Slipping sanity and s'mores

This past week has tested every single boundary that I have and stretched the limits of my ‘sanity fabric,’ creating a fraying elastic-like effect - similar to what happens to spandex on thick thighs after one too many spin or Zumba classes. I think I have suffered some mental chafing as well.

An opportunity presented itself to move out from our current residence and upgrade to a larger place with hard wood flooring, marble counters, stainless appliances and a fireplace. First off, I’m not talking marginally larger – I’m talking about enough sq. footage for another room. I’m also going to be paying less than I currently pay for all this cool shit. Did I mention the hard wood flooring and the fireplace? S’mores mother fuckers! Mother fucking s’mores!  So, all of this sounds fantastic, I’ve put in my 30-day notice at the place I’m squatting in now, [because that’s what it feels like in comparison] and they’ve already found a new tenant for my place [same fucking day] – then the bottom falls out the bitch! As it turns out, the landlord of this particular condo doesn’t allow for pets. Gee, Mr. Acting Interim Property Manager, ya think ya could’ve gone over that BEFORE I put in my 30-day notice that I TOTALLY told you I was doing??? Now, we have 30 days to re-locate and I don’t have a prescription for Xanax.

I spent the better part of the day searching the interweb for places to live in between work phone calls, fistfuls of gummy worms, and various swear words. I came up with a few new ones that I’m pretty proud of; I look forward to dropping them in casual conversation. The more I searched, the more pissed I was at this ass-bag for not saying anything about the pet issue. Fuck you dude! The places I was looking at were either right in the heart of crackville for the right price, or completely out of my league – like not even the same fucking sport. At this point I am contemplating jamming the Xanax up my ass for rapid absorption, if in fact I was able to procure any. Things would get better though; I was getting together with my girls later to go to the Tori Amos concert at the Balboa Theater. This also created a fair amount of anxiety as our plans kept shifting with regard to carpooling vs solo driving and coordinating three women is always easy, right?? Holy fuck ya’ll…I…am…snapping…

Tori Amos is amazing. She is floppy and staccato at the piano with her body. I don’t really know how else to describe her. She lunges into her playing and is also really rigid at times. Sometimes it looks like she’s having a seizure. I just want to sit on the stage in a corner. I never want to bother her. I just want to sit and write. I don’t need to bug her for an autograph or do any weird fan-girl bullshit, I just want to listen and write. In fact, it’s probably best that we don’t converse. We’re both really weird. She’s weird and smart though. I’m weird and competitive. It’s a bad combination. Smart always has the upper hand and I hate losing. To the drunk bitch behind us yelling at Tori like you were at a little league game: ease up on the wine and we’ll all enjoy the show a bit more – even you. Anyhow, it was an amazing event and I was thrilled to be there until she ended with that shitty techno bullshit song at the end and all the little wanna-be rave brats busted out their glow sticks. Hey Tori, can we not do that ever again? Thanks.

What? My cats? You want to know what is going to happen to them? I’ll get there. First let me tell you about Cheyenne.

On Wednesday [the day after Tori and two days after the rental fiasco] a group of friends [I know, I’m always shocked when I use an ‘f’ word that isn’t fuck or fiasco] and I went to dinner and a show to celebrate our Sagittarian birthdays. We didn’t just go to any show; we went to a drag show. I think it was 10 of us that ended up at a sparkly little bar in San Diego for dinner and Divas. “Cheyenne” was our server and entertainer for the evening; she did indeed entertain. That bitch was fierce! The food was “meh” but the music was great because, well, they’re gay men. I laughed hard enough that evening to make up for all the pain and stress I was feeling throughout the rest of the week. As with most other events that I partake in, I found a way to pick up a resentment. Cheyenne has bigger tits than I do. I totally get that as entertainers and transvestites they will undoubtedly be beautiful and crazy glamorous. The skillful application of makeup is enviable. There, I said it – I envy them. Cheyenne though, has an amazing ass, thighs that could kick in doors, and boobs. Real titties. I know for a fact those fuckers are real because I shoved money in there – they’re squishy. They’re squishy and they’re bigger and better than mine. She was funny too. Shit, the more I think about it, the more jealous I get. Fuck that! I have never been more jealous of a man. She was truly something else. I mean that in the best possible way. Thanks for the fabulous show, Cheyenne!

Alright, my cats. So here’s the deal: I was honest on my application. Apparently, I was supposed to lie. Fucking principles always getting in the way of finding my real happiness. I talked to the interim ass-bag again and asked if he would possibly look the other way and he was like “yeah, that’s totally what I would have done on the application”. Go fucking figure! Here I am trying to be honest and this dude is like nope, I would have lied. So after jumping through a series of flaming hoops while naked with nipple clamps on, we finally got approved and dropped off the check yesterday. It was nothing really. I’ll only be destitute and sucking dick for the rest of my natural life in order to pay back the loan I had to take out for first and security. I’m still paying on the current place for a month too. Did I mention the fireplace? S’mores - I’ll keep telling myself about the s’mores as I’m strapping on my knee pads.

So not to end on dismal note or anything, I would never do that – the next month is gonna be pretty fucked up. I foresee a lot of Ramen dinners by the romantic light of a fire. I am also in luck; those blow-job knee pads will come in handy for my impending move. If any of my friends reading this have time over the next month to help me move a couple of things here and there, help a bitch out. No…payment will not be made in blow-jobs, but I can make you a s’more if you want, nasty!