Saturday, February 21, 2009

The Rules of Infection

I've been passed out all day. Fell asleep nekkid in the hammock after getting out of the shower, so I've been stumbling around with bright red "hammock" lines burned into my face and boobs.

Got stuck on a tour bus for four days with nothing to wear but The Catsuit. Now I've got a nasty rash and the Yeast Infection of Life. Made $500, but I had to fuck Ronnie Milsap.  Shit's nasty, but he fed me champagne and Funyuns, Food of the Gods.

I've been thinking about disappearing. Falling completely off the boulevard~maybe go visit Tanya in San Francisco. Or maybe just go away by myself somewhere and just become a completely different person..

Smoked a joint and made microwaved s'mores. Remembered to check the mail, and found a poinsettia plant on my doorstep. It was from Diane. 

The card read, "I'm sorry about your mom."

Put the plant on the windowsill~ and watered it with my tears.. Just kidding!

Ate pimento cheese outta the container and watched '90210'. I can't believe that shit is so popular.

Sunday, February 8, 2009

The Nerve

Woke up at nine (9!) A.M. to the sound of a million different car horns blaring. Out the window, I saw the 'Bill Weiner's' used car lot next door had a hotdog cart and a big banner that read, "Honk If You Love Our Weiners".

Now let me just say...

I've been totally on edge for the past few days. My period's got me all in a tizz, and I can only give blow and handjobs for the next week. I guess my pussy earned herself a vacation, but $40 a night don't cut it. God! I'm, like, totally stressing out. Plus! My faggot downstairs neighbor keeps blasting the soundtrack for 'Phantom of the Opera' while I'm trying to watch Richard Bey on my old new pawn shop tube.

Anyway. Ate four cold brown sugar poptarts with coffee and I can't get a moment of silence with these goddamned blaring car horns.

Then I got this fucking wild idea: To get all dolled up and pretend I was interested in buying a used car, and somehow sabotaging their entire dipshitted operation. I wasn't sure how, but I figgered it would come to me in a moment of caffeinated bliss.

Turned on KROQ and ran around the apartment lookin' for my shoulder pads. Tripped over the blowdryer cord and landed in a pile of shoes, but while I was down there found a $20 bill and a bag of Doritos. Hooray! That meant I was on the path of righteousness.

Tweezed my brows and put my hair in a French roll. Threw on my mega-spiff black dress and my snakeskin heels. I looked like Ivana fucking Trump with a hangover! Grabbed my purse and the $20 (in case I felt like a hotdog) and ran right over to the car lot.

It was a really beautiful day out, but that didn't change the fact I was still all riled up about not getting to sleep in. Wandered around the lot for a second and then was immediately swarmed by two dudes in chintzy blazers. I played it cool and told them I was only looking, but they kept asking stupid questions and staring at my tits and ass. The younger one in the green jacket was smacking gum and telling me he'd love to have me test-drive something. So I looked around and saw this totally bitchin' little red Miata convertible.

We both hop in, and I am like, rolling the shit out of my eyes at him at this point--this guy is such a goon! He's wearing the sunglasses that have the flip-up lenses and using these hysterical pick-ups. Anyway, I haven't got the heart to tell him I've never driven a car in my life. But, I'm totally confident, and try to stay focused on my two-bit revenge.

I know which one's the gas, and so the other one must be the brake. The 'R' stands for "back-up", and the 'D' stands for "go". No fucking sweat, right?


We go lurching forward, and this fast-talkin' creep face-plants into the dashboard, and screams "MY TOOTH!". I'm too excited, though, and put the car in 'R', and we flew backwards in a shit-frenzy, crashing hard into the edge of the cursed weiner cart--I scream, and keep driving, backwards, tipping the hotdog stand completely over! My heel got stuck or something, and I couldn't put the brake on. We're flying around in a circle, and I'm almost completely turned around, watching behind me, as the other blazer dude keeps screaming, "Shit! Fuck! Stop! Stop!" and the man next to me is gripping the side of the car, powerless under my poptart-fueled reigns.

I slammed on the brakes finally, nearly demolishing an El Camino. Everything happened so fast-it's hard to say if I did any real damage. But the dude next to me was priceless-His bubblegum was stuck to the dashboard, and when he pulled his hand away from his mouth, he was holding one of the caps from his front teeth. Success! But his look told me to panic, so I just jumped outta the car and ran back toward my place, nearly slipping on one of the several weenies now sprawled over the parking lot, like fat, obscene confetti.

I guess the hotdog vendor got spooked, cos he left and hasn't come back...

I don't think they could identify me, though, even if they did call the cops. I was goin' so fast I was blurry.