Thinking about Things

Did everyone enjoy "Let's Gaze At Our Navel and Repost Mopey Entries Week"? Super fun, am I right? L.G.A.O.N.A.R.M.E.W (pronouced lah gone are mew) may make a reappearance later thanks to a sadistic doctor who not only is switching my Crazy Pills but also took away my Ambien because blah blah addictive blah blah and the new stuff gives me nightmares about things like people in trench coats driving yellow cabs right at me while I find myself rooted to the ground thanks to a million octopuses (octopusi? octopi? Octomom? Whatever.) swarming around my feet and biting me with their vampire fangs as I try to scream but can't because instead of sound only blue light comes out of my mouth and then I'm wide awake and wondering WHY THE FUCK I care if Ambien is fucking addicting, it's WAY FUCKING BETTER than either 1) not sleeping or 2) sleeping extremely poorly and waking up sleep hung-over to the point that I am basically useless the following day.

In light of this, you're probably thinking that I am just going to phone it in again this week and guess what? You are SO RIGHT. Because, you know, that's how I roll. Because I'm all gangsta and shit, fo shizzle. (speaking of phoning it in, a big Monday morning Fuck You to Verizon for misdirecting my post Hope so that instead of posting on Saturday and finishing up LGAONARMEW in a reasonable time frame, instead I find it hanging around as a draft this morning and now it's LGAONARMEW part 2 only it's NOT part 2, because I lack four more mopey postings that fit that format. And also my bill? From Verizon? FUCKING UN-REAL. So, Fuck you Verizon! And fuck you Bank of America for other reasons. And also, a big Fuck You to City of Phoenix police department with a special shout out to the officer who ran the red light on Indian School and 63rd because he was TALKING ON HIS FUCKING CELL PHONE.) Has anyone seen my Xanax? Because I haven't had any breakfast and a Grilled Cheese and Xanax sandwich sounds delicious.

Just kidding. Maybe.

Right now I have both a lot of time on my hands and none at all, what with the working seven days a week for 10 weeks nonsense going on up in here. So while sort of five hundred years in the past for two of those days and for all of that I'm chasing about errant actors demanding that they play nicely with the paying customers instead of wandering around playing Jack Sparrow Bingo and even though the other five days are spent trying to use my sixth sense to determine if the other end of the ringing phone is an angry customer, an angry creditor or an angry representative of our corporate office while attempting to repair my fucked up desk top since the IT guy hasn't bothered to call and isn't returning my calls and I am completely techno-tarded, I have WAY too much time on my hands to think.* And I think it's safe to say that that? Is a Bad Thing.**

One thing to bear in mind in the Care and Keeping of your Kiki is that we are best suited to occupations that involve our whole brains, otherwise we think about Things. Not anything important or life changing like the cure to cancer or the best way to transport bacon for on the go snacking, but rather things like, Why do some peoples eyelashes grow down and some grow up? You know what I mean? How some people have upper eyelashes like elephants that grow sort of down and slanty so that they always are sort of looking through them at you and you're left to wonder if it looks like they're looking through a picket fence all the time? And Other Important Things, like who decided to grind up meat and encase it in INTESTINES and then eat it? Because, really, let's consider this. Intestines? Are filled with pre-poop. What about fleshy bags of pre-poop says hey! let's grind up all these left over bits and then stuff them in here and cook and eat it! Not that I'm going to stop eating sausage or anything, I'm not CRAZY, but let's be honest, it's a little off putting when you think about it. Same with Haggis. It's safe to say that most food from Northern Europe is probably the result of a dare. Lutefisk? I rest my case.

Actually, that sort of reminds me of the time that my friend Heather dared me to kiss a boy on the playground and I'm all BITCH, HELL NO. Then later, I wished that I had said yes because she ate those Orange Hostess Cupcakes right in front of me and I fucking LOVE those things even though they're made exclusively of sugar and lard and the orange flavoring that they use to make hand soap.

Damnation.*** Now I want bacon and Orange cupcakes. I bet if I sliced the cupcake in half and put the bacon inside it, then sprinkled it with Xanax it would make an excellent sandwich...


*Holy Run On Sentence, Grammar Man!

** Bad Things have less glitter than Good Things, but unlike Good Things, you really CAN make them with things you have lying around the house instead of driving six hours to find dried Star Anise and then feeling inadequate because you only have one color of ribbon in your house instead of 27 and you couldn't tell anyone the difference between turquoise and teal anymore than you could whip up a perfect ginger infused meringue torte for seven to serve (topped with berries from your own garden OF COURSE) with the mint and lavender sprigged rack of lamb and hand mashed turnips that you picked from your own garden and whipped using cream from the cow you milked this morning right before you wove the angora you combed yesterday unto the cloth you used to sew the sweater you whipped up after you delivered handmade cards to legless orphans in the orphanage you single handedly built out of recycled milk jugs and nails made from rolled soda cans.

***Yeah, I said Damnation. Fuck you. I may LOOK like a spritely 33 year old desert dwelling suburban housewife with the office job and abusive relationship with prescription sedatives, but at heart? I'm a sassy 70 year old Southern Belle with a heart of gold and wit of ice to compliment my nerves of steel and my perchance for gaudy jewelry and telling people to Shush.