I wish I didn’t have all of this computer shit at my desk.

I just really do. I waste too much time looking at the internet, goofing off with Paint and the games that came installed in this stupid fucker and all the crap that people send me via e-mail.

Enough already. I don’t want a visit from the “Wishing Frog” or whatever the hell the good luck e-mail for this week is. If I actually had ten friends who went for that kind of shit to send it too, half of them wouldn’t be speaking to me at any given moment of time and the other half I would have no respect for because they pass around that internet spam shit. Please, please don’t send me any scanned images of prayer cards, if God really wants to send me a message, there are plenty of bushes in my front yard, he’ll set fire to one of them, thanks.

That spiteful pest known as Harlow Beans PhD., bit me this morning. It was my punishment for doing something so hateful as to spend the couple of extra minutes I had talking to her. Damn me. I ran my hand down her back and gave her tail a little twist, just like I do every Saturday morning when I don’t have to literally jump over her and run out the door. Anyway, I do it on a Wednesday morning and that spicy little tart latches onto my leg with her front paws and bites me. Look cat, the Sunday paper is still on the dining room table, maybe you should check the ads for a job and a new squat, cause if you keep this act up, we may have to re-evaluate your position in this organization.

Yeah, right.

Anyway, I can’t concentrate on much lately. I need to be studying for that fecking Algebra exam instead of killing time with this shit and listening to Sarah Brightman. Shit, the next thing you know I’ll be listening to Frank Sinatra voluntarily. Jeez.

Ok, along with other things in the realm of impossibility, I have developed a silly-assed crush on a local human-interest reporter.



Now, why exactly this is, I don’t know. I’ve even found myself getting out more on the weekends and trying a couple of things I’ve seen in his reports, like belly-dancing. It’s weird, even for me.

Probably shouldn’t have even bothered to go there.

Lipstick stains on the remnants of a pineapple enpamada. The yellowy-rusty sweet bread makes the lip prints appear a much darker shade than the lipstick stains on my glass of Diet Coke.

Natacha Atlas is belting out her heart and soul in a language I don’t understand in the disc drive.

Sounds like she’s dying a slow and painful death. But it’s got a good beat and I can definitely dance to it. As a matter of fact, I’m practicing my rib cage slide right here in my chair. I didn’t go to my dance class last night as there is an Algebra exam on Thursday night that I haven’t adequately freaked-out and panicked over yet.

I need at least one sleepless night before any sort of exam that involves any sort of mathematics.

I am so looking forward to Spring Break next week. All I have to do is go to dance class and hope that I don’t sprain something.

Because, try as I might, I’m not very coordinated.

Lots of little things I need to do, make a bank deposit, write the water bill (with the frickin late charge), reapply my lipstick.

It’ll all get done.

Eventually.

March 2, 2004


I do not want to spend the rest of my life in Houston.

That being said, I really don’t have a lot of choices when it comes to finding someplace that I consider affordable where I could actually purchase a home.

I would like to have about twenty-five acres in the hill country. Some place that has lots of hidey holes that the bats could hide out in during the day, and then I could sit on my back porch in the evenings and watch them fly out on their nightly bug ingesting missions. Hence the need for twenty plus acres, the house has to be far enough away from the bat cave, as it where, so I didn’t have to smell bat guano. That stuff is kinda rank.

Anyway.

I need a big enough place to house a kennel for the dogs. I would like to give homes to at least a couple of retired greyhounds, and they would need to have a lot of space. I also would like to acquire a couple of pit bulls.

My reasons for wanting the pit bulls are not altogether altruistic. I like dogs, I actually think pit bulls are pretty and I understand that they are high energy dogs that need a lot of attention, exercise and socialization in order to be a good family dog. I firmly believe that your average shit-bird that would hop the fence and start helping themselves to whatever wasn’t nailed down or molesting the livestock does not understand that. I would like the sign that reads “My pit bull can make it to the fence in three seconds, can you?” would be enough to keep anybody off my property, and if someone decides to take the chance, I want something fierce and powerful coming after them. A running pit bull is concerted mass of sinew, muscle and raw energy, it is a beautiful thing to see.

A trespassing shit-bird getting the ever-living shit scared out of him is funny as hell to see.

That’s one nice thing about a three strand barbed-wire fence in Texas. That’s posted. Although, there are some shit-birds that don’t take the hint, and that’s why there is another fence inside that one. That’s the one that let’s you say, “one step further and I’ll blow your head clean off” with a good deal of confidence that no grand jury in Texas would indict you. That’s “whatever goes on inside of this fence isn’t a damned bit of your business”, so you really need to take your agenda on down the road.


I think I might like to have a couple of alpacas also. They are some funny looking creatures, but they also appear to be very sweet and serene as well. There’s a place outside the town I live in now that has some and every time I drive by I slow down to take a look at what they are doing at that moment.

All I’ve ever seen them doing is eating grass. Sometimes I just sit there in the truck and watch them eat grass. Every once in a while one of them will look up and watch me watching them. I wonder if she would let me pet her, but that would require me to trespass, and that’s something I just won’t do.

March 1, 2004

Just the other day, as I was standing between the stack of books at the local Barnes & Noble, I was wondering just how much of my so-called disposable income could I afford to drop on books at that very moment.

I had to choose, would it be One Hundred Years of Solitude, by Gabriel Garcia Marquez, or An American Tragedy, and Sister Carrie by Theodore Dreiser. A newly minted copy of The Orchid Thief mocks me from it’s cardboard stand. Yes, I do want you, I want you in the worst way, I want you almost as badly as I desired Batman comic books when I was a kid and all my parents would buy me where Betty and Veronica.

I remember what desire tastes like now. It tastes like the bitter disappointment that comes from finding onions on your burger when you specifically asked your dad to tell them NO ONIONS and smells like the ink from ball point pens that where boosted from the post office. Pens that I used to draw moustaches and beards on Betty and Veronica, well, I visited a special kind of torture on Veronica. I blacked out her teeth and drew glasses on her face. I especially hated Veronica. She had cooler clothes than me, she got to wear high heels and lipstick, like I didn’t. And she lived in a house that was something like I knew I would never get to live in.

Bitch.

Anyway.

I knew in my heart that I would not feel fulfilled if I left the store without one of them. I had already picked them up, I had already fondled the spines, examined them for fingerprints and found them spotless and smelled the clean crisp smell that comes from a brand new book having it’s pages flipped open to a random section for a preview read.

I really should choose. I’m not in the position where a few dollars spent in books means that anybody at my house will be cast out into the street, or that my four-legged dependants will do without. Really it comes down to a matter of time and space.

If I could sit down and do nothing but read for eight hours a day, it would probably take me six months to get through my stockpile.

I am also ambivalent about choosing an Oprah book. I was reading a long time before she said it was cool, and I certainly don’t want to be lumped into the throngs of people who started reading just because Oprah said it was cool. But then it dawns on me, that thingy is just a sticker, and stickers can be peeled off.

No one would have to know when I actually bought the book.

Or, if asked, I could say it was a gift.

Or, if asked, I could say, bugger off and quit poking around in my books.

That is the response most people would expect from me, after all.

I have singed up for my second course of belly dance classes.

I used up two bottles of shower gel and tossed the empties this weekend.

I put supper together Saturday night, thereby eliminating the need to put supper on the credit card. I'm praying for more nights like that as I would really like to go to London next year.

There is an old chair sitting out in front of the garage that will go out to the curb tonight for the garbage men to haul away tomorrow morning. This was more a product of my mom's frustration than anything else. As the chair was really her auxilliary closet it really didn't bother me.

I am close to using up some of the stock piled shampoo that has been haunting the confines of my bathroom closet for years. Seriously, I have moved some of this stock piled crap twice. Had Y2K been the major disaster that some kooks thought it would be, I could have been clean for decades. I would have gotten pretty damn tired of eating grass and leaves, as I did not feel the need to stock up on canned goods, but I would have been clean and my clothes would have been clean. Even if I would have had to wash them in the river with a rock. May not have had electricity, but by damn, I would be the cleanest person sitting there in the dark.

I threw out some knickers that where put together wrong at the factory and never fit right. I really think they where two butt pieces sewn together. I did this in a clandestine manner, otherwise my mother would have wanted to make a rag out of them. No, hell no, throw them fuckers out.

Why she will argue over throwing out a lousy pair of knickers but put a serviceable but somewhat scruffy chair out in the rain for three days until the garbage men come on Tuesday is beyond me. Even though it was dark this morning when we began our commute, I could tell she didn't appreciate the "crack house" remark I made.

And these are the most positive things I can report about my life right now.