Gibberish and other mental knickers in a knot

Hmm...if only I had one reader, I might not feel like I was writing into a giant existential void. Writing, music, and screaming at the top of my little lungs keeps me alive, as does large amounts of caffeine and a lot of inane sexual fantasies starring Julian McMahon. He's the Nip/Tuck doctor guy; at least I think he is. Whoever he is (whomever?), he's beautiful, and I bet I'm not the only woman to think lewd, wicked, beautifully vile things in his presence. Not that I've met him, mind you, but you never know. It could happen. So could a major apocalypse, but then again, I've been gearing up for that one for ages.

Life is terrible, terrible, terrible, and I am fucking TIRED, TIRED, TIRED. And yet I still sit here, writing like a madwoman. There is one universal law, and that is, humans continue to exist, even when they most feel like going insane and jumping off buildings. Of course, those two things have been known to happen, and god knows (literally), I've thought about it. God, that is, little "g" might make me end up in purgatory. Typing little "g", that is, which now is making me think of rappers, who all have odd names and like to wear sweatshirts with giant hoods and show voluptuous women shaking their asses into the camera. I don't get that kind of misogyny, but then again, who does? In fact, it makes me sad to think about it.

What else is there to say, as California burns, land that I love? I was born in SF, beautiful city, that. And now it's burning. It has not felt like fall for a very long time, we are overpopulated, overtechnologized, and the streets brim with those awful fast machines, cars. Cars rule the roost in America. I think mass transit will one day be the only way to go, b/c this traffic/air pollution/alleged greenhouse effect thing can't go on forever. Nor can George Clooney's alleged anorexia; does anyone in Hollyweird EAT??

I am tired. I wish you love. If my husband is out there, please write me, care of the insane asylum. Where are you, my dear?

Blessings.

Here's Mud in Yer Eye (nah, not really)

The latest communique from the outskirts of hell: I am back, all 0.3 readers, and I am BAD. No, I am merely confused, but what else is new? Most of us are, upon occasion, confused, and I am now living in a "transitional housing" program which means that I am surrounded by everyone from parolees to people with brain injuries. Triggering? You bet. Insane? Definitely. Will I survive? Who the hell knows, but I am definitely ready for a major apocalypse, if it happens.

I just emailed the former doctor that once I loved (blue eyed man, for those of you in the know), and will probably receive some sort of universal slap on the wrist for that, but that's OK. I mean, what else is new? Most of us have these unrequited crushes. I just want to feel like my life means more than fear, pain, and endless trauma, and if living in fantasy land helps provide it, so be it. It's the awareness of such that enables me to, hopefully, move on with my existence. And to find a real live man in this very state! I mean, it could happen, theoretically. An asteroid could also hit the earth tomorrow, but hey, whatever, man. If so, I'm ready.

Not much else to say at present, except I may start screaming and never stop. I may also need to start taking two instead of one tranquilizers a day to deal with this. A job will help -- I just finished up a temp job that provided some sorely needed income and help and I do tend to be feisty. I wouldn't be 35 years old and a survivor of everything from childhood sexual abuse to living on the street if I wasn't a tad feisty. And look, I'm even articulate! And thus we banish universal stereotypes.

Here's looking at you, kid.