JOURNAL

Ways to tell your family is redneck:

Beer butt chicken and fried turkey have ever entered your holiday menu.

Budweiser is the beer of choice, Heineken is considered a fancy import, and drinking can be done morning noon or night, though not when the preacher's coming to call.

They all live in a two bedroom trailer, which wouldn't be so bad except there are 12 of them.

They have 8 dogs. All of them either a. pitt bulls b. rottweilers c. dobermans, who have been trained to attack anyone of questionable ethnic origen, bill collectors, and jehovah's witnesses.
I have no room to talk about the dogs. The one dog I own is insensibly vicious. In my defense it is not my responsibility for making him that way. Some asshole dumped him near our property and probably, from all I can tell, abused him before deciding that the poor thing wasn't any use to him. Now he harbors this hatred for everyone, except me because I am the provider of his food and water and stuff. And I don't do things like hit or yell at him. Which activities I think you should reserve for truly evil people, like IRS auditors, middle managers, and people with glass pack mufflers.

Sunday, October 13, 2002
It's 12:34 p.m. Another strange dream. I'm afflicted by these things. I dreamed that someone broke into my house , but not to steal any money or anything, but ran out after stealing some bread and some lima beans. In the dream I'm in such a panic that I run over to my landlord's house and make him come over to my house with me. Only instead of looking for the food snatcher we are sitting there on the couch. As we're sitting there my landlord pulls out this box of jewelry and begins fitting me for a nose ring. Does this mean I have secret fantasies about being pierced by my landlord? Or that my landlord is actually into tatooing and piercing and this is a precognitive dream? Or maybe this is a sign from God that I need a nose ring?
I got blissfully sloshed Friday night on two glasses of wine and two glasses of crown and coke. And I'd tell you all about it except that past a certain point of inebriation I cease to remember events. I do remember having this semi-lucid conversation with someone who'd come over to join in the festivities and then laying down on the bed saying I was "a bit sleepy" then "lights out".

Ways to tell if you are drunk:

you light a cigarette, look down, and realize you've already got one lit and have been smoking on it for several minutes.

you get up and the room doesn't just spin but does it's own version of the carnival tilt a whirl forcing you to hold on to the nearest available steady object.

you've stopped vomiting but you can't quite get up from the floor, or for that matter pull your face out of the toilet.

the next day your friends tell you that you ate a catfish , while it was still alive, and that explains the mystifying stains all over your white t'shirt, and the fish scales in your mouth, but you'll be damned if you remember a bit of it.

I don't drink very often. Because when I do I'm slurry, silly, disgustingly sweet, sloppy, and downright the epitome of the "I love you guys" drunk. Therefore I tend to stay away from the devil's brew. Stick to stimulants like coffee, and bathtub speed. Um. Kidding.

Thursday, October 10, 2002
It's 12:52 p.m. I had this dream right before I woke up. I was playing volleyball with myself. Only I wasn't playing normal volleyball. I was playing some new, bizarre form of volleyball. This other person I was playing with, me, was explaining the rules of this new form of the game to me and it was very complex space station type stuff. The dream closed with me putting on some wierd form of knee pad. No more turkey sandwiches with sweet onion mustard before I go to bed.
I am a late night snacker. I don't actually get up in the middle of the night and eat. Though at one point in the middle of my popsicle addiction, ( I had become addicted to popsicles to the point that I was buying a box of 24pack every few days, and even during one three day period ate nothing but popsicles.) I woke up in the middle of the night several times and went to the freezer and ate several popsicles then lay back down and went to sleep. However , this behavior has ceased since popsicles have fallen out of favor.

Ways to tell if you have an addictive personality:

Your septum has several holes in it and it's not from snorting drano my friend.

Your smoking a cigarette during any of these activities: eating, sex, getting chemotherapy.

You see a shocking analysis of how the latest street drug is affecting today's society and your first reaction is not "That's terrible" but "How can I get my hands on that?"

You've ever thought of moving to that little country in Europe for no other reason than that *everything* is legal there.

Ways to tell if you have a codependent personality:

The men/women you date don't just frequent beer joints but are regulars ie Norm on cheers.

You've ever had this thought and considered it with the gravity of a universal truth. "I can change him/her"

You've ever had *this* thought and considered it with the gravity of a universal truth. "He/She didn't really mean it when He/She hit me/ cursed me out/ killed the cat and hung it from the ceiling fan, it was just the drugs/alcohol."

When you get angry you don't want to hurt other people, you want to stick your head in the oven and turn on the gas. That'll show them.

I read a really funny little thing in the hospital once. It was about codependents. It was in the form of a dial up sheet for a hotline. Press this number for this service, press this number for this service. At the end it says, if you're a codependent press one while we place you on hold and talk to all the really important people out there. I thought that really summed up the codependent world view.

Tuesday, October 8, 2002
It's 10:37 a.m. I broke my stupid coffee pot. It's an omen dammit. I don't know what it's an omen of, but I know it's an omen. Of something. Something ...bad.
I know, what if it was God telling me he doesn't want me to drink coffee anymore?
Of course the obvious implication that I'm just a damn klutz has been reviewed and dismissed.
I do drink way too much coffee. But I wake up practically catatonic from all the medication I take. I'm on 15mg of zyprexa. That's a big whop of shit. A friend of mine took 20mg one time and slept 24hrs. straight. That shit will knock you on your ass. Sometimes when I get sick of sleeping so much I skip just skip it, then I'll just sleep six or eight hours but I always have these really freaky dreams.

Reasons why I will never give up smoking ever and I don't care what you say:

I like to smoke.

I LOVE to smoke.

I like the way the smoke feels going into my lungs killing all the tiny little bronchia in there and blackening the tissues.

I like the way cigarettes feel in between my index and mddle finger, held there for five to eight minutes while I intermittently take drags off of them.

I like the way cigarette smoke smells, the way it drifts through the air, the way it lingers in hair and on clothes.

I like the pissy little looks I get from nonsmokers when I light up and take a drag in places where they can't dispute my right to smoke.

I like to smoke.

I LOVE to smoke.

So there.

I've decided that I can write whatever I want in these lists and on my journal since no one ever comes to my page. I could write out detailed assasination plans on ...um..nevermind, it'd be my luck that the one person who did come to my page would be a freaking FBI agent or something. Anyway.

Sunday, October 6, 2002
It's 11:08 a.m. I'm sitting here listening to the classical music radio station they run locally here. Being a complete music illiterate I have no idea what piece they're playing, it's absolutely gorgeous though. I've spent the morning reading William Carlos Williams and Langston Hughes over the internet. And am now convinced that I will never live up to the genius inherent in their poetry so I'm going to give up and write greeting card poetry from now on as it is the only thing I deem myself fit for.

Ways to tell if you're a rock illiterate:

You still have, anywhere in your possession, a Ratt T-shirt.

You just caught Def Lepard at their appearance down at the MAX and they were fabulous, man!

You've went to see Glitter and thought Mariah Carey did a superb acting job.

You thought Lilith Faire was an arts festival.

Ways to tell if you're a rock snob:

You think *everybody* is ripping off Dylan.

You only go to concerts with three million dollar pyrotechnic displays to which you've obtained front row tickets that you payed 300$ for and waited in line a whole weekend to obtain.

People who get song lyrics wrong really irk you.

People who don't know the annotated biographies of the artists who sing the songs really irk you.

You have a life time membership to Rolling Stone, Spin, and every guitar magazine available.

I think I have an obsession with these lists now. That's all I need is *another* obsessive compulsive direction to go in.
I really am one of those people who has their books categorized by author title and genre. And it really does bother me if people take them out and don't put them back in order. In fact I have a stack of books that I've pulled out that are waiting to be filed back in, that I won't put back in in randome order and mess up the filing system that I have because it would drive me beserk. I'm a born secretary I think. They need to elect me to run some big office and put me in charge of some elaborate filing system. I would be happy all day long just sorting and refiling.

Saturday, October 5, 2002
It's 4:08 p.m. I stayed overnight at my brother's house, which is about forty five minutes away. Last night we're sitting around talking and he says, out of the blue, "I've got this guy I want to introduce you to." , instantly skeptical I'm like, um, ok. So he continues, telling me the guys name is Bill. (Red flag. Generic name, almost as bad as Bob.) He goes on. The guy caught his wife cheating, had to get a divorce. Only, he goes on to say that he walked in on her not once , but twice, in bed with a guy. (Second red flag, guy is a sucker.) Still, I hazard to ask, well how would you describe him. Oh, my brother says, he's sweet. Hmm, sweet. Not intelligent. Not great personality. Not charming. But ...sweet. (Third red flag. Dogs are sweet.) Finally my brother comes out with, he's a little on the big side. Ok, so he's a sucker, he's so bland that you're best bid for describing him was "Sweet" and now he's fat? Indignantly I hissed "You just want to set me up with a fat guy because I'm fat. Thanks a lot!" To which my brother automatically replies "You're not fat. In fact I think you've lost some weight." and I say, meaning every word of it "I have not lost weight and you know it. You're just trying to manipulate me into going out with your friend. Well forget it." Subject closed. I hate it when people tell me I've lost weight and I know that I look like I've been out to the all you can eat buffet every day for a month. No list today. I've got work to do. Check back tomorrow for another exciting installment.

Friday, October 4, 2002
It's 9:31 a.m. Dieting now, so I'm absolutely starving. I could eat the legs off of a wooden table without blinking. (or chewing). Why do people have to diet? Why can't we just go on being blissfully, horribly fat, until we're no longer even able to walk, until we have to go around on those little hover round scooters everywhere, even to the mailbox? sucking on oxygen just to get a coherant sentence out?
Ok, maybe I'll stick to this diet a *bit* longer.
Still, I'd give my a left toe for a bite of a hamburger covered in mustard and mayo with pickles and on..ok I really need to quit daydreaming about hamburgers at 9:31 in the morning. It's positively revolting. And a clear indication of the power that my greedy fat cells have over me.

signs that you're a food aholic:

you're food budget every month rivals that of small countries

a "snack" for you resembles other peoples four course meals

you've ever had to take out extra tucks in your extra large pants

frequently after dining you have to not only let out the front button of your pants, but entirely unzip them as well

signs that you're too thin:

you stopped eating when you were thirteen

you get asked a lot , almost constantly in fact, if your anorexic or bulemic, and when you deny it people look downright skeptical

you hair started falling out last month

you shop in the little kid's department for clothes

I've been fat and I've been thin. I have to say that I like being thin more. You can run without falling down gasping for air. Of course I may just do that because I smoke a pack of cigarettes a day. You know?

Thursday, October 3, 2002
It's 4:22p.m. I had my sleep schedule all straightened out then my friend came over and kept me up all night and I'm right back where I started. I've decided that I don't want friends. I'm going to build myself a cabin in the woods and become like that Kazinsky person, without of course, actually mailing bombs to various people and blowing them up. It's just such a hassle to actually be sociable and be nice and make small talk, and no I'm not saying that I don't have genuine love and like for these people in my life it's nothing as severe as that, it's just a damned hassle to keep up with them, and deal with that whole NICE thing. Why do we have to be nice? Why can't I just go about naked with mud in my hair barking like a dog eating grubs?

Ways to tell you're antisocial:

You're front door has a sign that says "Beware of Human."

You have a six foot fence around your property topped with barbed wire.

Family, and Friends (if you have any left) are beginning to refer to you with terms like "recluse" and "hermit".

You've ever answered the door with the following : mace, a baseball bat, a shotgun.

Ways to tell if you're paranoid:

you keep secrets from *yourself*

your deadbolt has a deadbolt

you believe in Them and They and you know for a fact that they are not only out to get you but they quite possibly have already got you.

you can't wait to inform the masses about The Great Conspiracey that has been going on since 1200 b.c. and involves top ranking government and religious people from every country in the world and personally restricts the freedom of every person on the planet.

Because you are privy to information on this conspiracy They are out to get you.

I truly believe there is a conspiracy going on in my life. Unfortunately whatever it is it is so complex, well thought out, and vast, that I am unable to figure it out. Therefore I *know* that something screwy is going on, I'm absolutely positive of it in fact, but whoever is responsible for this conspiracy is so smart that they've set it up so that I'll never figure it out. So like a little lab rat I just have to go along and eat the cheese. There's a certain amount of comfort in just shutting up and eating the cheese anyway. For all I know I've been abducted by aliens and they've erased the memory of it. For all I know I'm actually being filmed every moment of my life and the film is being viewed by top scientists who want to know the behaviors of people afflicted with manic depression. There's no way to prove anything really. Isn't that freaky? Or is that just me?

Wednesday, October 2, 2002
It's 11:09 a.m. I've been up since 8 a.m. I honestly thought today was Friday. Maybe on whatever planet I'm from it actually is Friday there. So I'm not just so perpetually lost that I don't know what day it is, I'm just in touch with another race of highly intelligent beings out there circling another Sun.
Quit looking at me that way,It could happen.
I spent the day paying bills. I don't like paying bills. I saw this show on television where these people were so outrageously cheap that they just changed companies whenever a bill was due. I wish that I could do that. I really do. I'd get caught though. When I was growing up I was always the person in the house who got caught doing shit wrong. It was inevitable. Who ate all the cookies? Well denying is fine, but when they find the bag under your bed, what can you do? I guess I just wasn't a very *smart* little criminal. Hence, I never turned to a life of crime. Which is a good thing.

Ways to tell your a bad liar:

you can't look the person your lying to in the eyes

your throat gets very dry, dammit you need a drink of water now!

you say and, and um, every five seconds

you give elaborate unecessary detail to the minor points of the lie, like what the inside of the Kentucky Fried Chicken looked like that you ate at

you are absolutely POSITIVE the other person knows you're lying (and they usually do)

Ways to tell your a good liar:

You could talk a preacher out of his rolex

You got a beamer, on credit, and your credit is shot

Your friends think you spent ten years in the peace corps and your only 24

the last girl you got pregnant sends *you* money

I did my clothes at the washateria yesterday. Don't go to the washateria in my hometown. The owner apparently has no conception of the weather here in Texas. He had the doors closed, and the heater going. I put my clothes in and sat out in my car where even at 85 deg. it was cooler than it was in that little sweat box. I eyed the two women who were standing inside with honest amazement, expecting them to drop like two overworked draft horses at any second. It had to be at least 110 deg. in there. I thought I was going to collapse when I had to go back in there and collect my clothes from the dryers. Which I did in a complete rush, throwing my clothes in the baskets, and practically running out of there, folding them when I got home. I thought about doing some form of peaceful protest against the owner, putting up a sign or something, but decided that he'd probably just ignore it anyway. Besides, it'll be cold here soon and the heater will be a god send.

Tuesday, October 1, 2002
It's 2:12 p.m. I've been up since around 8 a.m. And the search for intelligent life goes on. A word of advice for people , like me, who are braindamaged. Don't get up at eight in the morning and go to the sonic and order a greasy bacon cheeseburger and tots with chili and scarf them down precipitating an intense nausea that leaves you hating all life on the planet with a passion and ferocity that only individuals with one testical are supposed to feel.
After being attacked by an enormous waterbug (The polite term for those monstrous cockroaches that we have here in Texas that are the size of small cattle and can actually fly) who was after the fries I'd left on the floor beside my bed in an outright act of slovenliness I became outraged at the invasion of my home by this creature and went on a cleaning binge that lasted all day. I did the dishes, bagged up the trash, swept, mopped, vacuumed (sp?), did laundry, and kept my eyes open for the creature who I'd decided I would catch in a mason jar and throw outside if I found, as I cannot actually kill an insect that size. I mean have you ever actually killed a waterbug? They are so large that they take like five minutes to die, sitting there kicking their legs. I read somewhere that if you decapitate one they can live two weeks without their head. OMG. UGH.

Ways to know that you're a slob:

You do dishes only when every dish in the house is dirty, and even then you only do them on an as needed basis ie washing a fork and a plate at a time.

You get up and go to get dressed and your selection ranges from: Extremely Dirty, Very Dirty, Somewhat Dirty, and It smells ok.

You can't actually *see* your floor, but you know it's under there somewhere.

You lose important documents, prescription bottles, books, packs of cigarettes, wallets, keys , and small children for months at a time in your house, only to find them when the planets have come into alignment and motivated you to clean the place up.

This all sounds terribly familiar, you're grinning to yourself, and you're slightly ashamed, but not enough to actually get up off your ass and do anything about it.

Ways to tell if you're a neat freak:

You iron your blue jeans to get that perfect crease down the middle.

You think people who only shower once a day aren't very clean.

Your books are alphabetized and sorted by Author, Title, and Genre and you get very irate if anyone puts a book back in the shelves out of order.

Your knick Knacks have coasters

You have read Helpful Hints from Heloise and follow it religiously.

I fall somewhere in the middle of these two. I am a complete slob for days on end, then I fall into this sort of religious frenzy and clean the place top to bottom and it stays that way for weeks. Then it's back to where I started. I'm comfortable at both ends of the spectrum.
My dream of course is that somehow I'll just magically stop being lazy and wake up being one of those people who does everything on a routine and everything and then I won't put everything off like I do. People like that sort of amaze me really. They seem like Super People. Ready to tackle a hundred tasks in a single day. I can barely remember to brush my teeth.

Monday, September 30, 2002
It's 4:14 a.m. I've been up since around 1 a.m. Been watching this very interesting movie about addiction w/ Michael Keaton. I've decided that Michael Keaton is a sex god and I am his love slave. Am going to build altar in my living room decked with thousands of his pictures and burn candles and incense and pray night and day that he will pull into my driveway in limousine and knock on door, with the express purpose of making mad passionate love to me.
Naturally I've decided this after watching him play a completely emotionally fucked up character. Had he been playing a sane rational human being I would have decided he was a bit cute, but unappealing. As is typical to my pattern of being attracted to only the most disgustingly fucked up of the opposite sex.
Had he at some point actually done something like bitten the head off a bat I would have swooned in positive extascy (with no one here to revive me) - in fact two human beings on the planet on whom I harbor the most intense crushes on are Hannibal Lector and Simon from American Idol.

Ways to know your attracted to emotionally fucked up men:

You see a man with dyed black hair, black eyeliner, wearing nothing but black, whose skin is so pale he looks like he hasn't been outdoors all year and your first impression is not "Who does he think he is, Marilyn Manson?" but "Wow, He looks really cool." and "I wonder if he's looking my way?"

When you heard M n M 's new song about his mother you didn't think he was whining, instead you genuinely felt sorry for him.

You are attracted to any of the following : Randall Flagg, Donald Trump, Bill Clinton, men who ride motorcycles , Bill Gates.

You've ever seriously considered, or are now having, correspondence with a serial killer now in prison.

Ways to know your emotionally fucked up:

you have dyed black hair, you wear black eyeliner, you wear nothing but black and your skin is so pale you look like you haven't been outdoors all year. Get thee to a tanning salon my friend. Do not pass Go.

you've ever said the words "I love my dog" and you were speaking in the biblical sense.

you have your name on all your food in the refrigerator and the pantry - but you have no roomates. (even if you do- get a life.)

It's 2002 but your still partying like it's 1982.

your your own best friend!

I'm my own best friend actually. I guess I ought to know all about being emotionally fucked up. I should do a dissertation on it or something. I would too, if I knew what a dissertation was.
It sucks being uneducated white trash.

Sunday, September 29, 2002
It's 4:21 a.m. Don't ask me what happened to Saturday. I don't know. No , I did not lose the time like someone with multiple personalities (and if your secretly beginning to suspect at this point that I am obsessed with multiple personalities , you'd be right, I am, I have always dreamed of some hidden personality stepping forward and taking responsibility for all of the incredibly stupid things I have ever done, therefore absolving me of all blame). No, I was simply so sleep deprived that my brain has fogged all the details into one long blur, all I can remember is laying down to go to sleep and wondering if I'd left the coffee pot on (I woke up to discover I had) and falling asleep without getting up to see about it.
If this sounds like your life, please press 1 now
If it doesn't press the back button on your browser, you don't belong here, ya fuckin normal person.

Reasons why I don't date men from my area:

They still take their laundry home to mom.

Does the word Mullet mean anything to you?

If they'd ever met Langston Hughes on the street they'd have called him "boy".

Does the word "Budweiser" mean anything to you?

glass pack mufflers anyone?

Reasons why I don't date women from my area:

First-I'm not gay, bisexual, though I do think *some* women are quite beautiful, and I'm *not* talking about my sister ya creeps.

Second-Can you say, Rooster combs went out in 1986?

Third-Tammy Faye lay off the make up sister!

Do you really need high heels/ dress flats with jogging pants and a t'shirt?

Fourth-Is it just me or did beating up the girl your guy fucked go out with the rooster comb? Get with the program! Learn a thing or two from Lorena Bobbit sisters!

Fifth and Finally-I'm not positive on this but at the rate these chics breed around here I'm not entirely certain that they wouldn't find some way to pin a baby on me.

My star sign (isn't that a laugh, like those big balls of gas have something to do with us) is supposed to be the one that is central to relationships. Love relationships. Personal relationships. And I am one of the most introverted people I know - I was in this advocacy training program for disability rights, I had to get up and give a speech in front of the whole group. I stood there looking at the floor the whole time. I wanted to melt *into* the damn floor. I don't think people should force other people (shy , insecure, self conscious, people like me) to give speeches. I think we should be allowed to write out our thoughts and mail copies of them to everyone. Actually, it was good for me. Once I got over the whole- Their all staring at me up here and I'm naked as a jaybird (somehow the whole instruction to look out there and see everyone in their underwear had gotten reversed in my mind and it was me up there in *my* underwear - of course) - I felt like I'd climbed a mountain and planted a flag. And everyone came up to me afterward and told me they liked the speech and gave me kudos ad nauseum. However, this being said, it is not an experience that I want to repeat.

Friday, September 27, 2002
It's 3:44 a.m. Drinking coffee. I had all these strange dreams while I was sleeping, all tumbled together and when I woke up I sort of remembered them, for just a second, and then they all disappeared and I completely hate that. The only thing that's worse is when you have a terribly freaky dream and you remember it with excruciatingly vivid detail. Like one of those dreams that you think is an omen portending your death or something and you go about the whole next day driving at 35mph and grabbing onto the mace in your pocket every time someone comes within two feet of you.
Or is that just me?
Probably is just me.
Dammit. I'm such a freak.
Anyway. As usual, I'm sitting here with the radio on. I ate some horrible taco bell left over's because the only grocery store in town closes at 9:00 p.m. , now- if your absolutely desperate (which I'm not) you can drive 12 miles to the next town where they are civilized enough to actually have grocery stores open until 11 or 12, and even have an all night store, though I don't like that one as it is a very large Super Walmart that always has approx. 6.5 billion people in it no matter what hour you arrive there, and I do mean no matter what hour, and I become instantly sympathetic to all agoraphobics the minute I step through the doors.
I actually had some sort of clausterphobic panic attack in the Super Walmart one time. I got all delirious and confused and thought the whole place was going to collapse and everyone was going to trample me. I (naturally) had to leave quite quickly and the two friends who were with me thought I'd gone out of my head. Ever since then I've eyed Walmart and Super Walmart with wary suspicion. I think they pump something into the air there.

People that I admire and Reasons why:

Axle Rose- fellow manic depressive who made it big in the rock and roll world, and who apparently goes off his medicine, which I'm a big fan of doing from time to time, even if it does land me in the hospital, dammit.

Anne Rice- ever since I read her letters to her fans where she used the Royal "we" to address them I've thought she was positively fabulous. (well it was either the Royal "we" or she has multiple personalities, hmm)

whoever discovered coffee. was it those monks? (from what I understand they got really addicted to the stuff too).

Hillary Clinton. I don't care what anyone says. I think she's tuff.

Joyce Carol Oates. I do not understand how anyone could possibly write that many books in as many different genres, but somehow she pulls it off.

People that I don't admire and Reasons why: (though I'm sure they've got a good side, but nobody ever said I had to like everyone.)

Georg Simmel. I do not understand your book. Please do not write any more.

Russel Crowe. Maybe he's just easy to hate. But I saw him on television being rude to someone and just can't get over the idea that he's something of a turd. He is cute though.

Madonna. Courtney Love sings better, Acts better, and is way better at being abrasive and controversial if you ask me. The sad part is? I still wind up watching her on t.v. because she is interesting. Dammit.

George Bush. Check out his record on Disability Rights here in Texas when he was Governor. Enough said.

Hmm. I've got a book called falling up, by Shel Silverstein. My friend, who has a really off beat perspective anyway, comes by and we're sitting there and he looks over- reads the title and says,
"How do you fall up?"
I indicated that I had no idea
After a moment's thought he says, answering his own question-
"When your whole world's upside down."

Thursday, September 26, 2002
It's 10:37 p.m. I refuse to say what time I got up. That's top secret information, only to be revealed to the few people on the planet privy to the freaked out nature of my sleep schedule, which has all the harrowing features of a medical interns without the noble purpose.
I'm listening to the only radio station in my area that actually plays anything resembling a format that I can digest. Which isn't saying anything relevant to something like musical taste on my part, as I have absolutely none whatsoever. I still harbor the secret belief that Pat Benatar is the undisputed Queen of Rock and Roll.
I've delved off into a pot of coffee and am therefore feeling particularly lucid and witty. It never lasts though. I get done with the coffee , the sugar and caffiene rush leave me, and I decide that I am not the funniest, smartest, and coolest woman on the planet and then wonder what is wrong with my brain chemistry that six cups of coffee affect me in much the same way that snorting two lines of coke used to.
(which is why I drink the stuff- duh.)

Things I'm going to do Today (Tonight rather):

Snort Drano

Call poison control, as Drano is toxic

Drink more coffee? (That's up for debate.)

Finish 400 pg. novel, mail it off to top agent, and become resounding success throughout literary world.

Conduct imaginary interviews with myself in mirror to practice for my bestselling novel and the fame that will follow.

Things I'm not going to do Today (ok, ok, Tonight!)

Imagine that the police, the cia, the federal government in any form, or god are out to get me.

Drink more coffee. (I said it was up for debate.)

Call anyone , at all. As it is now 11:00pm and people are desperately tired of me calling them up at odd hours of the night wanting to talk as though it were 3:00 in the afternoon.

forget to feed my dog like I have in the past leading him to believe that he has been left in the hands of a terribly cruel person who cares more about coffee, cigarettes, and practicing fantasy interviews in the mirror than she does about him.

Things I'm going to do today:

make a few phone calls.

buy cigs and groceries.

feed dog. (who , it appears, could eat his weight in dogfood in half a week)

wash clothes that will soon take on life of their own and run out door if not washed soon.

apprehend criminals as I am secretly a superhero.

Things I'm going to avoid doing today:

watching sitcoms or anything with the words "Friends" "Family" or "Bunch" in the title or anything resembling a canned laughter soundtrack.

writing that letter to the editor about the price gouging at the one grocery store here in town- (Or maybe I *will* do that- I don't know).

buy anything with chocolate in it no matter what they say those endorphines cannot replace a real boyfriend.

find myself in the bathroom examining face in mirror for wrinkles. Instead I will satisfy myself with my very young looking mother(who's never smoked a day in her life, naturally.)