Wednesday, November 17, 2004

Random Disjointed Bullshit

So, I was just thinking how pathetic it is that I have this blog and absolutely no one reads it. Except of course for Mary, but even so, she never leaves any comments and besides, she is me and I am her, so for her to be the only one reading my blog is the same as me keeping a journal with a little lock on it and keeping all my thoughts to myself. And most of this stuff she was there for anyway since neither one of us ever leaves work, except for the stuff that happens in Chicago, where she won't go visit with me cause she's a giant meaniehead.

Speaking of which, Cap's party is Saturday. Now, normally I don't obsess over what to wear to things, cause I'm just not that girly (although I must admit I do go around looking for opportunities to wear my "Rock This Bitch" t-shirt, but that's because I crave attention, not because I'm trying to look cute). But in this case, I've been thinking about it all week. Reason being, I'm trying to decide if I should dress up in something that will completely embarrass Brandon. I'm kind of on a roll, what with the whole Karen thing and his bizarre perception that I stole his bartender from him, so I figure electric blue snakeskin pants or a black miniskirt made out of PVC (both of which I actually own) might be in order here. Or not. Cuz on the other hand, that Bowman fuck-knocker is gonna be there and I don't need to hand him any more ammo than the shit he already makes up. But then again, fuck him. It's really fun to embarrass the shit out of Cap, especially at his own party. I hope he gets obliterated too, he's such a fucking tool when he's drunk. Cracks me up.

Here's another example of why I am a giant loser - I wrote a love poem the other day. In all the years I've been writing, even in the really prolific years before they gave me the drugs that made all the "I'm worthless" feelings stop (or potentially just hide), I never wrote a love poem. Ever. Not for pedo-george, or for alcoholic-dave, or for either of the two fabulous gentlemen I almost married. No, I always wrote really sad, hopeless odes to pain and suffering that make people cry. Until now. Who was it that inspired this artistic outpouring of joy and contentment? Has some fabulous knight ridden in on his horse to whisk me away to fairy-land? Have I decided that Karen or some other girl is all I was looking for all along, and now I am complete? No of course not. The poem is about my cat. In all of my life, the only thing to bring me enough pleasure to write happy thoughts down in metered verse is Kristen. Thank God for the drugs, otherwise I might have to go out and shoot myself right now on principle. I'm probably gonna end up being one of those crazy old ladies with 87 cats, who almost completely stops talking to human beings because they only want to be with their cats and almost never leaves the house except to go procure more cats and their clothes smell like shit and cat litter and all the neighborhood kids are scared of them and make fun of them behind their back. Maybe I'll post it here. It's totally embarrassing, but as I pointed out before, no one reads this shit.

Oh, hi Mary.

Screw you guys, I'm going home.

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