The Impaling of the Palin, White Belts and Silver Bells, the Reason for the Electoral Season (my blog's the best, just like Ali!)

What, me, stressed? Ha, she said! Actually, my wee little wailing banshees, I am very stressed, mostly due to my problematic living arrangement in the apartment de hell. I also found out my luscious, sexy, intriguingly young karate instructor is enthralled with another (facebook.com is so helpful, thank you), and in the meantime my GERD has kicked up. Yes, you too can have a gastrointestinal disorder! My new coping strategy involves being at home as little as possible, and in trying to find a job, which so far has not panned out. What has panned out is mailing ten pages to a pair of literary agents that actually wants to see my work, working out at my dojo (I am now a white belt; no big deal, they say, but still, it took some months of preparation and even if I somewhat screwed up the test I am gonna feel GOOD ABOUT ME! Yes, Dr. Phil, we greet you), etc., etc., etc. My hormones are still going beserk, and at this point I am basically attracted to every man I see. But that's ok! I have a good therapist, who informed me that she, herself, is an apprentice black belt. She drives me crazy sometimes, but is generally helpful, and so far as I am concerned, seeing Kermit the Frog in a white coat holding a clipboard would be helpful these days. Not to denigrate her, of course; it's just sheer truthfulness on my part, really.
And so it goes, so it goes, so it goes. Sarah Palin is being raked over the coals for her family's failures as if women are responsible for everything including the autonomous choices of their offspring; the beat goes on, dear ones (and it's mighty sexist). But does anyone know that Obama and McCain will not be the real president, but some elusive human out there who chose not to run but probably wanted to! I have the feeling, somewhere, that someone gave into cowardice. But who am I to say? Not a job I'd want or ever have, but I just hope we elect the right person for this troubled yet still beautiful country of ours.
God bless you, God bless you, and KYIE! At least, that's how I think they spell that thing I'm supposed to sing out at the dojo.
Tennis, anyone?

Barack Attack, Fleas on Banjos, the Perilousness of Stayin' Alive

Well, here we are again in the land of Nod. I am battling a distressing gastrointestinal condition, and seem to vacillate between feeling incredibly ashamed, incredibly frustrated, and, occasionally, incredibly content. It's strange, being alive in the 21st century, but at least we know that nobody likes Barack Obama! Ha! Ha! Why don't we just canonize the motherfucker? I mean that with the greatest of respect, because seriously, I do like the man. I mean I like him more than I like John McCain, and how much that is saying is anyone's guess. But it's saying something, folks. And in terms of healing some of the racial problems in this country, methinks Mr. Obama will go farther in that arena than dear Mr. McCain with his "country club" politics (note to self: how many people at the DNC belong to a country club? do some research here). Ah, Democrats and Republicans, peanut butter and jelly, Abbott and Costello, Cheech and Chong. Now that would be a fun Democratic Convention with those two on board, although stoners are only funny if you're high, I guess. Or at least a tad familiar with the concept.
Moving briskly along away from Obama, McCain, and other people who did not inhale (actually I think Mr. Obama did, or was it snorted?), I came to the library to print something out only to discover I don't have the *$(#*($# disk with me. God, how I hate that. Worse than I hate fleas on a dog's fur. Once I got my hair cut in North Carolina, only to discover there were fleas on the couch, plus the cranky southern hairdresser took offense to something I said and gave me a lousy haircut to boot. I never went back. Southerners don't like Yankees much if you say something they might construe as derogatory about the South. What I said I no longer remember, although I'm pretty sure it did not involve the now deceased Jesse Helms, whose strangely rabid eyes reminded me of an insane attack dog, or else a very depressed possum. Jesse is now burning in hell, according to some. Personally I think a better punishment for the man would be if he was asked to be a Walmart greeter for all eternity. I can think of no more depressing store or depressing job for anyone, although politicians are extroverts by nature. Yes, Jesse, we're gonna whistle something until you cry! And it ain't When the Saints Go Marching In. Still, I digress.
I am worried my brain has been hijacked by my medication, and I have to eat the other half of my chicken sandwich soon. It's sitting in my bag, and there is no refrigerator at the library for these types of problems. It's possible I could actually eat it, considering there are places to sit in this world and have a nice sandwich. In high school I sometimes ate in the bathroom stall, alone. Ah, joyous memories. I would come home and write about everyone in my high school and it's how I survived an abusive household, complete with insane father, fucked up denying mother, and mentally ill younger brother. My older brother had gone off to college and didn't give a shit about anyone but himself at that point. And who can blame him? Our house was crazier than a flea playin' a banjo at midnight. Yes, that made no sense, but didn't it sound kind of nice and wholesome?
Hmm - hmm. And how are we? I still have a crush, for those of you who did not know, on my karate instructor, and my neighbors are still loud. I'm still unemployed, still in therapy, and still whingeing and whining but by God, I'm sticking it out. I'm praying for a job, a quiet, non-triggering place to live, and the grace and courage to be a person of accomplishment in this crazy, crazy world.
And how are we? You know I only pray that God will bless you.
Amen to that, my friends. Amen to that! Yes, God bless you indeed.

Presidents, my wonderful prognostication abilities, karate instructors who spurn you cruelly

Ah, what is there to say about a life as nutty, bizarre, and lonely as mine?
I am taking karate lessons currently, and fell like a ton of bricks for my hunky twenty-something instructor. Naturally, after what seemed like a lovely bit of flirting going on between us, I was crushed to learn he appears to have some woman locked away in his attic. No, sorry, that's Mr. Rochester. Anyway, I listened to "Delilah After Dark", thus hearing the last nail thud sadly into my oversized coffin. Make that undersized; I ain't heavy but yes, he is my brother. What the hell does that song mean, anyway?
Sigh. I'm so wonderful and no one knows it. Blah blooh kerchoo.
In the meantime, I actually ordered basic cable so I can sit before my tele and absorb the going-ons at the highly touted Democratic National Convention. Joe Biden, Hillary Clinton, Mickey Mouse, the resurrected Mickey Mantle? I don't know who the VEEP will be, but I hope that Obama chose wisely if he wants to win this thing. I find both he and McCain to be nauseatingly arrogant and underwhelming choices, although I applaud McCain for his service to this country. I applaud Obama for his wonderful speaking skills; otherwise I dunno a damned thing about the guy. At least I'm not sure why he's entitled to be president, but he sure as hell acts like he's got it sewn up already. Bad, bad, bad! Word to the wise, Obama: practice that humble look soon, or McCain is gonna send you flying back to Illinois, OK? And I think I'd take a Democrat over a Republican still, despite the fact that there now appears to be no legitimate differences b/t these two parties. Conviction soup for lunch, anyone? What happened to worlds that created Lincolns and Roosevelts and people who appeared to have PRINCIPLES??
Or am I just mad, in this rude, crude, hedonistic, self-absorbed, appallingly violent and media-driven age?
Not to mention - well, everything.
Huh. I feel better already. This online blog is my journalistic confession, the salve for my soul, the solace for my throbbing, aching heart. To be 36, female, and alone, is really gettin' on my nerves.
Paging Mr. Rochester. Oh, Jane. Oh, Bryonic, Teutonic friend o'mine, where art thou now?
You don't need to be blind to be unable to see. Let's choose our president wisely.
Lesser of two evils, anyone (again)?

A little spill from heaven (wipe gently upon contact)

Life continues unabated here in the exciting New England region, where sunny skies continue to hector us sweetly and in the meantime, Obama seems to think he's caught that legendary canary. Cat and the canary, hey what. So I'm reading British journalists who are wise enough to keep their perspective on the U.S. of Mess's troubles and give us nice starchy articles, as featured by Ms. Churchill in The Independent. Who knew we'd all grow up in such exciting, troubled, fragmented times, my fellow Gen-Ex'ers? In the meantime, the Y'ers yawn and look at their I-Pods and download another three million songs. I don't envy 'em - it was cool to be part of the MTV generation. Also vaguely depraved and depressing, but still cool, my sweets, still cool.

So - my latest crush is Martin "sweep the leg" Kove, who despite being 61 or something is still one of the hottest men I've ever seen in my life. Has to be that Pisces charm (ahem - from one Neptune child to another, eh what eh what). I have finally moved into my own apartment and am even in a position to buy a used car, which will make me happier than a box of chocolate cookies dipped in sweet cold milk. I haven't had a car for literally years and am looking forward to driving one yet again!

Ah, life, song of songs, victim of victims, hero of heroes, and on and on it goes (and where, alas, it stops, not a damned bleeping fool knows).

Until we meet again, my pets.

Growl!

Collection of the Depraved and the Inane

Well, my crush on green-eyed columnists continues, for shame, for shame. Can't seem to turn off obsessiveness, anymore than I can turn off a movie starring Keanu Reeves. Keanu Reeves? Yeah, that came out right.
Anyway, life continues on. I had a very strange dream last night that someone punctured my ears with their fingernails, which have been hurting lately. Now they are draining into my throat (not the ears but the stuff in 'em), which is even weirder. Who say that dreams aren't compensatory mechanisms? By God and by golly, they are! So there you go. I also discovered that the Perry Ellis coat donated to me by philanthropist-minded people has a rip in the seams. Almost -- it's on the verge. Rather annoying as I do not sew, and now I feel bad b/c I must have sat on it wrong or something. Ah, no matter how hard I try, I can't seem to do anything but destroy material goods. Guess I care more about ideas.

It's alchemy, people, it's alchemy! Chemistry between people is part of that, ain't it? Amazing how with some people you can feel like an ass and with others like the most glorious, gifted creature on earth. Strange that way, eh? I guess that's the way life goes and that's what makes it maddening and delicious simultaneously. I read somewhere (and the less you read of this shit, the better) that some people's egos get along better with some egos versus others. You know what I mean.

Well, I'm just a lonely horny thirty-something woman trying to make sense out of a pretty painful life -- and, if nothing else, I am honest. Forsooth, I just saw a man wearing a hat that reminds me of the cat in the hat -- hmm. Today I'm wearing a rather icky blue hat b/c the other one has flowers on it and is not exactly my thing. Maybe that should be my birthday present to myself -- I need a new hat. I had a nice birthday but am still living in depressing circumstances and now there is trouble regarding a family member and I am still not working and am sick of dealing with heartless government agencies and you get the picture, people. Ah, if only such a thing as love existed! Besides ripped coats.

You get the picture, my drift, etc., etc. My watch just beeped -- hmm. This watch tends to go off periodically when I am most stressed making me quite sure it's owned by satan. Little "s", have no fear, only God is here. Anywho, Mr. Cat in the Hat just walked by -- why do so many men resemble serial killers? Why do so many look angry? Are we all just angry people at heart? Guess so, at least in part. Sigh.

Sorry this is such a depressing post doing nothing to contribute to the collective sanity of the world, which seems sorely in need of inspiration or a new media outlet, at the very least. I am bummed Billary/Hillary is not doing so well and sick of the media's ardent endorsing of Obama, as if it's all in the bag. The dude strikes me as being somewhat arrogant, but hey, what do you expect? All politicians in the spotlight probably are by nature if not by default.

So there we have it. I must go now and dream a better dream, but all I feel like doing is weeping into a giant box of cornflakes. I think I will purchase some artificially colored food to help with my PMS (yes, you knew this was hormonal in part!) and then dream that dream. Without worry, without stress, without pain.

Love,
Moi

Cleanse and Heal Thy Psyche if You Dare

Well, I did it. I created a new blog. Just like someone, out there, is creating a baby, a new hair care product, or, in the case of the United States, attempting to bring back that elusive thing known as democracy. Not that it's ever been liberty and justice for all, mind you, but anything is better than the Bush administration. God knows anything is better. I'd take aliens from outer space at this point, and we have many more bloody months to go. Let's hope that they aren't bloody, but fruitful and uplifting. Any new energy is good at this point methinks.

So life goes on. Lately am dealing with a deeply driven disappointment in the human race in general and the usual torture that is the Piscean legacy. We inherit the psychic crap of the universe, apparently. Next incarnation I'll return as an Aries and tear up the turf. At present I simply lust for an Aries; he's married with three kids, but I pretend his wife has had a particularly galling scuba diving accident. Ah, I never said I was kind. Seriously, all of my crushes go nowhere, but maybe I don't think I deserve a relationship. That's what a Psychobabblist would say if I paid 'em good money. I say, please leave me in peace, then bemoan the general impatience, rudeness, and insensitivity of this age. Where did love go, anyway? Did we ever have it? Can we bring about Dorothy Day's revolution of the heart? Will anyone ever read this blog besides some bored tech type at blogger.com?

Ah, questions with no answers. Gotta love 'em, right God? God gets a lot of questions; he's the Q&A man, but the answers seem...nebulous, at best. Or so it seems to me.

I'm rereading Margaret Atwood's The Handmaid's Tale and trying not to let the new case manager at my residential living program (or whatever the fuck they like to call this fucked up place) get to me. She is kind of like crystal light; sweet at first but then maybe not so good for you. I go to many fruitless appointments, and today paid six dollars for cranberry juice and never even noticed. Tres scary, eh what? I'm also annoyed with about fifty people but that's OK, that's just the way it goes. I'm just having a hard time balancing my needs with someone else's. Ah, more psychobabble! How can we ever be sure the words coming out of our mouths are our own? I need to find mine, that's for sure.

I also need cheaper cranberry juice, some good lovin', and maybe a new place to live away from incredibly difficult endless and incredibly annoying dsyfunction. Did I say "incredibly" enough? Great word, actually; one that gives off almost palpable sparks.

Tomorrow is another day. I am still alive. The world is a vampire, set to drain, and certain men may never love me but somewhere is someone for everyone, or so they say.

You ain't nothing but a hound dog...crying all the time.