions!" So I told him to, "Fuck off."

This other time, I was sitting on a couch with a boyfriend and his dog. We were working through some difficulties in our relationship, talking things over, baring our souls to one another. He said, "You're my best friend, you're my true blue," then he leaned over and kissed his dog on the top of her head and said, "Aren't you Cassie, you're my girl, yes you are!" Yeah, I had to end that one, too.
create_destiny: (sewing circle)
I saw a bumper sticker for sale at the natural foods store that simply said, "Forgive." I truly believe this is the answer. I was about to buy it until I realized that if I put this on my car I won't be able to flip off all the bitches and jackasses who piss me off on the road. Not in good conscience, anyway.

My favorite revenge fantasy is Under Cover Litter Cop. I get paid to hang out in places like Yosemite National Park, pretending to be an ordinary tourist out for a stroll with my camera. When in reality I'm gathering indisputable, photographic evidence of your lazy ass dropping candy bar wrappers and empty water bottles right on the trail. When I catch you in the act, I whip out my gun and scream, "Get down on the ground Mother Fucker, right Fucking now!" I pistol whip anyone who gives me lip. Children shriek in terror as I arrest their parents. But they learn. I don't care if you're a stressed-out single Mother of sextuplets, you will not stash a dirty diaper in our National Parks. (All litter is gathered by my partner, David Beckham, and sent to a crime lab for analysis. We occasionally have hot sex under waterfalls, but that's beside the point.)

******************************

Every three years or so in the spring, I apparently go into drag queen mode and buy some ultra-girly, pink sandals. I wanted something hot-pink with silver sparkles and pink, feathery fluff. I went to every major department store in this sorry-ass college town and couldn't find a damn thing this gay. I had to settle for something a bit less extravagant. I got a pedicure and had my toe nails painted hot-pink to match the sandals. When I came home, I told the boyfriend to worship my tootsies. He laughed in my face and ordered me to go buy him some ice-cream. I told him I was just at the grocery store and if he wants me to be his bitch I'm gonna need a hot-pink cell phone and a steady flow of cash. That quieted him down for a bit.
create_destiny: (grover)
Certain health care professionals have accused me of having undue anxiety. What's that saying, "If you're not confused you're not paying attention?" How about "If you don't have an anxiety disorder you weren't paying attention to the books you were exposed to as a child."
catinthehat
Take, for example, The Cat in the Hat, a godless recipe for anarchy. This book wrecked me as a child. My hypothalamus most certainly shrank, marinated as it were in a toxic bath of stress hormones, while my mother read this book to me. A trickster cat hops on a ball while performing a circus act of balancing objects. Don't You Realize That a Goldfish Could Die and a Perfectly Good Cake is About to be Ruined? Not to mention the demonic flying of kites in the house by the perverted twins --"Thing One" and "Thing Two!" Holy Christ! Will no one heed the goldfish, crying like a voice in the wilderness, urging the children to chase the Cat out and restore the house to sanity and order?!?

Even worse was Grover in The Monster at the End of This Book. Each turn of the page brings Grover and the reader closer to the monster at the end of the book. Grover desperately scrambles to prevent the reader from turning the pages. He ties the pages together with rope, he builds a brick wall, but nothing is strong enough to stop the ceaseless turning of the pages.

monster3

Even as a child I knew this book was written to prepare children for the end of the world. Each passing hour is the turning of another page, bringing us closer to the horror of eternal bedtime. Yes, the monster at the end of the book turns out to be Grover himself, but this was no consolation to me. I knew that was just a sugar-coated ploy devised to trick children into going to sleep, into living an unconscious life where we dare not question God or Dick Cheney.

Yes, give me Wellbutrin and buckets of TrimSpa, Baby. Give me new pills all shiny and green -- striped ones, piped ones and a Prozac machine! For these green house gasses are killing us, Lasses. There's a Bush in the house and our Mother stepped out. Turn the page! Turn the page! Turn the page!
create_destiny: (wreck slow)
Vaginal Mycosis

That's a possible side-effect from a new medication I'm taking. It's the spontaneous growth of a second vagina between your toes. I'm not looking forward to this.

Why do side-effects always have to be undesirable? Why not side effects like spontaneous orgasm, a perky sensation in the breasts, loss of arm pit hair and sudden increase in income?

Gettin' Lucky

It used to be that getting lucky meant scoring a drug of choice for the weekend or finding some hippie boy candy to suck on. But now that I'm getting older, for my friends and I, it's come to mean having a bowel movement.

Sitting in a cafe the conversation goes like this:

"Did you get lucky this morning?"

"No, I haven't pooped for two days."

"Jesus, maybe you should smoke a joint or something."

"I'm hoping this coffee will do it."

"Can we get going? My hemorroids are flaring up again."

"That's because you strain. I've told you not to strain."

"Well, I don't have all fucking day for gravity to run it's course. I've got shit to do. I strain because I need to get on with my life."

"Can we stop by Rite-Aid?"

"For what? Liquor?"

"No, I need to pick up an enema."

"Oh, Jesus. Grab me some Preparation H while you're in there."
create_destiny: (Bonsai)
For years I've been treating myself to the best Mexican food in Chico, purchased at the walk-up window at a dive-y liquor store next to a homeless shelter. It's the bomb diggity, yo, and cheap, too, but now I can't go there any more.

"Raul" at the Crazy Taco walk-up window had been rolling the fat ones for me for six years. I always tipped him good, too. When he saw me walk up to that window he knew I wanted one of two things: either a Super Crazy Chicken Burrito with everything or a Veggie Burrito, no cheese, no sour cream.

But my Crazy Taco times ended when he asked me one night at the window if I had a phone number. "Yes," I replied, "but I don't think my boyfriend would want me to give it to you." He turned red, apologized and backed quickly away. I grabbed my burrito and sauntered off, feeling too embarrassed to ask for limes and jalapeños.

When I got home I told my boyfriend that he best cater to my every whim because I have options. "What kind of options?" He demanded to know. I told him about Raul at the Crazy Taco walk-up window. He jokingly threatened to call immigration. I informed him that any further interactions with Raul would make me feel uncomfortable and thus he (the boyfriend) would have to become my burrito-fetching bitch from here on out. "Call me everyday day before you get off work to see if I want a burrito," I ordered.

But he REFUSES, people!!! Flat out refuses to go to Crazy Taco and fetch me my Mexican delights! He's daunted by the transient population that often loiters in the parking lot, asking for spare change. He's too Gringo to handle speaking to anyone who may not understand his murmured English perfectly when he orders. He tries to deter me with allegations of unsanitary conditions. When I threaten to run off with Raul just so I can get free burritos he laughs and says, "Go ahead!"

Of course I'm pissed and depressed but what can I do? I've searched high and low for a new Taco Truck to replace my beloved Crazy Taco, but nothing can compare. Nothing compares to the Crazy Taco walk-up window at Duke's Liquor Store!


It's been seven hours and fifteen days
Since u took your Crazy Taco away
I go out every night and sleep all day
Since u took your Crazy Taco away
Since u been gone I can eat whatever I want
I can eat whatever I choose (except for you)
I can get my dinner from another Taco truck
But nothing
Nothing compares 2 u
I could put my mouth around every burrito I see
But they'd only remind me of you
I know that living with u baby was sometimes hard
(like when I didn't have no dinero)
But I'm willing to give it another try
Nothing compares
Nothing compares 2 u
Nothing compares
Nothing compares 2 u
Nothing compares
Nothing compares 2 u
create_destiny: (wreck slow)
This morning, in the restroom at work, I gazed at my reflection in the mirror while washing my hands and was horrified! All the hair on one side of my head had fallen out of my hair clip, there was a streak of blue ink across my cheek and an inexplicable piece of string was hanging from my bottom lip!!!

I can't believe my co-workers didn't say anything to me. They allowed me to sit at my desk all morning in such a state! I mean, what the fuck, man?

Okay, I made up the ink streak part for dramatic effect....oh, and the hair thing too. And I lied about the string......BUT STILL!
create_destiny: (sewing circle)
I suffer from Road Rage but I've never had the horn to properly express it.

My first car was a 1969 Volkswagen Beetle. The chirpy "meep-meep" sound of such a horn was not an effective way to communicate rage toward other drivers. A honk that should have been interpreted as "Get the Hell Out of My Way Asshole" was often mistaken for "Cheerio old lad, pleasant day, shant we say?"

My second car was also a VW Bug. This horn worked just fine for a while, then something caused the horn to take on the sound of a dying cow, a sound which is also less than desirable when trying to communicate rage toward other drivers.

My third car was a 1982 Ford Escort. The horn was not in the middle of the steering wheel where God rightfully intended it to be, but rather it was built into the turn signal lever sticking out from the left side of the steering column. If I wanted to honk my horn, I had to press the lever in with my left hand, a most unnatural act for any angry homo ((((wait for it)))) sapian such as myself. This left-handed-pressing-in-a-lever maneuver is scarcely conducive to the proper expression of road rage.

When I moved to Albuquerque my Escort died a sudden death. Some friends and I stood in the driveway in a semi-circle around my dead car with the hood up, drinking Coronas with lime and trying to discern the cause of its death. "Looks like it blew a head gasket", a most unreliable hippie couch surfer surmised. I saw the grim reaper in my peripheral vision nod in agreement. I lost all hope and put a "For Sale Sign" in the window.

This lead to a case of yard rage.

A Mexican kid down the street bought my Escort with the queer horn for seventy-five bucks. I watched him push it off into the sunset. The next morning I stood dumbfounded on my front lawn as he drove it down the street, honking and waving as he passed by. It was as if God himself was flipping me the bird.

I was forced to get by on a bike alone. My yard rage subsided but my road rage did not.

In New Mexico, my road rage was mostly geared toward loose dogs who chased me mercilessly and nipped at my ankles while I panic-pedalled as fast as I could to get away. It was a daily ritual. Oh, and it never rains in the desert, right? Wrong. It poured like a Mother the day I had a job interview.

When I moved to Chico my car-less days spread into the next four years. The road rage raged on and despite all my rage I was still just....an underpaid white chick trying to get by. (What did you think I was gonna say?)

After four years of bike hell, God had mercy on me and I acquired an automobile [insert angelic hymn] with a non-working horn [insert flat tuba sound].

I'm marked. I'm destined to never experience the satisfaction of blaring my horn at the numerous bitches, hoes and jackasses who piss me off.
create_destiny: (Default)
I've been sabotoged. Somebody put a nail in my car tire and caused a flat. The boyfriend keeps insisting that I'm being paranoid and probably just ran over a nail in the park or something. Must be nice to be him - to always write these things off as coincidences, to live in oblivion to the maddening myriad of conspiracies that rule our lives.

Here's why I'm not being paranoid:

1. It happened on Friday the 13th (of January). Yeah, tell me about. I just happened to run over a nail on Friday the 13th and got a flat tire?!? I don't think so. Everyone knows Friday the 13th is a day of sabotoge and revenge, not "shitty luck" but premeditated acts of fuck-you-very-muchness perpetrated mostly against fairly innocent white women who love too much.

2. The day of the flat, I asked my boss if he had slashed my tires in a fit of rage against me for often being smarter than him and for frequently telling him how gay he looks in anything yellow. He just looked at me and cackled, gayily I might add, while another co-worker (the one who has been putting a card-board cut-out of a puppy in the street in front of his house so he can watch people swerve and almost crash) said, and I quote: I'm the one who slashed your tires. And then blithely continued discussing the merits of whatever crotch-rock he listens to with other co-workers while defiantly ignoring my incredulous stare.

3. When I told my co-worker and friend, Azucena, about the flat tire sabotoge, she smiled and shook her head and said, "Ay, Doro, you are more cuckoo-cuckoo than me. What you gonna do when you get new job and don't have no cuckoo-cuckoos like me to talk to, huh?" Clearly she's in on it too and is merely repeating a scripted response written for her by my gay-in-yellow boss and the card-board puppy cut-out guy.

4. I called my most over-the-top paranoid friend, Dave. I can always count on Dave to find something shifty in every situation. Every click on the phone is evidence that the FBI is listening in, having been tipped off by key words in our conversation such as "This weed is the bomb" or "I'm gonna buy a bunch of fertilizer for my garden and then blow some shit up." And you know what Dave says to me? "You probably just ran over a nail. It happens all the time."
create_destiny: (Default)
I told my klutzy-even-when-sober friend, Beth, that we would be camping in a rocky, primitive area. I told her that we would have to transport all the camping gear down a steep, dirt hill. I mentioned this several times as well as my fear that she would fall and hurt herself in this terrain. What I should have said is, "Bitch, if you love me, you best bring appropriate rocky-hill-climbing shoes or I'll have a continual anxiety attack that no amount of alcohol can suppress." I should have said this repeatedly. I should have screamed it in her ear every time we spoke on the phone in the days preceding our much anticipated camping trip because she brought and wore these:

P10100221

This is a photo of the dirt road we travelled to get to the prized campsite:

P10100741


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