exeunt loves

I thought I saw him last night.
PC walking along Davis Street.
I was so surprised I started following the direction he was going.
I called his name across the street and he turned his head to look back but kept walking.
For a second I was hurt he didn't stop to talk to me but then I realized he didn't see me because it wasn't him.
At least I'm fairly certain it wasn't.

It made me smile that my instinct was to run toward him instead of away from him.
Heartache has such a profound ability to heal itself.


I felt similarly when I discovered Mr. Volcano dancing amidst my thoughts.
It started when I received a message from some guy on Okcupid that looked like he could have been his brother.
It was eerie the similar details.
And finding his picture on my computer, I found his name even spilling out into conversation.
You must not be satisfied with your current relationship, a friend told me.

But that couldn't be true.
I didn't want Mr. Volcano or PC.
He just pressed his way through the deep recesses of my memory to be present in my actual thoughts.
I didn't want him there.

Who wants a ghost lingering, reminding you by its absence how much it does.not.care.?

And then, most comically of all, a man outside my lover's apartment, embodying the image of Narcissus himself.
I smiled with uncontrollable amusement.

All my lost loves seemed to be returning to take their final bows.
Like some montage at the end of a movie, where each character is shown again, like some final stamp affixing each face to the screen.

Maybe they needed to exit in finality so this new story I'm in could be free to play out.
Because I'm no longer in a new chapter.

I'm in my fairytale.
The one where I'm a real princess.
The one where the ending is unlike every story before it.

Lesson Learned: Women Keep Silent Unless Rainbows Fall Out of Your Mouth

I realized something quite profound this evening.

All of the flack I've received in expressing a genuine emotion, namely my anger at an injustice, my intolerance for deceit and jealousy, has earned me the title of big, bad bitch.

And I finally connected the polka dots and realized why so many hens have their feathers in such a tizzy.

Most women don't believe their voice is worthy of being heard.
If they have any unpleasant thoughts, they fear they are not being nice and should say nothing at all.
They have learned, through their own relationships and judgment, that women who cause conflict are dealt with accordingly.
They are sent to their rooms without ice cream.
They are abandoned and single.
They are mother's disappointment.
And because of their own stifled screams they believe ALL women should cut off their tongues before voicing anything more than a soft purr.

You see I don't think most women are as progressive as they pretend to be.
They don't want to stand strong against the whores of injustice and gossip and lies.
They don't want to say what they're really thinking or listen to anybody who does speak their mind.
They want to be homecoming queen and voted most likely to be adored by the universe.
They want everyone to smile and say hello to them when they walk by even if neither can actually stand each other.
They want compliments and niceties to be tossed around regardless of whether they hold any fragment of sincerity.
They want play acting.
Or as my college mentor phrased it Actor Masturbation; the kind of self indulgent drivel that is purely for the sake of the self righteous actor and communicates no real truth to the audience whatsoever.

Because they dislike the truth.
Because it's ugly and raw and isn't covered in chocolate sprinkles.

But let's say, in spite of their abhorrence for such vulgar words, that everything I wrote were true.
What if someone did slander my name and that cost me my ability to have an income and a career I excelled at?


What if my co worker had been a man?
What if the wrong doing came from a HIM and not a SHE would the women who judged my anger suddenly approve of it?
Would they join with me in damning the man because I could do so much better than that asshole?
Because it'd be okay to use a swear, you know, since he had a penis and not a uterus.


Is it even the truth that these women want?
Or is it merely something pleasant that's easy to swallow?
Would my name calling and their propensity to not see past the ridge of their prissy noses leave them stumbling over their discomfort that I'm a mean mean meanie and used the word FUCK?
Or would they shake their heads with knowing sadness because they too had been scorned by a man for no good reason.
Excuse me, woman.
And we bitches should have each other's backs not stab them when our sales are higher.



But because I am not referring to a man, because I was not deceived by an ex lover but rather a fellow woman was the culprit I am to play nice and remain a demure, delicate flower?

I don't fucking think so.

Contrary to my peer's antiquated opinions I subscribe to the notion that I live in an era where I have the freedom, the choice, the gift, to write and say any and all that I feel.
My passions, my frustrations, my joys.
And even publish them all on some trivial blog for my own amusement and artistic voice.

And unlike all those women terrified to stir any rippling waves around them, I intend to make a splash so triumphantly great that all of the town will be talking about it.

And some of them will gasp in horror at my quickness to verbally flip them off.
But others, the few weird, crazy, outspoken vixens who tire of such forced feminine guises will smile their wicked smiles in quiet agreement with my resolve.

I may behave like a bitch.
But I am a nice girl.
And if you don't accept me as I am, I will not bury the parts you find offensive.


May your own storm clouds stir within you until you're brave enough to set them free.

You wanna roll? Let's see who fucks harder.

Warning: You might wanna take a shot or smoke a joint before continuing any further.
I'm actually TRYING to be an asshole with this one.
So if you don't have your sassy shorts on you're gonna get offended.
I'd say I'm so so sorry but we all know that's a lie.



Shalom.
And good evening to you friends and enemies.
A little birdie informed me that the bitches of Sunset High still have me on their Twitter feed.
Apparently I'm even more important than I realized.
In fact you can bet they're all reading this even as you are.

Heeey Ugos!
I know you miss me as your Facebook friend!

I felt so tickled and honored by the news that it seemed only right to pay homage to them in the form of my blog since I've spent no time thinking of them and they apparently have me as a subject for their status updates.

It reminds me of hearing stories of the good ol' Starbucks wenches continuing to chatter on about me long after I was gone.

Why is the topic even still relevant to you?
Hellooooooo!!
That was SO last season.
I've had orgasms that lasted longer.


Certainly not with that Starbucks manager, though.
Wawh waaah.

Apparently I'm so awesome they have nothing else to talk about.

Really, little girl?
You're posting a link to the Clinique website and saying they're now hiring to try and spite me?
How adorable.
What a boring little life you must lead.
But I guess if you focus all your energy on me, you won't have to deal with the reality that your own life totally blows.

Here.
I'll play along.
OH! WOE TO ME! I LOST MY JOB! MY LIFE IS RUINED!
Except it's really not.
And I'm actually happy as a clam.
And things happen for a reason.
That's why I had the lead in the high school plays and you were frenching the guy whose now a raging mo.

Question du jour:


Why are people my age incapable of staying married?
Now, I know we don't all wanna be like debutante stepford housewives circa 1965, enduring abusive relationships and men who cheat on us weekly.
 --Though who wouldn't stick around for Don Draper??--Yum Yum Yummer!!--

But I can't tell you how many people I know from my graduating high school class that have been married and then one hot second later, divorce.
Will someone please explain to me why people can date and live together for years and years and years and then as soon as there's a legally binding paper involved they suddenly realize they can't stand each other and they can't make it work.

I know I've never been married but I've also never been divorced.

I think your marriage should at least last longer than the tonsil hockey you played with the clarinet player in high school.
After all, you only hooked up with him because he was the only guy who'd have you so let's assume the guy you actually married you at least liked as much as the Don Juan of band geeks.

And if you're really concerned about pleasing your man just climb on top and get to it.
Oh wait.
I forgot, you don't do that.
Don't want those wobbly bits bouncing around for him to see.


At least when I indulge in some comfort foods for a fat fat fatty I have the decency to delight in them not cough them up like some ratty hairball.
But bulimia does look so good on you.
It was cool when you were fifteen and experimenting with diet pills and shoplifting cosmetics but by the time your high schol reunion has come and gone it's time to put on your big girl pampers and learn to keep your food down.

LEARN TO SWALLOW.

This seems to be something that will help in ALL areas of your life.

Maybe if you would have dedicated half as much energy to your marriage as you have to moi and who knows what else, you wouldn't be well on your way to being another fucking cliche.

Divorced after less time than you spent trying to earn your thespian patch for that stupid letterman jacket.

But what do I know.
Everything I learned I learned from Facebook and we all know anything published there is insincerity incarnate.

The difference is I'm writing about you now to induce inappropriate laughter.
You're writing about me because you want to project your hate onto someone other than yourself.
So have at it, honey.
I'm glad I could be of service.

It's like the time Mrs. Couldn't Handle the Volcano emailed me a long, nasty hate mail letting out all the rage she'd felt over me having no problem sleeping with her ex husband.
 I'm so sorry you had trouble getting it up. Hopefully your new husband is accepting of the fact you're a lesbian.
After I read all of her rant I actually said aloud, Wow she must have really needed to get that off her chest.

Let it out, girl!
If you can't climax at least get pissed.
It's as close as you're ever gonna get.

There's just one tiny thing....
That out pour of unbecoming emotion you thrust towards someone that was really only friends with you that one semester in high school because there was no one else to talk to on that trip to New York was wasted.
I DIDN'T ACTUALLY READ ANY OF IT.
That's the beauty of the delete button.

You just made yourself look like an ass who stays up late into the wee hours of the night obsessing over me instead of your own life.
Maybe you should prioritize.
Then maybe you wouldn't be in the pickle you are.
Maybe his pickle would be in you.

I'm sorry that my hair is prettier than yours and that my sex life is better and that I actually enjoy the food I swallow.
But I'm glad I gave you something to fixate all your negative energy on.
And I do always appreciate the good blog fodder.
Ugly bitches make for most entertaining prose.

That's right.
I said UGLY. BITCH.

Now watch her head explode.

TOOTALOO!!!
XOXO

My computer destroyed my old lovers

My computer crashed again.

It happened once in 2008 when I lived in Rhode Island.
I lost everything, including all pictures of me and Narcissus, which I took as a sign to embrace his absence.

Years later, in a really bizarre and creepy manner, my email account starting resending me old emails.
At first I thought the roommate I'd had a huge falling out with was playing some kind of prank on me.
Because they were emails from 2007 when we lived together.

Then, because that wasn't odd enough, I started getting even older emails I'd sent to Narcissus with pictures of him and I together.

I felt like I must be the unknowing object of some reality tv show and the world was waiting to see how I'd react when the ex love of my life suddenly flashed across my computer screen.

But all I really felt was.....I'm so glad I'm not there anymore.
And.....he's not as handsome as I remember.

Taste changes.
And photos prove it.

So it was only mildly shocking when my computer did it again a few weeks ago and everything was once again no longer in existence.

Initially I was indifferent.
So all my photos were gone.
So what?
Most of them are on Facebook anyway.

Except of course for any I had of Mr. Volcano or Prince Charming.
But again I thought, all the better.
I don't need pictures of faces on my computer as a reminder of all someone could never be for me.

And then my guy and I tied one on the other night and ended up having a really open conversation about past lovers and heartaches and he even showed me some pictures of old girlfriends.


The insanely confident diva in me had to bite my tongue from declaring, MY GOD, MAN! DID YOU TRADE UP OR WHAT??!

Some thoughts should really be saved for cocktails with girlfriends.


But out of curiosity, I searched my email account, to see if there might be any pictures of either of them anywhere.
And there were.
Not all the ones I'd hoped for, but at least a couple.
And even the one made me really happy.

I realized as our drunken stupor brought us closer that night, that it is actually kind of great to still have those pictures of the people you used to love, the people who used to be your world.

They serve as this kind of reminder of all that has changed.
And how for the perfect bliss that nearly existed the moment those photos were shot, whatever is right now, is always better.

And I'm so glad for that.
I'm so glad to know that regardless of what remains stored on some hard drive, the memories, however complex and painful still exist.
And they still induce smiles.

But none so real as the ones parting my lips now.
And that's mine.
And I will always have that.

You make hating you way too easy

Some folks know when to take their bow and make a graceful exit.
Others, unwilling to accept their role as Whore from your Past, linger.
They repeatedly try to climb back on the stage so you'll replay their farewell scene.
And I must say that whenever I'm uncertain as to what to write about, their is always, without fail, some daft cow popping her big nose back into my story.

I'm so tempted to send her a copy of All About Eve if it didn't cost me money, I'd do it.
But I'd sooner set dollar bills on fire before I'd spend any of them on her.

The Schnoze sent me another love letter.

Apparently, she read my blog.

Heh heh.

Disclaimer: I am an uncensored bitch. 
If you piss me off I WILL verbally assault you. 
And if you can't handle it, DON'T READ IT.
Or better yet, leave me the hell alone.
The truth hurts and you wouldn't be crying your drunk ass to sleep at night if it wasn't overwhelmingly true.
Even your mom knows you're a skank.

It's not the spiteful, vindictive slander that bothers me.
So she talked shit. So she cost me the best paying job I've had.
Whatevs.
Bigger and better things, baby.
I've already been handed gigs as a freelance makeup artist.
And one photographer thought I was so beautiful he's already contacted me to set up a shoot to take MY picture.

Boo hoo.
How will life go on after Nordstrom?
More creatively and artistically fulfilling, that's how.

But slanderous little Schnoze goes and writes me a looong, brambly message because someone obviously sent her word that I took my rage towards her to my writing and she in turn, writes, That was really hurtful and I wish we could have talked about this.

Sure, honey.
And then I'll braid your hair and we'll make parfaits.
And I'll reassure you that those boys in your life don't just hang out with you because they're waiting for you to get drunk and put out.
And no, that doesn't make you a slut.
Whores need love too.

Why can't she just embrace her masculine tendencies and own what she did?
Because if I managed to get rid of my biggest threat and competition I'd be bragging about it.
Yeah, I did it. So what. Handle it. I'm glad you're gone.

But this whole, I'm innocent, I swear, I never said a word, honest I didn't! routine is beyond lame.

Honey.
I'm a professional actress.
Leave the pretending to the pros.

The other absurdity to such a whiny sniveling message is that she also blocked me one day and then unblocked me the next.
It's hard not to notice when you're reading your Facebook messages and there's the little cunt's picture one day, oh and then look, it's a hidden profile pic, oh and then wait, it's back again.

Yeah. Uh huh.
Totally rational, sane behavior.
You know who else has done that?
MY EX LOVER!!


Ahem. 
If you don't have a penis, and you haven't buttered my muffin , then maybe you shouldn't be cyber stalking me or caring that I will laugh heartily when you unexpectedly burst into flames.
Just a thought.

This ho can't figure out if she wants to destroy me or she's in love with me.
Maybe she's gonna go Talented Mr. Ripley on my ass and kill me in a boat and then steal my identity.

But this is the sad truth.
She's too young and stupid to realize that every little detail she ran to the manic depressive manager to moan about concerning me was then recounted to me in such specific detail that it is absolutely, positively, beyond a shadow of a doubt impossible for any other human being to have told those stories.
Because no one else was there when they happened.
So no one else could know every minute detail and no one else would be so spiteful to recount them all.

Give up the guise.
Embrace the villainess you are and AT LEAST be genuine.
If you can't be Resafied, be real.

Because pretending is tired.
Whores need rest too.

They meant it for evil but it has already worked for good.

I've remembered how incredible it feels being surrounded by people who are inspired instead of threatened by me.
It's easy to forget when your life has become one thing, one job, one role you're forced to embrace.
And you try and catch your breath with a few close loved ones after your shift has finally ended.

But I am free.

I am a writer. I am a singer.
I am an actor, a model, a dancer.
I'm an entertainer, a lover, an artist.
And I can sell ANYTHING.

And I will excel wherever I go.

And someone is waiting to hire me, to be so grateful they found what they were looking for.

It already happened this week.
And it will continue to happen, in spite of those who try and stop me.

You got me fired. Enjoy your karma.

The problem with being so fucking fabulous is that you piss a lot of people off.
A LOT of people.
If you're mean or ugly or just mildly annoying you'll piss a few people off because who doesn't occasionally wish they could chuck a snowball at an ugly, mean person's face?
SHUT UP! NOBODY CARES!!
But being awesome is a threat of far more severity because that means jealousy.
Greed. Competition. Sensitivity. Insecurity.

Basically every teen movie becomes a reality.
And I'm crowned the alpha mean girl.

Just call me Regina George.
And yes, my hair is so big because it's full of secrets.

I got fired yesterday.
Yep.
F-I-R-E-D.
And juxtaposed with my most successful week with the company.

I was the only one on my line to make my presell goal, I broke my own personal high for daily and weekly sales and one day I even sold so much I ranked number 10 in the ENTIRE STORE, clothing, shoes, designer, included, even outselling the manager for La Prairie.
"You beat me two days in a row! she said to me. Your price point is like $14! How did you do that?? Congratulations!"
(To give you perspective, her average price point for a La Prairie product is something like $300).

I'm a huge baller is what I am.

Is it any wonder I instilled a little jealous rivalry??

"Your teammates don't feel you contribute to the daily counter duties. You don't do stock or get bags. You're not a team player and you have an attitude problem."

Riiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiight.

And the fact I out performed their asses in sales the past several weeks has nothing to do with their petty complaints.

Can we just run those store surveillance tapes from the last 7 days I worked without a day off during our busiest time and note how many times I am carrying bags, restocking gifts and filling product at the counter?

Oh? No?
We can't look at any actual tangible, factually evidence?
Oh that's right.
Because there is none.

Good thing you haven't hired a counter manager for the last umpteen months so it's my word against theirs.

Did I mention the two of them have worked at the counter less than a fifth as long as I have?

Right. Right.
What do I know.
I'm only a pacesetter whose consistently out performed most of the department I work in.
I'm a lazy good for nothing bitch.
I should be sacked.

Oh.
And I am.


The two villainesses sadly shot their own deformed toes off though because a counter that's already down three people and a counter manager is going to be an even bigger nightmare to work for.

Aren't you glad you got rid of the big, bad rockstar, ho's?
Now you can help every needy, annoying customer all by yourself!!

God speed.


The worst of the villainesses is 10 years my junior, out to prove her penis is in fact bigger than mine (I relent! You win!) who boasts a schnoze bigger than Ashlee Simpson's was pre nose job.
The older, less abrasive villainess is high on valium all the time and usually more confusing than anything else.


My favorite part of the day the company gave me the finger is that the schnoze, hours after I left the store, sent me a Facebook message asking me, "Why did you delete me? I thought we were cool?"
Oh. Yeah.
TOTALLY.
We are so cool I'm gonna kick your ass straight to hell just so you can warm up, that's how cool we are.
Stuff that in your schnoze and snort it.

But truthfully?
I am glad you're in my life.
Because it's so much more fun making fun of ugly people

The tragi-comedy climax was right before I got the axe, the store manager came up to me, her panties in a tight twist, and frantically told me I had to cover up because I was showing too much cleavage.
It was the final nail in the coffin of Nordstrom giving me the finger.

Was there anything about me that wasn't offensive to everyone?

Obviously my huge rack got me canned.
I need to work for a man.

He will fucking LOVE me.

They always do.

I knew better than to listen

I think most people would agree the smart thing to do is listen to what people tell you.
But lately I've been choosing instead to not listen to what people say and listen to my instincts instead.

Today at work there were more employees than customers.
That's always daunting with commission sales because it feels impossible to make your goal.
And I'm certain the people I greet as they walk by can smell my desperation.
Which likely reeks as bad as Angel perfume infused with pot smoke.
I wouldn't want my help either.

So when this group of three women walked by me towards a display tower and told me, they were fine and "just looking" I decided, like fun they are.
I worked in some casual remarks about the items they were looking at as though I was making conversation when really I was hovering.
I didn't care if it would merely be $40 I was going to get the sale.

But my hunch, my belief that these women weren't merely passing through paid off when their transaction surpassed $400.

It's one sale, one day but what if I'd ignored my instinct and listened to their words?

What if I always ignored my instincts and listened to what other people told me was true?

I think one of the nicest things I read in regards to this past week and my ability to instill rage in people was from an old classmate.
She wrote me this.


 Reading your recent blog about highschool drama reminded me of something you did for me in back then. It was freshman year and we had English class together (I think it was English). Anyway, someone played a cruel joke on me by calling up one of the popular assholes, leaving a message on his phone, pretending to be me - basically gushing about how I loved this guy and wanted him to take me to a dance, etc, etc. The next day I couldn't figure out why everyone was laughing at me and making stupid comments about me and this guy. You were the only person who had the guts to come tell me what had happened and why they were being so mean. Thank you. I will always remember you as being one of the only honest people in school.


I don't know about you but I definitely feel compelled to continue telling the truth.
However unfavorably it paints me in the eyes of those who merely listen, who never dare to hear anything but noise.