Archive | June, 2016

Mr. Jingles

29 Jun


We have a mouse at work.

…We know this, not only because of tiny poop presents on our keyboards, and teeth marks through the package of every granola bar from the Costco box… we know this because we have seen him. At first, in darts and flashes of fur, and now in week two, the tiny asshole –bold as you please — just wanders from office to office via a sequence of holes in our crawlspace, meant to wire our Internet in.

… Traps have been laid, food stuffs have been sequestered, and we await his end-times. But thus far, he’s been too good at the game, and flaunts his wins daily. (Including his ultimate finger flip of shitting his tiny little shits, all over the place.)

Our Warehouse Chick has name him: Mr. Jingles.

He may or may not live up to the role.

Every day now starts with vigorous Lysol wiping of every surface and pen, no one so much as goes to lunch with a cough drop on their desk, and every sighting has become like an office drinking game (minus the booze and real fun.)

Someone: (yelled out) “Mr. Jingles!”
All Else: (answered, like a toast by all present) “Mr. Jingles!”

… Despite the disgustingness… we sorta all want him to win.

So it goes, in the totally classy establishment, I work in.

Next: My year of Fitbitting (and it’s erased blog) are the only current events I own. The blog (killed via Internet or some other technical burp during posting) was meant to celebrate my win of an every day constancy…my 365 days of ass-busting, my over 6.1 million steps, over 16,100 on average per day. But after it ceased the Web world, I thought: “Ain’t that a general F-you from the fates, who watched me work this hard all damn year…”

… So I didn’t rewrite it. That’s my finger, back at them. I did the thing, I know all it meant, I guess I don’t need the witnessing to own the full meaning of it.

Sometimes enough is enough.

(And somewhere, my shrink –prob’ly imbibing on an all-expense vacation I’ve helped pay for–just applauded.)

Meanwhile: It’s heat. And walking. And heat. And head cold ending.

… It’s finally regaining a sense of smell in time for 4th of July BBQ eating, setting friend dates, applying for jobs, watching the casting boards while salivating for just the right thing at just the right time… Hoping to be back into a happy and healthy head and life space, surrounded in higher pay, actual appreciation, and an artistic outlet to fully invest in.

… It could happen.

(And I wish it would fucking hurry up about it, already.)


Insane Wisdom & Adorkableness

14 Jun


My bottom left wisdom tooth has been driving me to the brink of insanity for the past three days.

…Actually, today is tolerable. The last two weren’t. Today it has downsized to annoying aches, which is a giant downgrade from the constant throbbing want-to-smash-my-head-into-a-wall-to-stop-the-pain, of where I have been. A LOT of Advil has been forced through my body, as well as many goops of Orajel. Monstrous goops. Essentially, I have no feeling (or taste buds) on half my face. Which I’m strangely okay with, vs the alternative.

… Because I refuse to go in and get this bastard taken out right now. Because they will want to take ALL of them out. And then, there will go all of my London bucks. And that shit just ain’t happening.

… At least I can say that at the moment, (due to finally getting some sleep last night.) Yesterday at around four p.m., I was contemplating oral surgery as a less painful “out” on account that these aren’t easy extraction teeth as they are growing weird… they’d have to drug me to the point of no longer feeling pain for some odd hours…which would be a first for several days now. And even with hospital anxiety, and a giant wave of pain to follow, I was seriously considering it. Because “now” is always more pertinent than “later.”

… But then, today, it was less horrid. Which fixes nothing, (I know), but if I can make it till mid November, at least I’ll be poor from fun, and have had a trip to look back on, rather than poor from teeth with nothing to look back on but stitches and more holes in my face.

It’s about perspective.

Mine, right now, needs to live in happy, hopeful places. So I am pushing that as much as humanly possible. A little too much food-happiness has been involved lately, leading to too much bottom and thigh happiness…but with a screaming mouth of pain, that should pull back some, and voila: balance will be restored.

… Have also been attempting to focus on only light and passive viewing and readership this week (after several weeks of intense historical and political gigs.) It’s all about simplicity, with adorkable things like “New Girl” Netflixing. Because: it’s easy. And I need something that is, right now.

… Even watching a person who is my literal age, with crazy Powerpuff Girl eyes, strange 70-year-old-woman-meets-kindergartener fashion sense, who crafts with construction paper for adult pleasure, and makes up songs about wildlife. It seems to make her happy. Which makes me laugh. (Frequently: out loud, for reasons I’m still not really sure about.) So we both win.

…And I can give myself a bit of a reprieve from election crap and horrible Orlando happenings, which seem to only anger and stress me out more.

For now: I bow for our losses, and set up for some quiet brain-away time.

Peace, loves.


I’m Gonna Read Your Diary

2 Jun


Cecil’s new theatre company is having a fundraising event with an open mic for the entertainment. Cuz Cecil is smart and knows, “why spend money on that shit when – if given the option – artists will whore themselves out for free.”

… She isn’t being greedy in this…the fundraiser will pay tech, talent and designers on their premiere gig…but this being a fundraiser means if you ain’t got the change, you can donate your art-things.

… All my change being deposited into the London fund, I only have the latter to give. And even that I was gonna decline participation in, only cuz open mics make me artistically hive. I need more distance and like a damn character between me and an audience…this gig is far too much like public speaking, of which I am awkward at, in the supreme.

…But that was before Cecil asked me to do a dramatic read from her 13-year-old-self’s diary.

I have done so before. In fact, thrice to several small gatherings I have shared it’s contents.

Because frankly, it is magnificent.

The first time was on one of our “Drunk Tuesdays,” so named from its original conception, on a Tuesday where we decided to drink too much, read some plays, wander to the corner gas station for Scratch Lotto tickets and candy, and spend the walk back dreaming of the flat we’d buy in London with the winnings.

…We had so much fun doing this on a stupid day of the week where one generally does nothing, and not winning all the things we scratched, that “Drunk Tuesdays” became a thing…generally whenever we needed one, no matter the day of week.

… So it was on one of such nights, that Cecil began to talk about this boy she’d obsessed over at age 13, and this diary she’d kept over a short few month span. Would I like to read it?, she’d asked.

…And so, on what would turn out to be the next “Drunk Tuesday,” Cecil jumped off the couch, squealed that she’d just remembered something, and ran out to her car. There she had been toting what she called, “The Donovan Diaries,” which she’d gotten her mother to dig out of her childhood bedroom and send her.

… Already, it was amazeballs. Built by hand, with outer covers of black sparkle construction paper, hole-punched and loop-tied with ribbons, filled with about a half centimeter of ruled paper, partially filled in with multiple – colored writing, each color claiming it’s own diary entry, complete with a Prologue of who this was for, when they could read it, what they were to do with it after, and hints at occasional super secret codes and their super secret keys to them, somehow within a reason unknown, to be kept within these same sheets.

… And so: we read. In tag-team style. With a dead seriousness, and solemnity of truth that we all wished, at that age, to be taken with.

… And we did this, in between ugly-faced crying laughter from the audience’s side. Because there just was no other way to receive it.

…Because goddamn it, the strategy to getting and holding a “man’s” attention, knowing what to do with it when you have it, trying to deal with not wanting it when it is there, but do when it isn’t, and all the complications which come with this, are even funnier when you haven’t learned enough to laugh at yourself about it yet.

… And so, for reasons of sheer embarrassment, and truthfulness, Cecil has charged me with the task to stand at an open mic, not on a “Drunk Tuesday,” and share her humiliations with earnest solemnity.

… And I will.

… And the people will cry with joy.

… Because 13 or 23, you couldn’t buy a Cecil, and the brain it comes with, for a million dollars.

… But you can try your best, at the tip jar.


%d bloggers like this: