kagablog

All I can see is roaches. Everywhere. In my house. On my keyboard.
When i press a key, they all scatter in different directions. They’re different
sizes. Different colors. On my TV. In my toothbrush. In my bed. Crawling
on my walls. Creeping all over me when I’m sleeping. In the bar. At work. In
my cereal.

All I see is gummy chaw. Bite marks. And bruises. All over my arms, legs, and holes. My knees look like I have been sucking dick in the alley for five dollars a pop. It’s terrible. I don’t know where they come from, but they are there.

The bruises. The roaches. Everywhere.

My shit-stained, sweaty asshole is rife with remnants of the cottage cheese cum from two hours ago. Luckily it is all from one man. Yes, I am now on the monogamy train.

The roaches are still all I see. I still feel the disgust. But I know that 15,000 dicks are no longer in me. Only one. He is here. There is no getting rid of him now. I have now convinced myself I like it. I think . . . but I don’t.

I am so afraid I have become one of them. Them. The ones who glom onto any sad white trash Neanderthal who will drop them a sad drop of pathetic attention. I feel I am using him. I want to stop fucking random people. I hate using people. But I know he is using me as well.

To him, I am a body. Someone to fuck. Someone who looks good who he can show off to his friends. A pretty face. And maybe nothing else, considering he can’t understand me any more than he could a normal houseplant. And how could he?

I don’t let him in. I can’t. I get him. I think, and know exactly what he wants. You get to know a lot about a man when his dick is in your ass. I don’t think I can handle it much longer.

He brings out a beast in me that is rarely seen. In my personality. A manic monster. A beast that comes from this beautiful, disgusting place. I need to quell it, though, because I believe this beast will kill me.

The only way I know and am used to dealing with all of this is with drugs. Pop a pill. Stick a needle in my arm. Crack a bottle. Drinking, using. It’s all the same. I don’t know if I can deal with this one.

Even licensed doctors agree with me. They say “Lil P, I’ll prescribe you this pill, but you will sleep a lot.”

“Well, Doc,” I say, “if I take the dosage I am supposed to take I sleep for forty hours.” I tried once.

Maybe he knows exactly what he is doing. Maybe that is my best state. Comatose. Asleep. Dead. Whatever. The story of “Sleeping Beauty”, “Snow White”, many fairy tales describe dead bitches who are saved by necrophiliac princes who come and basically “kiss”–or in modern terms “fuck”–their dead bodies and they suddenly wake up. I equate myself with these comatose, drugged-out whores.

This is me. I am sick. I need to be rescued. I am afraid of leaving this relationship. What will I become? Will I go back to fucking every guy in a bar? Or will I find another “relationship” because I am too scared of fucking everyone?

There is a medium somewhere, but I do not think I can find it. It is sad, but it is me. I miss when there was one. At a time there was. I was in relationships for six years, then fucking every random person for two. Now starting relationships again.

Never will I be one of those fucks that runs from relationship to relationship. I’ve always abhorred them. Now more than ever. Why do I need that? I need myself. But
Myself is not doing much for Myself right now.

So fuck relationships. Fuck all this bullshit. It needs to stop. It is depressing. I will never
know what is best. Everything is so different than what I have known.

Look. Roaches.

lil princezzakameg’s Blurbs
About me:
i began messing with men when i was in high school, though sadly, they began messing with me earlier than that. i was raped at nine, though not legally, since fingers and a hand were used for penetration, not the officially requsite penis. that ended up in my hand as he twisted and contorted with a physical omniprescence that pinned me and manipulated me at the same time. my breasts were burned with lit cigarettes. my husband beat my legs with a wooden beam so that i couldnt walk. 7 year old taylor “thats nice. i like your crown too.” 8 year old brandy: “did your mom teach you that?” 8 year old tessa: “will you stand up and show them your pretty dress? thats very lovely.” 8 year old brooke: “can you show me that wave again?” Read about my life at Sexwrecks

Who I’d like to meet:
chuck dodson, fentanyl dealerz in tha park, joe dellasandro, ian an myra, peeple who will let me xploit demz on videotape, babyfacez, chile super models, chile super starz, crispin glover, shady doktorz, anasteisologistz, reel circus clown, sumwun 2 make me famus, terrible plassic surgeons, meg ryans new lips, paris hilton, plassic surgery disasters, gg, michael jakson, black older brother aborted circa 1969, sleaze, creeps, perverts, pedophiles.

lil princezzakameg’s Interests
General inscest, child exploitation, serial killers, hanging out outsyde tha methadone clinic, celebrities, famous, cutting, jews, drugz, videotaping, stun gunz, coping with ocd, mumbling, clowns, fentanyl, botched plastic surgery, prison, tabloids, blood, ded animalz, gauze, cum, my dad (in no particular order)

Music
gg, tatu

Movies
bully, holy mountain, salo, ciao manhattan, bone, bad santa, shakes the clown, gg allin hated, forbidden zone, what is it, scorpio rising, martin, manaic, trash.

Television
nikkole ritchie an paris hiltin move 2 da souff on a farm an nikkole ritchie sellz her precious pussay hair 2 buy junk wiff an paris an tyra bankz have pussay farting contest.

contact lil princezzakameg here

Thinking about moving out of the total rat pig shithole that i call home was wonderful; a new set of oppurtunites, no more people collecting my tampons, but Jesus Christ I never knew it would be so fucking hard… Take for example that we were to be out by the first of December because, as I have previously stated many times in other such columns, our very grey and very male and very white (think Mr. Burns-ish but excuse me to hell for using a Simpson’s reference. I just can’t think of a better comparison. I promise, I’ll never do it again.) landlord stupidly bought a building on the crack hub of Chicago; Rockwell and North, where even my much older and very cracked out half brother announced loudly at a family get together after I told him the intersection by which I lived “That’s where Zee (his friend) gets all his rocks!”… and my brother had not been out of Northern Wisconsin once in his entire life, but he was familiar with one intersection in the Big City. Mine. And he was right. The landlord could not have picked a worse place to start gentrifying…Rockwell and North… big mistake.
He let us “artsy WHITE college students” move in, after kicking out the gay black man upstairs, who I guess turned out to be too black and not gay enough. However, he soon learned that we were a bunch of junkies who also worked for the needle exchange so our whiteness faded ever so fast and our once beautiful apartment soon turned into a crack den where the toilet did not flush and you couldnt walk two feet without something sticking into your toe…A giant pincushion if you will, except the pins are syringes and they stick out instead of in. I wonder myself how many times I have been accidentally stuck. When I was on the needle myself I think I was perhaps cleaner than I am now, off the needle and sucking the methadone tit, due to accidental needle sticks. I still refuse to get an hiv test because i do not want to know the results. meanwhile my vagina stands as a weapon, infecting each unknowing stranger that I bring home from Nick’s Bar with my horrible affliction. I do use protection, or try to, but you never know who is a flea bitten aids bag and who is not.
That aside, in the meantime two years pass by and the landlord decides that the gunshots are not going to stop and the crack baggies are not going to go away and the city is not going to fill in the potholes, or even reinstall the streetlight that has been knocked down and lays hazardously on our corner. A thirty
day notice is what he gives us. What could go wrong in those thirty days? What did go wrong in
those thirty days? How many upright citizens would stand there, their mouths gaping wide open, witnessing my life spiral downward further and further until I swear it cannot get
any worse, and then I find my roommate’s “secret stash” of my used
bloody tampons, and i find myself spending hours and hours straining my arm trying to clean the blood off of the walls so that we are not sued by our very white and very eager to sue landlord. i did what he asked.
Three days before we
move away my roommate almost gets his eye removed by a neighborhood manaic
and I am forced to miss something important that might earn me some kind of money for the not-so-simple future because they will not let me leave at the hospital. While I am there, every doctor and nurse that enters the curtained room looks first at me as if I am the patient. There is a man next to me with his eye hanging out of his head, and I am mistaken for the one who needs help. Maybe these trained professionals are not so mistaken. I would have long since
checked myself into a mental hospital or some such place with all of this chaos going on if I had the luxurious privilidge of having insurance.
Upon driving my one-eyed roommate back to the house after the doctors decided he’d have to get
skin grafted from his ass to his face, I find my other roommate (the tampon thief) outside with a destroyed car; the fifth one he’s destroyed in two months. He claims he drove it into a pile of dirt, but the wrecked car with streaks of dark green paint from a Ford Escort down the street tells a different story. I listen to the police and him go back and forth and finally, the police decide to put him in handcuffs and take him away. I wished so hard they’d take him to a mental hospital. I was so scared of him I had to lie and say I was living with a hispanic girl, not my former roommates, because he threatened to kill himself on several occasions if I ever left that
house.
I wanted to leave a million different times, but his threats made it somewhat impossible. i wanted to say fuck off, but how could I to someone who’s entire room is a shrine devoted to me. Photos of me adorned his walls, as well as things i had made for him…paitings. They were the only
things on his walls except drug induced messages written in blood that made no sense. I got news that he was also using our needle exchange equiptment to drain his own blood. Needless to say, that disturbed me a whole bunch. I really don’t
think that there are many more things that can shock me. Then I found out on not one, but two different occasions that he was collecting my used menstural blood! The
worst thing about this abhorrible behaviour was that i had to act like this was absolutely normal behaviour
in fear of him going crazy on me. “Oh you’re collecting napkins containing the bloody scrapings of my fallopian tubes, yes dear that would make a lovely art
project! Just throw a couple of popsicle sticks in and you could make a whole tampon-ranch type thing!”
So it was over, and i am on to bigger and
better things. I even buy myself a brand new very white apple computer for the life makeover and then the bomb drops…again. My job lays me off. The job that has supported my need for 18 hours of sleep a day and daily doses of benzodiazapenes as well as Church’s Chicken lays me off. Now what the fuck do i
do?!
What every drug addled retard who does not want to deal with life at all would do; I get on a heavy duty antidepressant that makes me sleep all the time. That is my solution for a bit, then it gets too boring. What is a girl to do??? Especially a delicate princess like me. No home. No job. At
least i get sex but that is a whole different can of worms that i will not open at this point. Lovely is the new year, but i am very scared. Visions of tampons dancing in my head….

This bustling shithole. where my roommate has a tampon collection of mine which im not supposed to know about and drunken prostitutes are brought in with men who steal computers. my roommate walks around in his briefs while my other roommate in desperation to not see him in his briefs turns the air down to under 50 degrees. so i wake up in an arctic fucking tundra everyday and i still see my roommate prancing around in his briefs. Where the sounds of smoking crack are so often heard. the uggh phhfoooo uggh huhh it sounds like fucking a dying horse. and then the coughs. the sounds of death the hocking the coughing, at least he’s nicer after he smokes it. for about 15 minutes. then he turns into a raging asshole who steals from me and throws me into ashtrays. its always fun to have bruises that you cant explain. i walk into my front room to find people that look dead with cigarettes that had been lit and then not smoked and the ash is about 5 inches long. with their fucking heads down. a bootleg version of snakes on a plane blasts from the television. you hear the movie then you hear people yelling WHERE THE FUCK ARE THE FUCKING SNAKES. in betweeen the disgusting sounds of sucking and coughing up crack. the junkee lights another cigarette and then passes out. i watch it wither down until it burns his fingers and he throws it out. and then lights another one. what the fuck am i doing here? I think I’m addicted to these living situations. In order to find a fork the house has to be thouroughly searched until in the dingiest corner of the house a fork sits and then it has to be scrubbed to eat. If I wasnt on enough methadone to kill a man each day, this stuff might bother me. but its fine. i especially love when my stuff gets stolen. thats always fun. i get to yell at everyone and then throw books at peoples heads, because thats the only way i know how to fight… to throw books and shoes. and then of course living with three male roommates, they dont hesitate to make a hole in the wall with me. domestic violence is fun. ive managed to be drunk and fuck almost every male roommate ive ever had. i live with 3 males now. i dated one for about 5 years, the other one i had sex with several times, and the third one claims that we had sex, but i don’t believe we did and he’s the one thats obsessed with me and i believe collects my feminine products. its all so endearing. meanwhile i sit here on the computer typing out peoples deepest darkest secrets and sharing them with the world. it’s really horrible. but besides the methadone and xanax abuse, writing about this shit is the only way to cope. its unreal. sex was an escape for awhile. crack stupor rape isnt exactly rape is it? A question for the ages. Outside my window, shorties on shared and coveted tricycles wheeling out of one of the two staunchly occupied worthlessly empty concentration camp hovels. kids on kids on young adults on adults on geriatrics simmering on one single blanded and burned gluey mind.
How do you get a cat addicted to drugs? I have had so many pets addicted to drugs its not even funny. There was one cat in particular. My friend had afterhours for raves about ten years back and everyone would get all fucked up and drop their coke all over the floor,and pills of ecstacy and whatever you can think of, and this cat would eat it all. he was a total drug addict. people would think this behavior was abhorrable, but my friend was so proud that his cat was a drug vacuum cleaner. this same fuck used to put my little bunny in a box and blow crack smoke into it. i dont like that shit. my poor little bunny. this man should be put away for sure. The poor thing grew a tumor and then some fuckhead dyed it purple. There were two cats there too, no one would buy them food. My roommate would steal hot dogs for the cats and the cats would be eating the hotdogs and this poor rabbit was so hungry that it would bumrush the fucking cats to get to the hotdogs, so not only was the rabbit a crackhead, but it was carniverous. I once had a wonderful cat who looked just like sara jessica parker, but one day it got real horny so i let it out to go fuck this cat cuz the noises it was making were driving me fucking insane and it left, ran away with its boyfriend.

I live with 3 very messy men. I myself am a huge slob. This makes for a roach filled disease pit of a rathole pigsty house. It’s hard for me to find places to live, and even harder to find a landlord who is oblivious enough to let us stay there and destroy their property. We have been destroying this house for almost two years now, and I can’t believe nothing has happened. Maybe its because we live on the hub of the crack center of chicago and even when a full streetlight collapses on the corner, it is not picked up for weeks. The whores and drug dealers just step over it and wait for the live wires to come and electricute one of the children. The landlord decided that this crack den of a neighborhood is not getting white fast enough for him so he wants to sell this place. in order to sell it he has to show our half of the house. since its a horrible shit den, they decided to hire maids who claimed to be really good at cleaning big fucking messes, these maids came over, and told me, not to my total suprise, that this was one of the FEW places that they had EVER seen that they would not even touch. that made me feel great. fucking assholes.
My landlord has his daughter living under me and she’s handling everything and shes about 9 months pregnant and ready to explode out a parasite and so shes all bitchy and of course pissed that we have ruined the apartment, but I tell her that we can fucking do it ourselves. This got me thinking about the probably 15 other places that I had lived in, however briefly, and getting evicted from all of them. It’s pretty amazing some of the damage we have done. I remember one house I decided to raise chickens, and there was room in the backyard to have these chickens, and I was a good mom, except chickens shit… a lot. and having a concrete slab filled with chicken shit would piss our ukranian landlord off to hell. but his kids seemed to like the chickens. I remember one landlord coming in, shutting off the power, and telling us to leave by the next day or he would kill us all. Now I know that there is some kind of eviction process involving a lot of paperwork, I didn’t know it involved threats on our lives. But perhaps the worst I ever did, with the help of about 30 people in the matter of three months, was to completely destroy a storefront right next to the congress theatre. It started very optimistic. with lots of promises of turning the place into a vegan coffeeshop or some bullshit but it was not long until we got the vegans out and the crack addicts in. we then had a rave with about 600 people in the basement, and then a truck started parking across the street watching our every move. I felt really cool. Theres something about having one of those trucks watching you, at least for me, it gave me some reason to live. It was even better than having a stalker. We got paid in hits of acid to have the rave in our place so we, all 16 of us, were on various large amounts of acid and we just completely destroyed the place. Downstairs there were a bunch of ravers dancing and being idiots and upstairs there were us, a bunch of legally insane drug addicts ripping our own cieling out and laughing histarically about it. I remember I went downstairs, and one of the people I knew at the rave said that people were destroying my house upstairs and telling them that those people were the people that lived there. I remember realizing some serious shit was happening when some pipe in the basement broke and water would not stop coming out of it. But I was way early in my thinking. I kept thinking it couldn’t get worse and it did. Then the glass door got a rock thrown through it. Then the air conditioning pipes from the ceiling fell out of it because the ceiling no longer existed, and those were ripped to shreads. We had already had a hole in the bathroom wall big enough so that you could see anyone doing their business and watch whenever you wanted to but I think the destruction culminated when the toilet was smashed. And the floor started flooding with shit. That’s how we knew the party was over, when the toilet was smashed. It usually tells you something. The next day our house was raided by cops and we had guns pushed up against our heads. We had a mexican guy sleeping in the basement using his key of coke as his pillow. When the cops came in they were floored. But they did not find anything, very much to my suprise. Where did the crack pillow go? One man showed me after the police had left. He pulled out all his back teeth and then dumped a bunch of rocks he had been hiding in there into my hands. I was thoroughly impressed. This was all about six years ago. From there we moved into another poor unsuspecting house in lincoln park, drug habits got bigger, I got more pets, and the house got completely destroyed in three months. We had two rabbits who were never fed who would shit all over the floor. My roommate would put one in a box and smoke crack and blow it into the little rabbits face. It was horrible. Then it got dyed purple and it grew a tumor. I thoroughly disapproved. But theres not much you could do when youre high on rabbit turds 24 hours a day. We had a dead raccoon named Chauncey in the freezer who was our pet and we would have visitors over and ask them to get us a beer out of the freezer and open it to find chauncey’s big glassy eyes and teeth flashing at them. This house was also oddly equipt with a pigeon coupe. So occasionally we would get pigeons there with little bracelets on saying who they were. It was really exciting when one showed up. The landlord of this place was this bizarre pedophile who decided to show up at our house in a dress upon our moving in. He was extremely rich and lived next door and would have extravagant parties with underage girls where he would feed us coke and let us amuse his friends while they watched hardcore porn on this guy’s huge screen television upstairs. He soon got tired of us after he realized that we were destroying the fuck out of his shitty house next door. Then he told us that his uncle was the mayor and that our families were going to “live with the fishes” because of what we had done to his house, again not a tactic that I thought was a step in the usual evicition process, but what can you do. We weren’t normal tenants, and even though we paid the rent, we were very efficient at destroying places in very short amounts of time.
So here I sit now, 6 years later, in another house… waiting to get evicted. maids who won’t clean it, and I wonder what the fuck the problem is. I like to blame it on everyone else but the fact is that I’m just a fucking slob and thats all there is to it. I lived with clean people once, and I kept the place clean, but that was almost worlds of time ago. In a different life. Maybe it can happen again who knows but its hard to change when you wake up in a shitty filth filled wastoid slob house and you surround yourself with wastoid cum bags like me. Do I even want things to change. Sometimes i have to say no. I’d live in this roachpit for the rest of my life, but that doesn’t mean I’ll ever stop complaining about it.

This fucking show. Goddammit. I HATE THIS SHIT. Every fucking morning I wake up at like 7 am for a few hours and The Today Show is fucking on. At least that blowhole who’s mouth is worth nothing more than to stuff a huge black cock in, Katie Couric, is not on it anymore. I once read in a tabloid that she was really cheap, even though she’s like super rich, and it made me want to kill her. She just seems like a huge phony bitch. Unlike other bitches like Martha Stewart, who seems like a tough no nonsense cunt that could take it up the ass by 8 men and have them all hurting in the end. I bet she was the main bitch in prison and kept all the whores, crack addicts, black widows, post partum depression nuts who drove their kids into the lake, and serial killers in line. But I bet she was nice about it.
Anyway, back to this crap. The fucking Today Show. I have the unfortunate sleeping schedule to wake up to it almost every day. I swear to god, I do not think I can recall EVER IN MY LIFE witnessing or hearing stupider things than I see on this fucking show daily. Right now, I am not kidding, they are running a story about how your house can make you fat. Ok and I’m not talking about like the contents in your referigerator, they are saing if a tv or a chair is in the wrong place, you’ll get fat. It’s fucking ridiculous. They just did a segment about 20 minutes ago about medication making you fat. Oh yea and they’re not talking about fung suei or whatever the fuck its called. They have some stupid skinny white bitch talking about how you should move your tv two inches to the left because it will make you eat less. It’s fucking dumb. I will not go into this country’s stupid fascination with not being fat because there’s way too much to write, but the fact that your house can make you fat…. come on!!! I have an idea, how about getting off of your bloated asses while shoving eggs and pancackes in your mouth and go running, and get run over by a car while you’re at it.
Oh and they WILL NEVER have an overweight woman hosting the show. Of course they have that fat darkee Al Roker who got his big bloated stomach stapled shut so his repulsive sweaty negro body could stop growing larger and larger. They always have him on there sweating his fat ass off cooking food with idiot chefs who run trendy New York restaurants. My favorite is when his fat (i keep referring to him as a black man and I think I may be more of a stereotypical black person than he, so from now on I will refer to him as a lilly white cracker) cracker ass does the voice overs for the geriatric dying pieces of shit who send their photos in to the today show (or probably their families do because I’m sure these old fucks have no fucking idea that they even still exist in this world) and Al Roker says “Oh, and this is Betty Johnson, she is 103 years old today, she enjoys playing bingo and weekly all you can eat buffets at Red Lobster. This is Julie Davis, she enjoys sitting on the porch and feeding pigeons. This is Esther Smith, she enjoys watching her cunt rot off and shitting in her depends while waiting to die. Her family sent this picture in because they are currently emptying out her bank account and she is too busy watching her limbs rot off to notice, and they felt a little bad so they figured if her cataract filled eyes might be able to make out her dying image on the television she might forget for a second that she should have died about 50 years ago”. The latter I have of course never heard his fat cracker ass say, but isn’t that really what’s happening here?
Now if I am lucky enough, and my insomnia lets me stay up to 9 am, the hour when most cunts are stuffing their fat asses into their cubicles for the day, or flattening their fat asses onto the couch just like me, I get the opportunity to witness something that is about as much as a pop cultural nightmare phenomenon as the Today Show, and that is Oprah. I like Oprah. I like watching that cocksucking monstrosity balloon up and down with her weight, and listening to her talk about her faggot husband because she is so obviously a huge fucking dyke, but unlike that other repulsive monster, Rosie O’Donnell, she does not admit to it and adopt like 25 kids to witness her life spirlaling downward. I wait and wait for Oprah to have a show about tragedy (and I usually don’t have to wait long, because they’re almost always about some unfortunate retard). I don’t like the shows where she has stupid celebrities on there and sucks their assholes, those shows are boring; although I did obsess about Tom Cruise jumping on that fat bitches couch for about two weeks because he’s such a fucking psycho, and I enjoyed him talking about how much he dominates his robot wife, Katie Holmes. And sometimes I will catch a show where she gives out something really dumb like a vacuum cleaner to everyone in the audience and I enjoy watching all the fags and vaginas in her audience cum all over themselves for twenty minutes. But mostly I enjoy the tragedy.
I especially LOVE when she has rape victims on there, or victims of sexual assault. These people may have been sexually assaulted once, and I don’t know if they’re just stupid, or they really want to be on television, or they want a free trip to this shithole town Chicago, but they are raped a second and third time when they VOLUNTAIRLY sit on the same couch that Tom Cruise jumped up and down on with their ripped up cunts and assholes and answer Oprah’s perverse questions about how many times they fucked their dad, where it happened, when it happened, for how long, how many holes he stuck it in, did he call you princess, did you tell anyone, why did you keep it a secret, and how low their self esteem must be and what a fucked up person they must have turned out to be and Oprah sits there and Boo hoo hoo’s about them for about 20 minutes as she is secretly creaming her underpants. After the 20 minutes is off, they are shooed off the stage, and put in a taxi and its back to their shitty life. Congradulations! Now 6 million people know your deepest, darkest secret!!! WASN’T THAT FUCKING THERAPEUTIC????
I really don’t know what is going on in these people’s heads. Do they have popcorn parties for when their show airs on tv and have all their friends and family over to listen them get interviewed by some bloated black bitch about how their father reamed their asshole and ran a child porn ring for 16 years? I mean what do these people do after the show? I can understand how it can be therapeutic to tell SOMEONE, perhaps a liscenced therapist,(even though most of them are fucking nuts anyway, hell I’m considered a social worker, scary huh?) about the trauma that they went through as a child, but sharing it with a self obsesssed celebrity who has no background in the medical field or dealing with mental health besides all of the fucking nuts that sit in her audience and on her chairs, and then subsequently sharing this deep dark secret with an unsympathetic 200 person studio audience who are all pissed off because they are not on the show where they win the car, and then after that sharing this secret with 6 million more people, including sick lunatics like me who write terrible things about them, or perverts at home who are jacking off to them with one finger up their ass, thinking about fucking children and how warm and moist the woman’s vagina was when she was 6, while writing tips down about how to start their own child porn business taking tips from the Opera guest seems a bit queer to me. What the hell is going on here? GOOD MORNING USA!!!!

A list of shit. But not a shit-list.

1. There is a 60-year-old woman whose diet consisted of pickles and cheap wine and she got a big red blotch all over her butt and crotch. It’s really gross. I want to make sure I don’t have that happen to me. But that’s the direction in which I’m headed.

2. My doctor prescribed for me a medication to curb my drinking habits. One of the most common side effects is suicide attempts. One of the less common ones is sudden death. Sure beats drinking though. I wonder what would happen if they interfered, and while I was trying to kill myself, I experienced sudden death. At any rate, I know the doctor is trying to kill me.

3. There is a crack addict in my neighborhood named Jerry. One time his foot was bleeding, so I helped him clean it off and he gave me the world’s smallest deck of tarot cards. Then he asked me if the drapes matched the carpet. He was really insistent on knowing, so I told him the carpet was infested with genital warts.

4. I have a relative named Jay who is gay and has AIDS and he wears a “Git ‘er dun” hat. He’s a huge perv and on top of all of the HIV meds he’s on he drinks tons of alcohol. He ripped the sprinkler system out of a Cook County Jail cell. Then when he got out, he called those cops repeatedly and apologized, until they arrested him again for harassment.

5. Oprah is a defective monster.

6. I bought a load of Teddy Ruxpin dolls from eBay, and none of them work. I want to do a perverse show with Teddy, but I fear I will never get a real one. This lady I talk to completely anthropomorphizes the bear and never refers to it as it, always he. She says, for example, that “he had surgery on his neck,” rather than “his neck was broken.” She’s fucking weird. She keeps sending me these broken bears, but she claims they work. I’m afraid to send them back now, because I think she thinks I might be breaking them, which I am not, but I think she’s too senile to be selling things on eBay.

7. Pubic hairs are really hard to get out of the bottom of a tub. When I try to shave my crotch, it looks like a rat with mange is hanging out on my vadge.

8. I need to figure out at which point I should die so as to prolong my fame.

9. I cannot believe Ted Nugent has his own reality show and the prizes are like $500 for, like, wading thigh-deep through a sea of diarrhea only to find an American flag and salute it, and while you’re covered in the diarrhea, to take the flag and plant it into the body of a chicken without a head.

10. Pubic warts clear themselves. It’s great. But I just saw this fucking dermatologist book with tons of pictures of a snatch with a ton of them and it was really sick. I hope I don’t turn into that.

11. I’m hungry.

12. That fucking surfer with one arm has a book out, so why the fuck don’t I? It’s all about God. It sucks. I want her to die. She can only swim in circles. What a fucking blessing.

13. I knew a girl that got cat scratch fever for real and she turned into a real bitch.

14. Someone I know just got a $10 pan set and he already fucked up a pan after one day when he decided to boil eggs while he was really drunk and passed out over the eggs and they got boiled into the pan, thereby ruining the $10 dollar pan set in a day.

15. Meg Ryan’s lips look like two worms fornicating. Too much botox!

16. I love to watch fat mothers beat their children in grocery stores.

17. Once I dated a guy for six whole months and the highlight of the whole relationship was getting semi-raped by his friend who was really semi-retarded. He was slow like Lenny from Of Mice and Men.

18. My mother having breast cancer was not a good memory for me, but there was this one photo of her that I still cannot stop laughing at where she has no hair and a birthday hat on for my birthday party. It’s lovely.

Cheese, sleaze, and dirty knees for the youngster in us all!

Looking back on certain fucked-up aspects of my childhood lately–and, believe me, there are a lot–I recently got to reflecting on how our local Pizza Bunny family restaurant franchise was the most completely fucked-up place I’ve ever been to in my life.

Whoever came up with the Pizza Bunny concept must have been some fat, greasy pervert. It was a loud, flashy combination of video games and singing animal robots surrounding tables where you could eat crappy food. In that way, Pizza Bunny was like a lot of other chain restaurants, but more of my friends managed to get molested there in a shockingly short amount of time than any other place that I can remember.

It’s all still so vivid to me: Pizza Bunny’s waste-soaked playgrounds and ball pits and tunnels and hard wood and hot slides that I would split my lips on because I would slip and fall. There were also tube slides I’d get stuck in and almost suffocate because some lard ass decided to go ahead of me and plug the shit up. This was by far the dirtiest, most disgusting playland I’ve ever been to. Still!

First and worst of all, there was this area which could not have been designed for anything else except for defiling the innocent. It was a room that was about 12 feet by 12 feet and whatever genius designed it decided that it would have lights that would go on for about 20 seconds, and then flash on and off, and then it would stay dark for like two full minutes. More than enough time to for a short blowjob, or hand-job, or use your imagination.

I remember the ceiling was really low, designed for little people only, and it seemed empty a lot, but these pock-marked sleazeballs used to sneak in there and grope away. It happened all the time.

My father was a sick man and never hesitated to tell me about sex crimes against the under-aged. I think he got off on it in some weird way.

But, being an only child, I often would venture into Pizza Bunny’s most foreboding chamber by myself. It reeked like a Port-A-Potty. Everything there was constantly being pissed on, but I’ll get into that later. Sometimes kids would even shit in there. Still, I’d go in for a “surprise” until, after a few years of complaints, Pizza Bunny shut that room down.

Years later, I went to Chicago’s premiere gay porn theater/cruising joint, The Bijou. As I took in the Bijou’s smell of open-asshole and cum, while I was cruising down blow job alley, gazing at the glory holes, I was reminded of Pizza Bunny.

I’m surprised that Pizza Bunny didn’t have a sex-swing suspended from its ceiling somewhere. Maybe it did, and I never noticed it. I was too busy wondering what weirdo was lurking in the corner eyeing me up and down back then. It was a similar feeling to that I had when I visited The Bijou, except they do have a sex swing. I think whoever designed The Bijou must have had something to do with the design of that Pizza Bunny.

The Pizza Bunny ball pit was another treat. It seems like most places would keep their ball pits at around two feet deep, so that you could easily move around and stand up if you had to. The Pizza Bunny ball pit went four feet down.

I remember this because, many times, my small ass got trapped underneath the balls and some stinking, shit-covered piglet climbed on top of me and I almost suffocated. My mom also told me that she had many memories of me disappearing in the ball pit for hours on end.

For some reason, kids reverted to hamster behavior in the pit. Each ball had its own special scent of piss and shit mixed with barf and bologna–the way that kids who smell each have their own smell.

At least at the splooge-basted Bijou, they hose the equipment off, and I’m sure that similar bodily fluids were not foreign to this ball pit. It was so sick. And getting stuck in there and trying to come up for air when some 200-pound blob with big gym shoes is stepping on your head is not pleasant.

I don’t understand why the pit was four feet deep, except so that adults could wade in for whatever purpose. Yes, they allowed adults in the ball pit.

And then there were the tunnels.

The tunnels, again, were big enough for adults, so they’d stuff their fat asses into them and create huge traffic jams. I recall, on certain occasions, unfortunately running into some nasty perv who had plopped into the tube and then having them proposition me.

Actually “proposition” is not quite the right word. I didn’t know what they were doing at the time, but an adult sitting in a piss-stained tunnel–just, like, “hanging out”–is a rather bizarre sight.

They were probably the ones pissing in there too, because the kids were running around, but the adults would just stay in one place and try to play with random kids. Even at a young age I remember thinking this place was fucked up.

Another time the Pizza Bunny himself–some teenager in an Italian rabbit costume–came out and tried to choke me when I hugged him. I mean, he just choked me, and I wasn’t one of those asshole kids that like fucked with him or pulled on his tail or tried to knock his head off. All I did was go up to the Pizza Bunny and try to hug him and he fucking choked me.

After about 70 reports of wrong-doing, the authorities tore down the Pizza Bunny and made way for a less fucked up Little Caesars. It was sort of sad to see it go, because I cannot remember a single place that was so sleazy.

Pizza Bunny was a beautiful place. It was where I learned to feel love, and I will never forget it.

Yeah. I’m writing again. Yeah.

Crack. Mental Death. Takes your fucking life away so fast you don’t know when it left or how. There’s no camaraderie with this shit. It’s every fucking man for himself.

Do you know how they got kamikaze pilots to fly their fucking planes into buildings and single people? They gave them speed. Methamphetamine. And suddenly they were insane people ready to die at any moment for some abstract cause that they didn’t even really care about.

At least now with the suicide bombers they have a cause. They want to fuck the 73 virgins or whatever is waiting for them after they blow their precious bodies into little pieces in order to destroy whatever worthless crap happens to be within 25 feet of them.

But those kamikazes, they had no cause except fucking meth. Now I hear that governments are feeding soldiers Provigil, pharmaceutical grade methamphetamine, but not really telling them what it is, to make them better at what they do.

All the soldiers know is that it makes them feel like they’re fucking Godzilla, so they take it. Fuck, I don’t blame them, how the fuck else are you supposed to live with the stink of rotten death and the sound of women getting raped and their babies crying?

So the soldiers take the drugs and it turns them into supermen. And they fuck and kill all they want.

Here’s what I do:

I come home on a Tuesday night, walk past the fucking street light that has fallen down on the corner and has been lying in the grass for the past two weeks.

This is the corner that must have been forgotten by the world because no one cares to even remove this hideous reminder of what everyone in this dreadful place has turned into. The whores just step over it on their way to the alley to get gang raped and choked and then kissed on the cheek by nigger after nigger after nigger. I step over it too. What the fuck else can I do? I’m not going to plant a fucking flower.

I climb up the dreadful dark staircase up to my apartment to reveal a dingy unwashed room. Filth. There is nothing more to do about this though. I continue to live in filth because that is where I belong. It means so little to me. Just like sex. And the filth consumes every facet of my life.

Six people are in the house. Tonight, for some reason, they are not their normal depressed, gray, fat-socket faces that I see every day. Today, they are jovial, interacting with one another. I don’t quite understand it. They are not depressed and passed out on couches that are half eaten away by piss and roaches.

There are no dead raped rats flopped over garbage on the floor. Suddenly the meaning of all of this hits me though, and I realize what is going on.

Crack.

This house is cheap. And ugly. Gross. Pathetic. And less than nothing to me. Shit. Garbage. Small. Fat. Sweaty. Dark. It’s so hard to convey. But why the fuck not smoke crack when you’re here?

I try to stay away from crack because the last time I tried it, I found myself, after a binge, sitting on a piss-stained mattress, staring at a television and trying to forget that a greasy impotent scumbag that I have been avoiding for years has his tongue in my vagina and I am waiting for the five minutes to be up, so that I can have the two hits that he promised me after this horrible act of self sacrifice is done.

But then the fucker got up and belched into my face, blasting me with the smell of my own pussy mixed with crack mixed with a garlicky gyro from six hours ago. It wasn’t humiliating, though it should have been.

Surveying the scene at home and thinking back on that, I seem to have forgotten for a quick second everything that is going on, waiting for that promise of my lips wrapped around that glass pipe for two more seconds.

I just sit and wait in my sleazing, belly-mulching existence. I smell death, but forget about it. This has happened before and I’m not unfamiliar to it. It’ll happen again too. It’s fine. I am a beautiful girl, and people don’t know about this. And what the fuck do I care if they do. So I’ll tell them all. Promise of this feeling for free is worth it. The feeling that nothing exists anymore, and I can be in any place at any time and be perfectly content with it.

War. Decay. Disease. Filth. Darkness. Dirt. Garbage. Foulness. Impurity. Violence. I understand a kamikaze pilot. I understand suicide bombers. I understand doing everything and not caring.

I let the crack-doling creep stick his asshole in my face and my fingers digging shit out of him. Digging. I look at my shit-smeared knuckles and shit-stained forearms and I hear all his bends and grunts and growls and I feel a liquor-soaked need to plow in deeper and deeper until I pass out with the hot mess on my chest, along with his wrinkled dick and collapsed balls amid the hot morning flies and roaches.

It’s good. It’s okay. Everything is.

By Lil Princess

This I only just recently realized: I am obsessed with my childhood. And for this I feel ashamed and stupid. It basically took something hitting me over the head with a baseball bat to tell me how sick I have become.

Recently I wrote about the man who sells various junk close to my home who I am getting close with, and that has not changed, but this week I bought the most bizarre lot from him yet: An old Barbie doll with a hole bore through its stomach and its head, yet another speculum, a clapper (but one from the 1970s, and I got the guy to sing the “clapper song” which was worth 20 dollars alone), and two music boxes.

One music box has a butterfly that flies around with the music. The other one features butterflies but they were plucked out of the foliage in the box and do not move. I played them both. But the second one, the one with the butterflies that were plucked away and do not fly, plays the most haunting melody. I recognized it immediately. It was the melody from my old music box I had when I was a kid. It was either from my favorite teddy bear or from my jewelry box. Either way, when I put it on I started bawling and could not stop.

Why the fuck, I wondered, was this affecting me so much? I could not stop thinking about it, and at my house now I have only two stuffed dolls from when I was a kid and I grabbed both of them and held onto them so tightly until I was able to gain composure. It was so fucking weird. Then I started looking at stuff. I looked at the walls of my room, which are covered with clown paintings. I looked at the art that I made, all dolls and kid’s stuff.

I listened to the songs that I wrote, all about my dad and childhood, but nonetheless all with an extremely twisted edge. I realized that no doubt I was ABSOLUTELY OBSESSED with my childhood. And in a completely warped way.

My ex-boyfriend told me that he had known this about me for quite some time, and I asked him why he had never pointed it out to me, but he just said he thought that I knew. He also pointed out my love of theme parks, water slides, and the like. And then he started to use some kind of scientific jargon on me and said “when you are exposed to certain stimuli, it’s obvious by the way you would act and that you never really grew up.” I asked him for examples of such “stimuli” and he named some, but I was still confused. But it was all becoming clearer to me now. Especially if it was so clear to someone I knew, who decided never to talk to me about it, I knew that it was true.

After going through college, I can think of two possible reasons for this sort of behavior. One is that I grew up with parents who were constantly fighting, so instead of being a child I was forced to be a mediator. So now, at 25, I am still an immature retard with clowns on my wall.

Another theory is that when something terrible happens to someone (for example, when a girl gets violently raped), she might want to live out the violent rape over and over in various sexual situations with her boyfriends to be able to better deal with the trauma.

Since I had such a shitty bizarre childhood, I think that maybe I want to constantly live it out, acting and living like a child, making childish art and songs, decorating my room like a child’s room, collecting fucked up old dolls, being enraptured by Disney World and the like.

Maybe neither of the theories is true. I don’t know. But this fucking TERRIBLE music box got me going this week. It hurts to hear it. It brings back all sorts of memories that I thought would never surface.

Let this be a warning. I thought repressed memories were bullshit. Now I know that they are not. I also now wonder if the weirdo who sold me this music box might be supernatural. I am scared of him but more obsessed with him now. But everyone beware this man . . . perhaps he holds the truth. And the truth is scary.

The past is even scarier. Often we want to forget it all. I know I want to.

This music box brought back a lot for me. I simultaneously want to destroy it forever and just sit in my room in a completely cathartic state and listen to it for 48 hours without leaving to do anything, even piss or shit. It is so weird. It just sits there and stares at me now. And I want to turn on the song. I know what will happen though. I will be shot immediately back into the past, into my childhood. It’s like the big red button that you’re not supposed to press but you do.

I am also dealing with the fact that I am afraid that this man selling items on the corner could be a serial killer or some kind of otherworldly creature sent here to fuck with me. Or maybe I’m just going nuts.

As I’ve revealed before, I have always assigned personalities to inanimate objects. If there were two apples in front of me and I took a bite out of one apple, I would have to take a bite out of the other apple or else it would feel sad. And I still act that way.

I just hope I don’t turn into some kind of fucking Michael Jackson/Peter Pan creepy-ass pedophile mess, even though MJ is one of my idols and I adore him soooooo much, I don’t want to be Peter Fucking Pan (maybe Shirley Temple, but not Peter Pan).

I don’t climb fucking trees. But I bet if I somehow got famous and had unlimited access to money I would create some sort of fucked up amalgamation of Michael Jackson’s Neverland and Andy Warhol’s Factory–except no kids allowed.

I don’t want what happened to poor MJ to happen to me. I don’t know. At least I don’t have vitiligo and have to walk around draped in black clothes and carry a black umbrella. All of this because of this damned music box. Repressed memories. Michael Jackson. OCD. Speculums. The clapper. A Barbie with a fucking hole bore through the top of her head and through her stomach, serial killers, weird sales, supernatural demon men, childhood obsession, never never land . . . I think I will need that lobotomy soon, doctor.

By Lil Princess

Today, as I write, it is the fifth of July. It was pointed out to me today that I desperately sleep with the biggest weirdoes on holidays. I started thinking back to recent holidays in the past couple of years, and I realized he was completely right.

My festive-time peculiarity started two years ago on Halloween when I went home with a drunken Polish man who discovered that his cat was dead upon our arrival and we had this impromptu funeral for the animal. He shoved it in the freezer, and we had sex.

Then there was the Thanksgiving after that, where I got really drunk in this Puerto Rican bar and wandered the neighborhood and cars kept stopping and trying to pick me up and drive me home safely (or rape me, who knows). I kept telling them to get the fuck away from me, but finally one stopped in front of my house and I decided to get in. I got a ride to a 53-year-old man’s house–who still calls me who is quite scary–and I had sex with him in his twin-sized bed in between bouts of vomiting from being so drunk.

More recently, on Memorial Day I brought home a guy who was too drunk to have sex (which was fortunate, because I was dating a total wiener of a whiny Jewish boy at the time). He did not give me sex, but he did leave me a present when he urinated in my bed. I thought it was quite funny and endearing and even cute, like a baby. I washed his clothes and was very nice. And then there was yesterday . . . the Fourth of July.

I live in quite an interesting neighborhood, and on an even more interesting block. Mostly everyone here is Puerto Rican, there are some blacks. I am one of two white girls in the neighborhood. I have a lot of friends here, and I really like it.

On the third of July, I was torn from bed at 3am by a loud bang. It was not a firework, nor a gunshot, two typical sounds where I live. It was a fucking bomb. And then there was another one. And then another and another.

I went outside and felt like I was transported to the Vietnam War, with dynamite blowing off in all places. It was fucking scary. I heard a woman yell out her window, pleading “Please! It’s 4am . . . I have children . . . STOP THE NOISE!” Then some guy promptly told his friend to throw five quarter-sticks right outside her window, and it sounded like an atom bomb blew off (I’m sure you can’t hear an atom bomb, but I’m trying to say it was really fucking loud).

Amongst the noise and the smoke I managed to find my mechanic friend and walked around with him through the terror and the bombs. It was weird too, because NO police came by. I asked my friend why they weren’t over here regulating, and he informed me that they were afraid of being blown up. It was sheer madness.

So I retired to my stoop, sat down, and watched the neighborhood crumble while drinking vodka and cranberry juice. A dark, very skinny African American stopped by. His name was Junebug. We talked for about three hours. He informed me that he had just gotten out of prison on Friday for selling crack, and then showed me a stash of crack that he was holding under his tongue.

Junebug said he was only selling crack so that he could get money to go to Iowa so that he could get out of the city and urban life and settle down. My roommate came down and contributed to his traveling funds.

I continued talking to him and I was very happy that he was not hitting on me or all over me, because that makes me sick. I mostly asked him a lot about prison, and it was weird but we started kissing. Then I remembered he had a bunch of crack under his tongue. I inquired about it, and he had already thought to take it out of course, and it sort of reminded me of a warped version of when I was 16 and had to take my retainer out before tongue kissing a boy, only this guy had to remove his stash before kissing me.

I hadn’t had sex with anyone except the Hebraic pottyface I had been dating for the last half year, and this guy was the bizarro-world opposite. I just spent six months fucking the biggest whiner pussy I had ever encountered, and now I was about to knock boots with a crack dealer who just got out of prison, had a bunch of gang tattoos, was a member of the Maniacs (the main gang on my street), had two kids, and had never slept with anyone but a black woman in his life.

We hung out in my room for a while. My roommate had just given me this book about prisoners’ inventions that was really interesting. In the book it explains how to make a simulated ass and vagina using folded garbage bags filled with warm water and rolled up sheets to simulate a body, some real MacGyver shit.

I asked Junebug if he knew how to do that. He thought it was really funny and said he did not, but hopefully he will not end up back in prison, but if he does he’ll know how to make a woman. I thought the sex would be a lot rougher than it was. It was weird because the sex with my wussy boyfriend was a lot rougher than the sex with this guy who most people would probably refer to as a thug.

When I woke up, Junebug was gone. That’s the way I like it the best. I really hate morning awkwardness. I don’t know if it was another holiday thing, or if it was that I just got out of this relationship with someone that I loathe and regret dating so much that I had to fornicate with his polar opposite, but I tend to think it is both.

My roommate wrote me a note asking me to pencil him in for Labor Day, half being an asshole, half being serious I think. Maybe I should lock myself inside for holidays, because my track record for the men I sleep with on holidays ends up being the most diverse, bizarre, perverse group of people ever.

Come Labor Day, I’ll make sure I chain myself to my toilet until it is over.

I have been dating this same Jewish douchebag for quite some time now. Call him Schlobo.

Schlobo, I thought, would be a one-night stand, but he immediately declared me his girlfriend, and I figured it was perhaps a good way to maybe be monogamous for awhile (even though I hate monogamy), because my amount of sexual partners was seriously getting out of control, and they were also getting to be more and more like human primates, and I was wondering what the fuck I was doing.

Alas, this has gone on so long that I think it’s too late to stop it. I’m just too lazy.

Music-impresario Schlobo is presently attempting to take songs that I write and perform and put them on tapes to sell to the public. He’s making 150 tapes; I get eight. This is sick. Then he asks me for money all the time.

Last week, Schlobo threatened that if I did not go see him play with his gay toys at a show, he would deny me sex for a week. I could not stop laughing. He needs to stay away from me. What a diseased parasite now. Schlobo is just a terrible, degenerate plug who is no different than the Neanderthal dicks that I used to be pounded with each week after leaving a slimy bar.

But how do I get out? I’m not good at saying no, and I am certainly not good at breaking things off. Imagine some dill-hole denying me sex. YUCK. YUCK! It makes me puke to think about it.

I have never been one to care what others think but I am constantly barraged with questions as to why I am with this monkey, and I explain that I don’t know how to end this shit.

Schlobo wears Old Spice deodorant, and whenever he comes over he leaves this manly scent on my bed and I feel like I’m going to fucking hurl everywhere every time my head touches some part of the bed where the man scent has touched. And he falls asleep with his condoms on. I know I have mentioned this in a previous column. I am not used to this. I don’t think I’ve ever had any guy do this. But not only does he fall asleep with them on, which is so fucking foul, in the morning he starts bitching and whines, “EEEW OH MY GOD WHY DIDNT YOU TELL ME THAT I STILL HAD MY CONDOM ON??? I CAN’T BELIEVE I SLEPT WITH IT ON . . . AGAIN.” As if I am supposed to check his dick for a condom?

It’s disgusting is what it is, and he’s slowly putting me into some kind of mommy role because he has no job and no money and moved out of his parents’ house at age 30 and blames me for that.

Still, all Schlobo does is sit in his house and smoke pot and play Chef’s Love Shack on the Nintendo 64 and watch his nine South Park seasons on tape, and like usually I’d think this was funny in itself, but it’s not. It has lost its charm. Forever.

The worst thing is that Schlobo expects me to be a lady. He expects my shit not to smell. I mean, Jesus Christ, the high point of our relationship was when his retarded friend tried to rape me. I wish I could physically beat him. He is terrible. He talks to me about having kids and raising them. He has no clue.

I have developed a crush on someone else, though. This man is very strange, so strange that I suspect that he might be responsible for many people that are missing today. I think he is hiding them somewhere. He has an outdoor sale every weekend, I will not say where as to not reveal where he is, but he puts a huge sign out that says in big letters WEIRD SALE, and he hits the nail right on the head with that one. I don’t think I’ve ever been to a weirder fucking sale. This guy sells used speculums. He sells 8 mm porn, some of it I suspect can be illegal even.

I don’t know if it’s a crush that I have on the Weird Salesman. It’s more of some insane fascination. He is quiet. The first week he sold me one of the most awesome items I own. It is a slide projector that also has a TV screen that you can project the slides on. It really rules. But it was so hard to get him to talk to me at first.

I try to visit the Weird Salesman every weekend. I always wanted to know what he would say about the speculums he sells, because they were sort of hidden beneath all his crazy junk (oh, if you don’t know what a speculum is, it’s one of those medical tools that they use to open a woman’s vagina up. It sort of looks like a torture device or a duck), but I never wanted to ask him.

My roommate went up to him with two speculums and started making them talk to each other and asked the man how much they were, he seemed very angry/embarrassed and said five dollars. It was so cute.

What kind of man sells speculums and porn on the corner? He also peddles pictures of the Pope and broken figures of Baby Jesus. My roommate picked the Baby Jesus up and was holding it upside down, and the guy yelled at him and told him to hold the Baby Jesus like he would a baby. This guy is serial-killer material for sure.

I thought the Weird Salesman might be too weird for me even, but our weekly encounters have gotten more and more intimate. First, he helped me carry stuff to my car. Second, he gave me a free slide bulb and then changed it for me. The next week he gave me all this stuff for real cheap. Oh, and the final week he did the typical thing that guys do to find out if you have a boyfriend.

I was saying that I would have trouble trying to get this one thing to work that he was trying to sell me, and he said to me “I’m sure your BOYFRIEND would be able to help you with it, that is your boyfriend right, the other guy that comes here with you?” I of course took the hint and said “No way, he’s just my roommate, I DON’T HAVE A BOYFRIEND” (I wasn’t lying either, he is dead to me).

Yeah, I know what you’re tryin’ to do, Weird Sale guy, I thought to myself. I SCORED! Even though I still don’t know his name, I know I’m in there. He could very well be a murderer though. He is very strange and it took weeks to get him to open up to me. But we’ll see. It’s a big challenge, and I like challenges. Plus he has awesome stuff. And my boyfriend now SUX. As I said.

Come on, I can’t date a guy who will not allow me to spill drinks in his room, wants me to kiss him in public, introduces me as his “girlfriend” as if I have no name or identity other than being HIS GIRLFRIEND. He’s also broke, wears Old Spice, and he REFUSES to read my columns (which is actually a great thing because I can write things like this about him and not fear him reading them). In addition, Schlobo talks WAY too loud, tries to take advantage of me and my crappy rap act, makes shitty flyers for shows, wears athletic pants only, eats Indian food, has taken me out ONE TIME in our six-month dating period, got me practical items for Christmas (such as socks, clean blankets, etc.). THAT ALONE should have made me dump him.

Oh my God, I just realized I’ve been dating him since before Christmas. This is depressing. I’ve got to jump off the Jew train onto the serial-killer train. Actually one of the only things that made me like him is that he is Jewish and he looks good. I’m so over that though.

If I am somehow missing in the upcoming weeks though, find the Weird Sale and go through the 8mm film stock and maybe you’ll see me getting cut up or something.

For the past four months, I have had one, and only one, sexual partner. It is a far cry from my behavior of the previous two years, wherein I’d say I racked up about 80 different bedmates.

Eighty is only an estimate; it could be more or less. And I didn’t make a damn dime. I figure if I went home with that many scumbag motherfuckers from bars, why the hell am I not prostituting myself? I could have at least made some money. I’m a fucking idiot. I asked for nothing. That’s the world’s problem. Everyone wants something. These fuckers got something. I feel gypped. All I got was genital warts.

Now that I am only fucking one person I feel like people are trying to take parts of me in other ways. Trying to fucking own me. My stuff. My brain. My thoughts. Stuff I make. Stuff I write. Stuff I do. Stuff I own. Everyone wants a fucking piece. Whether it’s pussy or something else. Everyone’s always trying to break off a piece.

They want to intrude into my thoughts, my time, my life. I don’t spend enough time on the phone with someone. I am not being a good friend. Maybe if I just fucked them all they would be satisfied. Everyone’s a fucking pervert. And everyone wants a piece. They know that they are incomplete so they think that they can complete themselves by using another person.

How do you rape someone that’s allowed it? I feel like I’m constantly being raped but allowing it. People pick and pick at me and I let it happen. I don’t feel sorry for myself, but I’d like for it to stop.

Fuck the games.

Get rid of the play-acting.

Let the real thing be sold.

How do you rape someone without knowing it?

Install a camera in the girl’s room and watch them piss and shit without them ever knowing that you’re coming all over yourself at their expense.

I guess that’s a way.

It’s easy.

Talk to them, steal from them, their bodies, their minds, their possessions, and they will never know the difference. Because it is not the RAPE we see on the news.

I was not tied down with a gun to my fucking head by some massive, dark-skinned man calling me a bitch and holding me down and pumping my ass with his fat, uncircumcised, disease-addled cock.

But you are still taking from me.

There are no news stories about this.

It’s not interesting enough, and far too common.

It’s not only me getting raped, it’s not only women, it’s men, it’s everyone.

Rape is a buzzword.

The honesty can be claustrophobic.

But you’re all taking from me. I call it rape.

It makes people uncomfortable when I say that.

I am a parasite too. I will not deny that.

But right now, I feel like I am being pulled in too many directions by too many people and decisions are getting harder and harder to make.

Maybe that is what success is.

Maybe that’s when you know you’re succeeding, when everyone wants to rape you.

But like I said it’s hard to rape the willing and I am weak and often willing.

I want to vomit all the time.

Everything comes at a price.

I never noticed all of this until I stepped back and stopped thinking about rape in a sexual way. But it can hurt. I see it happen to people all the time. Watch out, my friends.

Parasites are everywhere. And we are all victims and perpetrators. This is a warning to you all. Be careful what you are doing, and be aware of what is being done to you.

Rape is a serious word, but sometimes it takes a buzzword like RAPE for people to understand exactly what they are doing.

Once, when I was a kid, my dad had bought this doll for me and it was missing an arm and a leg, and he told me that it was my “thalidomide baby.”

Being five, I had no idea what thalidomide was, and I’m sure that many people now are unfamiliar with it. Thalidomide (tha-lid-o-mide) was first marketed in Europe in the late 1950s. It was used as a sleeping pill and to treat morning sickness during pregnancy. At that time no one knew thalidomide caused birth defects. Then they started popping up. These birth defects included loss of limbs and fucked-up skulls and brain defects.

Regardless, I carried my baby around with pride and told everyone that it was my “Thalidomide baby” and I loved it. It was one of my favorite stuffed dolls. I had hundreds of stuffed animals and, at 25, I still will not let my mother get rid of them, although I know she secretly tries to sell them at garage sales and then throws them away. There’s nothing I can do about it. It’s tragic.

As part of my childhood obsessive-compulsive disorder, I’d assign personalities to inanimate objects, not only my dolls, but chairs and refrigerators and other weird appliances and things. And I still assign personalities to all of these stuffed animals that I had owned and played with as a child, so I can’t bear to throw them away.

The “Thalidomide Baby” was of course a stuffed doll, since I hated all regular dolls and would put them in cages and throw them in the garbage. Dolls were for girls and I never considered myself a girl. In fact I would not allow anyone to refer to me as a “little girl”; I didn’t want to be referred to as a “little boy” either. I knew I wasn’t a fucking boy. So I decided “little guy” would be the best way to refer to me. Thus, I made my parents introduce me as their “little guy.”

It must have looked weird, my parents calling me a little guy and all, but I was a weird child, and considering all the shit I was going through at the time, and how fucking weird my family was, it made sense. I still have problems thinking of myself as a “woman.” I wish people would still refer to me as a guy or some non-gender-specific term, but there isn’t one.

I know I’m a “woman.” I have a pussy. I bleed every month. But I don’t feel like a woman. I don’t like shopping for shoes. I’m not happy that Star Jones has lost 600 pounds. I don’t eat bonbons. And I hate women. But I hate men too. I like scum. I like shit. That’s what I’m attracted to. Turds. Thalidomide babies. That doll I think shaped my whole life. My dad did so many things to mold me into the most socially awkward being, I can’t believe I was ever even able to enter the real world.

The school system further alienated me by putting me in these “gifted” classes for smart kids who were all social retards, and I could never fit into any group. It was just as demeaning as being in the “retard” class. At least if I was fat or had some sort of physical disability I could understand why people thought I was so weird, but on the outside I looked normal. People just tried to stay away from me.

For one of my gifted classes, I did an in-depth study on McDonald’s. I actually visited the first McDonald’s restaurant in Des Plaines, IL, and I made this crazy puppet show and educated everyone about McDonald’s.

The following year, I did a report on voodoo. Such a funny contradiction between the two subjects, but they are actually similar in a way. I don’t want to turn this into some political essay or go on some diatribe about how McDonald’s is its own religion, but that’s what I mean. But my voodoo presentation caused some major controversy because I plastered the walls of this room with a bunch of photos of Haitian women with big floppy naked pancake titties doing voodoo rituals.

When the parents came to look at all the work their young children had done, they were forced to look at a lot of black-lady tits. But man, the tits weren’t the point. I had done a lot of fucking research, but all of the damn pictures had fucking naked women in them. Still, my parents were proud.

I was always forced into these smart-kid classes and I hated it. Everyone else got to be in different classes with different people all day and I had to be with the same group of smarmy “smart kid” fucking rejects all the time. I didn’t think I was better than any of them. I just hated them and thought they were all assholes. I can’t complain, though, I guess. I grew up in suburbia.

Unfortunately I was just a little bit too old for the whole school-shooting fad, otherwise I think that would have brightened up my days a lot. I remember seeing the movie Heathers and I remember fanatically watching how Winona Rider and Christian Slater blow up their school, and I wished so badly that I could have a boyfriend who would help me do that.

There was a boy named Tom who had written his own manifesto. He was extremely intelligent. I believe he would have shot up the school but he was not interested in girls, and I think he’d have thought of a girl as a hindrance. He was very conceited, especially for someone who hated himself so much. I had myself made frequent and obsessive lists of whom I would kill and how I would do it. If it was three years later and the school found that shit out, I would have had to go to extensive stupid counseling.

This particular essay is all over the place, I know. I just decided to highlight some of the defining points of my life. I’m trying to figure out why I am the way I am. It’s so bizarre, these events that I choose to remember so vividly that I guess I have chosen to forget about for so many years. I wish I could find my Thalidomide baby. It’s disappeared. Maybe I’ll find some psychotic Christian Slater type someday and we can have our own Thalidomide baby.

Rarely do I get the chance to be with multiple members of my family in one place at the same time. It is reserved for funerals, weddings (which are usually very soon followed by divorces), graduations (which almost never happen), and very rarely on some holidays.

This past Memorial Day was one such occurrence, bringing me together, all at once, with my father, my brother, various nieces, and a bunch of other members of the Royal Princess clan. The stories that I could write from this six-hour encounter are endless, but I want to concentrate on my half-brother’s half-brother. His name is Jay.

I have memories of Jay starting when I was five years old. He worked at Disney World (still one of my favorite places). My parents used to take me there to visit him. He was about 22 and he lived in a small apartment with this 500-pound woman named Ginger. Jay had found her sleeping in the laundry room of his apartment and had taken her in to live with him.

Being five at the time, I had no idea what “gay” was or how a stereotypical homosexual man acted, but I knew that Jay was not normal. Plus I was very confused about his relationship with this Ginger, who was probably the fattest human I had ever seen at that point. Regardless, Jay was so sweet and I was very comfortable around him, so I loved the trips we would take to Disney World to see him.

In time, Jay moved back near Wisconsin where his brothers and sisters and mother lived. I next saw him when I was ten, and I knew then that he was flaming. Then I heard that Jay had HIV. This was when the news first broke about the disease AIDS, so I was devastated. I was sure he would die very quickly.

I didn’t see Jay again until I was 15, and I was worried about how he would look. I was used to images of Tom Hanks covered in lesions and sad gay men crying about their emaciated AIDS-inflicted friends. But when I saw Jay, I didn’t see emaciation or lesions I just saw this man–a flaming homo to be sure–but not the “typical” person with AIDS.

As a teenager, I befriended Jay all over again, as he was one of the most amusing and bizarre people I had ever met. You see, living in Florida and working at Disney World and having a quarter-ton female best friend is a pretty typical life for a male homo. I swear, it totally is. But moving up to the ass crack of rural Illinois near Wisconsin and being probably the only openly out-of-the-closet homosexual in sight is a bit weird. Especially since there is only one gay bar in a 100-mile radius.

But that’s my Jay.

At our family gatherings, we are surrounded by charmers with swastika tattoos and Nascar shirts and “Git ‘er Dun” hats. They are the last people on earth that anyone would think could accept homosexuality. And they don’t. But they have to deal with it because Jay’s whole family accepts him and the fact that not only is he homosexual, he is a flaming homosexual. He doesn’t advertise the AIDS thing, but he doesn’t keep it a secret either.

Jay taunts our relatives, too. He talks about how men are while in the company of burly homo-haters and never gets his ass kicked. Sure, comments are made behind his back, but this motherfucker is tough and will fight anyone. And no one wants to make Jay bleed because they’re all afraid of his disease.

Not only is Jay on a heavy regimen of HIV drugs, which have intense side effects, he also regularly consumes valium, narcotics, marijuana, and booze. For some reason, everything balances everything else out and he’s been fine, at least until he gets some alcohol in him. Every time I see Jay he has like six more stories for me about when he got drunk lately.

At the Memorial Day barbecue, there were hardcore Navy guys present, which prompted Jay to go on and on about how sailors parade around in drag and all buttfuck each other. I saw fire in one of the navy men’s eyes–either out of anger or the fact that he wanted a taste of Jay for himself–but since Jay was surrounded by family, this man could not do anything.

Most recently Jay, who’s now 43, told me that at one point he walked into a bar, started drinking, and when he came to, he was covered in water and shackled in Greyslake jail. It turns out that he got into a huge brawl, went to jail, and when they placed him in his cell he ripped out the sprinkler system for the little jail and it flooded and they had to evacuate the whole place and take all the prisoners out until they could fix the problem. And Jay didn’t remember any of this.

Two weeks later, Jay was getting loaded again and called 911. He felt very bad about what he had done as far as ripping the sprinkler system out of the jail and flooding it, and even though his court date had not come up yet, he demanded to be arrested again. The cops would not take him seriously and just told him to hang up and leave them alone. After about the thirtieth time Jay telephoned the Greyslake police department demanding he be rearrested, they decided to comply and came to his house and he ended up in jail . . . again.

The entire police department knows who he is. I like to think of him as the gay G.G. Allin. Well, I guess G.G. Allin could be considered gay, but he was everything (like me). Either way, Jay is a genius. I wish more people recognized it. I don’t know why there are so many amazing people in my family. Like I have said before, I’m pretty sure it’s due to inbreeding and severe childhood abuse, but Jay is definitely one of a kind.

He was raised by a horrible, mean father. His name was Jack and he was beaten to death with a baseball bat at a bar by a bunch of Puerto Ricans to whom he owed money. Jack once locked my brother in the trunk of a car for eight hours straight on an extremely hot day and almost killed him. Jack also used to take the kids to the park and sit on a bench and shoot heroin right there in front of them all. He was a very short man, about five feet tall, and seemed to have one of the worst cases of the Napoleon complex of anyone I’ve ever heard of.

Thank God I never had the chance to meet Jack. He molested little girls. My dad almost killed him and eventually was responsible for throwing him in jail for a lot of years after he found out about how badly he was abusing Tommy and Patty, my brother and sister. This man was Jay’s father and namesake. Jay and I were comparing our prescription drugs and I looked at the label on Jay’s prescriptions and they were under the name of “Jack Thorson.” When I saw this, memories of stories I had heard about this man flooded my head, and I suddenly realized that Jay was subject to all of this horrible man’s abuse.

It is no surprise as to why a lot of my family members turned out the way they did. This is another reason Jay is a hero to me, growing up with that type of abuse, living through that, living through being a homosexual way before rainbow flags and pride parades, being one of the earlier people diagnosed with HIV(in the pre-Magic-Johnson years). And I love Jay’s stories, and the way he floods jails and fucks the system. A lot of people feel bad for him. I look up to him. In my opinion he’s one of the bravest, most humorous, and angelic people in my family.

This is a weird memory of mine, but it recently shot into my head and I thought it was so weird that it was maybe a little bit repressed, because it was not that tragic, but it was such a weird thing to happen, and it makes me remember what a bizarre child I was.

When I was about seven years old, my mom rented The Rocky Horror Picture Show for me to watch. After I saw it, I became obsessed (I am only okay to admit this because I was ONLY seven; I wasn’t some high school or older theatre geek. I HATE Rocky Horror fanatics).

I got the soundtrack, memorized it, memorized the whole movie, and then my mom took me to see the movie in the theatre on Halloween, where I remember them having a “FUCK YOU” contest between the two sides of the audience, yelling “fuck you” at each other and trying to get the sides to yell the loudest. I, of course, could not participate because I was with my mom, but she was mortified that she brought me there and blames this experience in my youth for how mixed-up and insane I am today.

Soon thereafter I got my best friend Beth into Rocky Horror. And we used to get to school early and sneak into the bathroom, when all the lights were turned off, and I had this little Fisher-Price tape player and we’d listen to the songs over and over, alone in the really dark bathroom and sing along to them, softly, so we wouldn’t get caught.

Thinking back on this, it was such a bizarre thing to do. And it didn’t happen just one time. It became a ritual. We knew where and how to get in like 45 minutes early and we’d never miss a morning doing this. Then somehow it became a weirdly sexual experience. I mean we’d never touch or anything, but it was undeniable to both of us that it was.

Well, it does have to be argued that we were rather intimate friends. Beth would have her cousins come over while we’d pretend we were prostitutes and her cousins would give us back massages and stuff until I thought it was getting a little weird, but she’d go further with her cousins.

Beth also had a pool in her back yard and enjoyed taking shits into her hand and throwing it over the edge of the pool rather than getting up wet and going to the bathroom. I just threw that in because I really liked that she did that. She was trashy. Later she got fat and turned into real white trash.

So my relationship with Beth was weirdly sexual to begin with, and this Rocky Horror ritual thing became very important to us. I remember we finally got caught one day by my second-grade teacher, Mrs. Murphy, a gangly old Irish lady. I really can’t fucking imagine what she thought of two girls hiding out before school in a dark bathroom singing the Rocky Horror Picture Show soundtrack, nor did I even know if she knew what we were listening to, but she very sternly told us to get out of the school and never come back in early like that.

After that I started to like to spend a lot of time in the bathroom at school. I figured out how to climb around the stalls and spy on people peeing when they didn’t notice, and mostly I attributed it to the fact that I liked to climb, and the bathroom was fun. The school had one of those cheap panel ceilings like most institutions do, where you can push the panels up and they’re made of this crappy cardboard stuff. One day I noticed that one panel was slightly broken, and I climbed up by the ceiling and started pushing it up and down and moving it. I entertained the idea of going up into the ceiling, but I pussied out . . . that time.

Later I pushed the panel all the way over and decided I’d do it. I’d go up into the ceiling and climb around and see where I ended up. I was a very skinny kid, so I figured it would support me, if my dream was not interrupted by some stupid tattle-tale bitch who I guess was taking a pee at the time and I did not notice her leaving. But I did notice when some fat ape of a woman teacher came in yelling at me to get out of the ceiling. I thought maybe I could run, in the ceiling, and not get caught. I could escape. But I was used to listening to adults so I came down. Right when I was so close to what I wanted to do.

They took me to the principal’s office for this, and I had never gotten into any trouble (at this point) so it was really weird for me. The principal asked me weird questions about whether I wanted to escape something and about whether I was being abused at home, and what would make me want to go up there.

At the time, I figured it was just because I liked to climb and was curious.

Oh, yeah: The school authorities also got the obviously pedophile janitor to come in and yell at me about the damage I caused to the ceiling. He really screamed for a long time. I’m sure he totally got off on it. He never got to yell at any of the kids. I think he was living out his fantasy. Fucking perverted janitors. Who would get that job unless he was a pervert?

Anyway, I thought at the time I just liked climbing and that’s why I went in the ceiling, but when this all popped into my head the other day I think the principal may have been right. Maybe I was trying to get away from something.

Whenever people asked when I was a kid what I wanted to be when I grew up, I could never think of anything to say. I saw One Flew over the Cuckoo’s Nest when I was about eight, and I saw Jack Nicholson get a lobotomy. After that, I decided I always wanted a lobotomy. My home life was so bad. I never wanted to get married. That seemed terrible! I would always say I wanted a lobotomy when I grew up. That would freak people out. Except my father, he loved it, because of his sense of humor.

I think back to sneaking into school every morning with my incestuous best friend and secretly listening to the Rocky Horror soundtrack and then trying to run away into the ceiling and I realize I’ve always been like this. I always wanted to escape in some way but I didn’t know how. I still do, and I still don’t know how.

My small bedroom with walls covered in clown paintings and a floor littered with Dunkin Donuts cups and cigarette butts and the TV constantly blaring serves as an escape for me now. I spend progressively more and more time in there. I’m positive I’m becoming agoraphobic. It’s an escape from all these fat know-it-alls, and all the creeps that troll around me and hit on me, people that follow me and suck the life out of me, as well as my mother’s constant nagging and my father’s endless talk about death.

My room is also my respite from disgusting bar life, noise music, roaches, decay, daily dealings with mental degenerates, etc. etc. etc. ad nauseam. It seems to never end. I don’t know why this all hit me recently but I think it’s important for some reason.

I wish now that I could try to climb into one of those cheap panel ceilings, just because now I’m adult and I know if I were caught people would think I was crazy, but I wouldn’t care.

The other day I was in Dunkin Donuts for my daily visit, and this little girl started talking to me. I talked back to her. She was cute. Then she turned to her mom and said, “Mom everyone is so nice, I love everyone!”

I almost started crying.

Then I said goodbye to her and started walking to the door, and she asked her mom if she could come give me a hug and before her mom gave her an answer she came up and hugged me. It was really weird.

Now I’m not going to go all Michael Jackson and talk about how children are so beautiful and innocent, but it was a sweet moment. I wish there were more like that.

At the very least, I wish I had more moments like I used to have with Beth listening to the radio in the dark, or swimming in her pool and watching her shit in her hands and throw it over the side. Those are the moments that make life worth living and make me not want to hide all the time.

Valerie Solanas has long served me as an inspiration. She may be most famous for shooting Andy Warhol, but she was also a great writer. Her best known work is The SCUM Manifesto.

SCUM stands for “Society for Cutting Up Men”.

If a man wants to join the men’s auxiliary version of SCUM, he must take an oath. The oath starts with “I am a turd. I am a lowly abject turd. And these are the reasons why I should have been aborted . . . ”

I thought it would be both therapeutic and interesting to do this for myself, so I have written 69 reasons why I should have been aborted. I hope you enjoy them. I also recommend this exercise to everyone. It’s fun!

For parents, it’s a good exercise to have your children do. Have them write down 50 reasons why mommy and daddy should have turned them into a big bloody miscarriage. There I go getting gross again. One of my many flaws. I hope you enjoy.

I am a turd. I am a lowly abject turd. And these are the reasons why I should have been aborted:

1. My house is a shitpile.
2. My boyfriend is a gay pussy turd.
3. My toilet doesn’t flush.
4. I have genital warts.
5. I am a coward.
6. I cannot remember things.
7. I forget to wear socks (even in the winter).
8. I did not get an oil change on my car for two years and almost destroyed the engine.
9. I forget people’s birthdays.
10. I lose things.
11. I spill drinks a lot.
12. I have bad eating habits and table manners.
13. One of my teeth is half black due to the fact that my orthodontist fucked up, so I guess it’s really not my fault.
14. I have killed many times. Mostly cockroaches.
15. I spend large amounts of time performing rituals for my obsessive compulsive disorder (e.g., touching walls, turning lights on and off, counting, and too many others to list).
16. I have not yet been on a reality show.
17. I have had sexual intercourse with some of the most rotten, disgusting trolls that Mother Nature has ever birthed out of her large, bloody pussy.
18. I have bad body odor (although I like it, so I don’t wear deodorant).
19. I seem to be constantly living in “bad” situations.
20. People have told me I am delusional or paranoid; although I must disagree with them because I justify all of my paranoia.
21. I can get pregnant.
22. My mother already had an abortion before me, about 20 years before I was born. She was young and the baby was half black; if he was aborted, so should I have been.
23. I don’t respect my father as much as I used to.
24. I can’t stop making fun of fat people.
25. I flush my tampons down the toilet, and it gets clogged.
26. I don’t shave my legs.
27. Sometimes I’m too lazy to buy tampons so I use toilet paper, or sometimes just drip. (But not PEE! I never drip pee!)
28. I am obsessed with reality shows.
29. I am dirty, physically and mentally.
30. I’m not sure about the way I feel about religion.
31. I say mean things.
32. I am very lazy.
33. I sleep a lot.
34. I wish I could get a man pregnant and then leave him to deal with the baby.
35. I use the guy down the street to fix my car for free, then I promise to go out to dinner with him and I never do.
36. I have randomly sent nude photos to men on death row (although I don’t think this is bad, most people might).
37. I screen all of my phone calls.
38. I have not talked to my dying father in five months. Especially on those really cold days when you’re supposed to be checking on the elderly. He could be dead right now, I don’t know.
39. I need to wash my hair.
40. I am only attracted to men who have severe substance-abuse problems (again, I don’t think this is a problem, but others do).
41. I wish I knew better revenge tactics.
42. I don’t know how to fight.
43. I don’t own a gun.
44. I am not as good at mind control as I should be by now.
45. I am not as famous as I should be by now.
46. I can’t figure out when will be the proper time for me to die so as to preserve my reputation and be remembered for the longest amount of time.
47. I am bad at eBay.
48. I have not yet captured Lara Flynn Boyle, tied her down, and broken every one of her skinny little limbs, and then cut her little breasts off and sent her to the hospital.
49. I cannot trust anyone (although I think this is a good thing).
50. I cannot do my own taxes.
51. I have terrible credit.
52. I keep getting parking tickets for parking more than ten inches from the curb. You’d think I’d learn by now!
53. I can’t pee standing up.
54. I lie.
55. I steal (not just material things, ideas as well, and anything else).
56. My behavior has been dubbed grotesque and unbearable.
57. I have little to no dignity.
58. I have a fibroid growing inside me.
59. I have too many nightmares.
60. I am “out of control”.
61. I dye my hair.
62. I fall asleep with lit cigarettes and burn myself. Luckily I have not yet burnt the house down.
63. There are more but I cannot write them down here.
64. Another secret.
65. Another secret.
66. Another secret.
67. Another secret.
68. Five separate people claim that I have single-handedly ruined their lives.
69. My childhood was not the best, so maybe I would have been better aborted.

The Nazis were horrible and all, but how could a person really hate them?

I was watching this program on the History Channel today about the different crazy weapons of destruction that were made by them. The most impressive was this one that consisted of two speakers that let out so much noise that the pressure from the sound would extend a full half mile and destroy anything in its path.

The resulting force was equivalent to what you would feel if you were 10,000 feet under water. You blow yourself to smithereens. It was amazing. Another cool Nazi weapon was a gun that shot around corners. There were so many more.

They had such amazing engineers, those Nazis, that it’s a shame that they used so many of them to kill all those Jews. My father, of course, has always insisted there weren’t even six million Jews on the entire planet during World War II, so therefore the Holocaust could not possibly have happened. I don’t know. I was not there. The photos are sexy. But I tend to think that the Holocaust happened.

As for the rest of Nazi lore, I just like the weapons. I have nothing against Jews, except for the guy I’m dating and his mean hippie parents.

This brings me into what I actually want to sound off about. My main job is working with homeless and “at risk” youth. That means sex workers, drug addicts, homeless people, hungry people, fat people, trans people, gay people, et cetera.

It’s a nonprofit organization, and we have recently opened a “drop-in,” which is a place where all these degenerates can hang out, and the degenerate who’s writing this has to regulate shit on Fridays.

For months, we had no problems there and we have every type of youth in the world coming there. It’s really a utopia, almost. People who would be called “ghetto” can be seen hanging out with loud trannies, which you would never see on the streets, and then chatting with artsy drug-addict hipsters and the others. Get this: They all even agree on movies and television shows. The O.C. seems to be the popular one that surpasses age, race, gender, sexual orientation, and everything else . . . go figure. So anyway, everything was going along well.

Until the language police barged in and busted up everybody’s good time.

One of my genius roommates, who also has the same working position as I do, decided to go to an event highly populated by trans, gays, “people of color” etc. and sing a song that had the word “nigger” in it about thirty times.

I was just waiting for him to get assaulted, but I was also glad he did it. When it was over though, nothing seemed to happen. No repercussions. Nothing. We thought. This lasted for about a week. Then the shit started hitting the fucking fan.

Now we are no longer able to say anything. AT ALL. EVERYTHING IS REGULATED. We are now going to be a “SAFE SPACE” where you cannot say even the most miniscule word that could be taken the wrong way.

Most people would come to the conclusion then that you wouldn’t be stupid and use the hot-button key words, like nigger, faggot, whore, he-she, honky, half-breed, lardo, cripple, bugaboo, mr. bojangles, loonie, junkie, sheenie, beaner, sand nigger, ho, dyke, etc. (Jesus, I love writing those down).

Anyone with sense would avoid those words, but recently someone said they got “gypped” and was reprimanded. You know why? Because the word “gypped” is derived from the word “Gypsy,” and that could hurt the feelings of those who tell fortunes and wear lots of jewelry and steal things.

More recently I mentioned that I felt like I was “going crazy.” I got jumped on and asked what the word “crazy” means to me and don’t I think that someone could be offended by that and what was wrong with me etc. It’s sick. I can’t say anything anymore.

The Powers That Be keep repeating, “We don’t want anyone walking on eggshells.” I’m afraid to open my mouth anymore. It’s impossible to even say anything that may not be taken as offensive.

This is ruining everything that we stood for in the first place. These kids who are homeless, sex worker, drug addicts have a lot more to worry about than if they use a certain fucking word and make someone “sad”.

More importantly, the only person concerned with language is a “feminist” who is responsible for all these regulations. One funny aspect is that, as a woman, I am allowed to say and write whore, junkie, and anything I want about rape, very graphically, but since I’m a honky, I can’t write or say anything about people of color or anything else.

I’m also not allowed to talk about fatties, because I’m not fat. FAT is one of my favorite words! I say it all the time. I’m going through withdrawal by not being able to call my roommates fat at work. This shit makes me sick. I think I am going to become a fat gay transexual black Arab who whores out my body and is mentally ill and crippled and, of course, a woman. Then I’ll be able to say whatever the fuck I want.

Crap like this is why I do not like being equated with the feminists. There were plenty of feminist geniuses, but the feminists are also the first ones to outlaw porn. It’s sick and dangerous. Some feminists are more dangerous than the fucking right-wing conservatives.

I know this is a little more political than I usually write, but I want to point out the danger that can come when people start censoring our words. Regardless of whether they are “liberal” or “right wing,” I hate them all. NO ONE has freedom of speech in mind. Everyone’s main goal is to shut “the other side” up.

I started this by pointing out how lovable the Nazis were for inventing such great weapons. I really want the sonic blast one. I would round up all feminists, Christians, and anyone else that wants to stop me from saying words like fat, fag, turd, plug, degenerate, junkie, troll, decay-stinking fat-asses, rat-breath cripples, socket face, mental degenerates, sperm stench, cottage cheese cum, prepuce, thick shaft, sand nigger, abuse, plow, slam stroke, slither, wretch, slop, pull one off, pulsing, crawling, gypsy, seeping, tight hard ass, fat monstrosity, shit chewing rat, flea infested garbage dump, cock-sucking crack whore, pedophile waste-case, immense blob, sickening nigger, old tang, clam sauce, half breed, etc. and place them all within a half mile radius and blast “Happy Together” by the Turtles and watch all of their bodies explode into a million pieces from a videocast while I am safe at home.

That would make my day.

I don’t know why I have gotten as far as I have in life but it’s happened. I don’t like anyone. I try not to talk to them. I never ever try. My mother seems to think I’m wasting my life. I do too sometimes, but not really. I feel like I have gotten a lot farther than the average John Q. Public, drooling at the television. Although I can’t miss my Dr. Phil, and I have nothing against television.

I mean, I have this boyfriend who I guess is nice to me, and I play mother to him. Don’t fucking ask me how that ever happened. And I have these fucking weirdoes that latch on to me because I talk to them. People are sick. I have a Furby, and I swear to god, that thing tells me far more intelligible things in the period of twenty minutes than most people do in their lifetimes. Why don’t they leave me alone?

The other day this stoned-ass bitch came into my car and told me she had this lung problem. I started to feel sorry for her, but then I started realizing that she has nothing. She’s about fifty-five. She is totally old enough to get a medical card, plus she has emphysema and can’t work so should be on social security, but she’s not. Why? No one knows.

Her only solution to the problem is selling her body, but now nobody’s buying, because she’s so decrepit and old. I just don’t understand how you get to that point. I know there is a bottom. How does this happen?

And I hear this shit over and over. And it starts to sound like Charlie Brown’s fucking teacher. I am more than sympathetic. But I just don’t get it. I wish more people were like Furby.

Babies are stupid but I swear some grown people are worse than babies. My roommate gets drunk and talks at me for hours about the same nonsense. Why can’t people like this just come equipped with some pouch on their back that contains a gun that I could use to shoot myself after they have been talking for too long? Sometimes a human being can only take so much.

I would need a gun too. I would never be a pussy and use pills or some other shit that can go wrong and leave you a drooling retard. I’d have to make sure I would be dead.

I saw this commercial once. It made me laugh so hard. Maybe others of you have seen it. It’s for life insurance that will help you pay for your funeral after you are dead. It talks about how much funerals cost, about six thousand dollars, and how much social security pitches in, about six hundred dollars, so that your family is left with the burden of putting your body in the fucking ground. Jesus Christ!

I saw that and I simultaneously shit my pants laughing and crying. There are people at home, old people, watching this actually thinking, I don’t want to be a burden when I die so I should get this. I mean they’re fucking dead. Wouldn’t anyone feel bad for them? Unless they’re real assholes and then they wouldn’t care about the burden that they left anyway.

This conundrum really makes no sense to me. But I still love the commercial and the fact that this insurance actually exists. What a world we live in.

The other day I was driving, and I saw this billboard that almost made me get into six accidents. It was black with white letters and it said “6-6-06 THE SIGNS ARE ALL AROUND US” except the dashes between the 6’s were all upside-down crosses.

I panicked: Where? Where are the signs? The currency exchange across the street? The Christian school on the other corner? The KF-fucking-C? Where are the goddamned signs?

They should put that sign in the ghetto. You could scare some dumb whitey into thinking the world is going to shit, if they perhaps got lost or something.

The ghettos have had the best signs popping up, in general. At first, they were only on busses that went down into black neighborhoods, but they have now placed them in the neighborhoods themselves. They read: “I see black people”. Brilliant.

This is such a ridiculously funny town. Everything seems so backwards. Two days ago, in fact, I actually saw this old guy jogging backwards. I wondered if he knew what he was doing. But it made sense somehow. I think just about anything would make sense to me now.

The whole world has just gone so wacky, and all this shit with all these last comings and everything and the fact that I’ve been dating this weird Hebrew for a long time now. It spans from general life close into my personal life. I can’t really say good or bad things happen anymore . . . Fucking weird things happen. That’s all.

As a side note, after having sex my boyfriend has fallen asleep with a condom on at least the past three times. Is this normal? I don’t think it is. He always blames me for it too. He wakes up, sees the condom on his dick, and yells at me about it. It is really gross. In all of the eight years I have been having sex that has never happened. Or if it has, no one told me. It makes me sick.

And there’s one more reason that my world is so backwards. My mother has turned from her old days as basically a drug addict sex maniac into a hardworking woman staunchly against drugs and bizarre sex.

I was telling her about my articles here the other day and explaining to her about how I only have one VD now. My mom is the QUEEN of VDs. She has had all of them and her boyfriend currently has herpes, which she has as well.

So I told my mom that I have genital warts and she started laughing. Then she got all casual, like she was talking to a girlfriend thirty years ago, and she said to me, “Heh-heh, I remember when I had genital warts, they put me out and burned them off with a laser. And when I was wakin’ up, I was still all fucked up from the anesthesia and I asked the doctor ‘Did ya get those warts off my ass?’”

I still was really happy she told me that. That’s why I love my mother. It’s those little moments when she suddenly falls back into her old self when I knew she was super trashy and all fucked up where I see who she was and it makes me glad she pushed me out of her vadge all those years ago.

Yeah, I know things are all over here, but that’s just how I’m feeling. Nothing seems to make sense. I’m happy about it. But I just don’t know what to think anymore. I think I’ve been watching too much History Channel. I occasionally fall asleep with that shit on and when I wake up, I have all these conspiracy theories engrained in my head. But today it was so boring. They had a two-hour special on about salt. I mean how much can anybody talk about salt?

Everyone should be shot, or like the opposite. Maybe there ought to be a big ticker-tape party thrown in everyone’s honor for making the world such a terribly bizarre place.

Assholes always bellyache about how it’s so terrible that more people vote for American Idol than for the president. I really never thought that was that weird. Well first of all because it’s way fucking easier to vote for American Idol. Secondly, it’s more fun. Presidents suck.

And I never really get what I want, and I realize I should have just sat at home and watched American Idol instead of leaving the house to vote. Although after Carrie Underwood won last season, I got mad. She’s gross, and people are just hoping that she’ll have a nip-slip. That’s the only reason Bo Bice didn’t win.

There is a great man whom I feel has been recognized by many–but not enough. I have long understood how mighty he is and he has become my idol.

Not only because he is my father and he has taught me everything I know about life, especially sex, but at the age of 36 has accomplished a great many things.

Since father’s day is right around the corner (not really, but I always pretend it is) I decided to write this homage to my father, Daddy McP, a.k.a. Selwyn Harris. I have come up with 20 reasons why he is the greatest man in the world.

I also did one of those stupid things that I remember they made me do in like kindergarten (the few times I was allowed to go to school, when I wasn’t in the cage) where I take every letter of his name and write something good about him. So this is my homage to my father. The top 20 are in no particular order by the way.

1. He has an enormous beautiful dick.

2. He has fucked many women fat and skinny, all with really nice tits. He also had a teenage girlfriend when he was about 30 who probably had small tits.

3. He raised me in a cage and fed me only chicken bones.

4. He published Happyland and changed zines forever.

5. Other zinesters tried to squash his spirit, but he soldiered on, triumphant.

6. He worked at Hustler for a million years, so he knows a bunch of awesome people.

7. He grew up in Brooklyn, New York, when I wish I did and therefore knows a lot more awesome famous people that I wish I knew.

8. He makes a shitload of money looking at naked women on the internet all day and watching porno and writing about it (a job most men dream of having).

9. He has a beautiful cock.

10. He bought me a pony when I was 10, which I kept in the cage with me until it took a shit on my butterfly collection and I decided to cut it up and use it for food, but I preserved its head and it is my prized possession. Every time I look at it, I think of the cage and my daddy.

11. He will make me famous

12. He had beautiful fatties breastfeed me until I was 14 and accidentally bit one of their nipples off. I still have the nipple. Sorry, Lady Cherise.

13. He pumps out dirty words like Mormon women pump out babies.

14. He cut the penis off of my first boyfriend for getting me an ugly corsage to wear to the prom.

15. He had Collective Soul play my Sweet 16 party.

16. He plays guitar better than Paul Leary in the best band ever, Gays in the Military.

18. He can masturbate while eating a pizza with an unspeakable zest for life.

19. He has funded my Harvard education and Oxford graduate program.

20. Best of all, he spawned me with his beautiful, erect penis and perfect supersperm and made a tiny genius who will hopefully someday mirror her daddy.

I just ate McDonalds and I think I’m going to have the worst diarrhea in my life, but, yeah, Selwyn rules. So perfect, even his shit does not smell.

This was no way spawned by anything that my father told me to do. It was all done on my own accord because I love him so much and just wanted to let him know that. Thank you.

For the first and last time ever, I am going to mention here the Internet phenomen known as MySpace.com.

What happened was that my personal MySpace page was recently chosen to be highlighted on the flea-infested garbage dump of a website that is called DrunkenStepfather.com.

Don’t get me wrong, I really like the website. It’s pretty amazing, but some of the shitbags that write comments are subhuman morons. The Drunken Stepfather piece on me runs about a paragraph long, and it shows the pictures on my account. There’s discussion about how disgusting I probably am, and how bad my vagina probably smells, and then people who have nothing better to do than worship him leave their stupid-ass, dorky comments there because they have nothing better to do than read a blog all day and then write their own blog that no one gives two shits about.

The anonymous wisecracks are pretty predictable like: “Oh this girl’s nasty, her cunt smells, I bet she was raped by her uncle and blah blah blah” or “She’s on drugs, I bet she has Vds” and then some sarcastic remarks about women and so on.

All of this vileness got me thinking. I know I am disgusting. I do have at least one VD (most of my readers know this). I do stink and live in filth, but I admit to it.

My point is that this whole world is fucking gross. Women are nauseating in general, not just me in particular, and I’m sick of being the whipping bitch for an entire gender.

Women bleed out their vaginas, which makes them smell like dead fish and slaughtered cattle. It’s fucking sick. They also pee in their pants all the time (and I’m not talking about old women either, young beautiful women are guilty of this constantly). And they have stretch marks, and they’re fat and disgusting (which I am not).

Foulest of all, however, is that women give birth. And if, my friends, you have ever had the unfortunate chance to see a video of that, or God forbid, see it live, you might agree that witnessing a single woman whelp forth one smelly, blood-soaked, crying, retching little baby is more repugnant than the entire Holocaust.

Let me further prove my point by simply perusing the “feminine” aisle at a local grocery store and looking at the merchandise. The horrors there are unspeakable. First of all, they have a whole fucking section of things to remove feminine odor, meaning pussy stink. I don’t mean like one thing, like a douche. They have everything that you can imagine . . . creams, powders, lotions, ointments, shit you shoot up there. So cunts must reek a lot if they have all these goddamned treatments.

Then there are pee pads. I believe one of the brands is actually called “Poise Pads”. I don’t know if this brand name is trying to show a woman as being more proper and having more “poise” if she uses them. I’m not even exactly sure what poise means. I think it has something to do with manners. I guess it means that when you use these things, you have the manners not to have piss constantly dripping out of your twat all over your friend’s nice furniture at dinner parties or something, because you’re constantly fucking pissing yourself.

These are not Depends-type diapers either. They are not in the geriatric aisle. Again, these are like pantyliners and are in the feminine products aisle, being pitched to women about my age or a little bit older. Women who leak pee all the time. Women who are constantly pissing their pants all the time.

Seemingly they just invented these things, so maybe about ten years ago women around 30-40 were just pissing all over the place. Now I am not ever afraid to talk about any of my gross imperfections, but I don’t fucking leak pee, and that’s goddamned gross. I thought people were potty trained as children. I guess that stopped happening in the past five years.

And “Poise Pads” is just one brand. There are at least 20 brands of these goddamned things and they take up about half an aisle. No joke. They are conveniently placed right next to the douches and lotions and shit, which I guess you use right after you’ve pissed all over yourself so you don’t smell like a zoo. I’m sorry, maybe I am going a bit overboard about this, but if there are so many of these every woman must be wetting herself.

Now Heaven help you if you ever mention that blood comes out your vagina once a month. Oh, and even worse, a man becomes a fucking pariah if he is to go shopping and he happens to pick up some fucking tampons for his wife while he’s shopping for his family. If another man sees him he becomes the kid in the schoolyard who just peed all over himself (sorry I’m still stuck on this pee thing).

What the fuck is he supposed to do, leave the tampons at the store and let his partner seep fucking smelly fish blood all over the carpet? Come the fuck on! Periods happen. It’s a fact of life. Get over it, everyone.

What I truly despise are the goddamned commercials for the pads to show how absorbent they are. They fucking use blue water. Blood is NOT blue! Use something that looks like blood, or real blood, even better, get some of those fucking chunks in there that come out when a woman is bleeding that are so disturbing. Women have to live with it. The world needs to see this shit.

We don’t have detergent coming out of our vaginas . . . far from it. But just imagine how helpful that would be for the wife who’s a housekeeper: she could just wipe her vadge all over the kitchen floor and it would be clean. But it’s just not fucking true.

And I would just like to point out that if you are NOT bleeding out your vagina, that means that you probably have the worst venereal disease of all–pregnancy!

So I pray always that no matter what stink and stains and chunks and pains this once-a-month visitor causes, that it keeps fucking coming back because if it does not arrive, then yeah I’ve got big, big problems.

Oh and one more thing before I get off of the period subject. Let me shortly address these fucking retard wastoid wretches who will not fuck a girl when she is on her period. It’s so stupid. You’re stupid if you won’t do it. Grow some balls. Are you scared of a little blood?

I really think these people have no idea what a period is. I can only assume what they are thinking is that once you remove that plug that is a tampon, projectile blood shoots out everywhere, and they release some pipe that they cannot stuff up again. Not the case guys. You fucking shitbags. You can always wash you precious dick off. And then you want to release your gross-ass cum all over our faces. Fuck you.

If I am ever with a man and he refuses to fuck me because of my period, everything is over right there. I already know what type of a person he is, and I don’t need to know anymore about him.

One more thing (I know I said that already, but this is really the last one more thing) that I cannot fucking stand is people who have dogs who sniff your vagina when you’re having your period.

I’ve had this happen to me way more times than I like to think about. These dogs start sniffing, then they start licking, over the clothes of course (I haven’t yet delved into the realm of possibilities of them going under the clothes, and I won’t, but I’m sure the owners do–dog owners are weird).

Oh and I’ve actually had on several occasions some repulsive pooch owners ask me while their dog is licking and sniffing my plasma-sopped cunt, “Oh, are you on your period? Rover just runs to girls when they’re bleeding.”

THIS IS SICK! THESE PEOPLE SHOULD BE INSTITUTIONALIZED AND THEIR DOGS SENT TO THE MOON!

And people have the audacity to call me gross.

This is shit that happens every day in this world, folks. The world we live in is sick in so many ways. I just talk about it and point it out, and for that I am pointed out. I am a martyr. Maybe one day I will be canonized as a saint for all this abuse I take. The saint of shit that is disgusting. Do they have one of those yet?

Sorry I wear Band-Aids on my nipples and talk about VDs and cum. At least I’m not pissing on myself, or having my dog lick some girl’s cooch and laugh and carry on about it.

Ok, I am barely down the feminine products aisle, I have found about three different items and I can rant this much about it. I mean there are still pregnancy tests, and then fucking pregnancy, and big nasty pancake breasts as a result of it, stretch marks, fucking birth!

BABIES, female diarrhea products, feminine gas products, irritable bowel syndrome medication FOR WOMEN ONLY, all the makeup they use to cover their sloppy pockmarked disgusting faces, over-the-counter herpes medication.

And people still have the audacity to question my femininity and say I’m foul. Well, if these blogger retards have girlfriends or wives that aren’t made of rubber (which I highly doubt; for them, I guess I’ll have to talk about their fat Mexican female neighbor who they have drilled a whole in the wall between them so that they can watch her undress and jackoff to, or the geriatric monstrosities on the web they look at), they must come to terms that ALL OF THESE WOMEN, AND MOST OTHER WOMEN, are MORE DISGUSTING THAN ME.

I AM A BEAUTIFUL FLOWER OF A WOMAN AND DON’T FUCKING FORGET IT.

I started this by saying I wanted to ask a question, the question, if your dumb ass can’t figure it out yet, is “why am I so gross when compared with other women?” I think I have stated my case. Any answers would be appreciated.

Nick’s Pub is a lame-ass pit of pukes on Milwaukee Avenue here in Chicago where, for an awful period last year, I regularly bobbed for random cock. For the first time in quite a while, I’m hearing the call of Nick’s again. Loudly and disgustingly.

You see, I acquired this crappy boyfriend named Schlobo just so I could stop slutting around with every plug-ugly shithead with whom I came into contact. This strategy actually worked for a while but my “boyfriend” is a nudge and nitpicky and irritating and loud. So loud. He’s forever pointing out that I’m dirty as he spontaneously starts cleaning my room and making my bed and generally being a pain in the cunt.

You might think that there’s nothing wrong with that, but Schlobo’s approach is so obnoxious. He reminds me so much of my mother. Too much. He grabs crap on the floor and says, “Ok, we’re sayin’ goodbye to this one!” and then, “Yep, this is OUTTA HERE,” and “EEW how long has this been here?” and “GOODBYE FELLA!”

You get the idea.

And when he’s finished, I don’t know where anything is, and he’s thrown out half of the things that I need. Talking to garbage is so sick. I had no idea I hated it so much until he started doing it and I got an instant flashback to my horrible mother throwing my good toys out. It made me want to kill myself, then and now.

Schlobo also owns the shittiest record label in history. He doesn’t even have the money to make actual records so he can only afford to make CDRs. What’s worse is that he doesn’t understand how lame this is.

I tried to explain to Schlobo that even the poorest, most degenerate piece of shit now has a computer with a CD burner. Why the fuck, then, would they pay him their money to make CDs for them when it’s about the easiest thing in the world to do it for themselves?

“Well what if the band is on tour?” Schlobo countered.

This logic is in keeping with Schlobo’s sensibility in general, and speaks volumes about his way with a buck in particular. This is especially galling because he’s Jewish and he can’t even live up to the cash-savvy stereotype. Being whiny and incessantly running his yap and living with his parents past age thirty–those slurs he’s chosen to adopt as his own. Not the money thing, though.

I only mention Schlobo’s ethnicity because it’s such a pathetic issue for him. He hates being Jewish to the point of constantly trying to cover it up. For Moses’ sake, Schlobo works in a kosher restaurant in the heavily Jewish suburb of Skokie and he’s forever trying to pass himself off as being raised by Christ-lovers.

Apparently soon Schlobo’s going to fly the coop and leave mom and dad’s house. We’ll see. He likes to give me a lot of advice on where I should live. And he constantly smokes pot. I hate pot. I’d like to blame his idiocy on his being ganja-zonked so often but, no, he’s just an idiot.

Look, I have my flaws. I’m a lazy bitch. But I’m not stupid. Schlobo is.

Giving the dummy his due, I must note that what he’s amazing at is sex. I swear. That’s about the only reason that I don’t end this never-ending mess. I like the sex too much. It’s enough to keep me faithful even.

But the talking! Schlobo never shuts up. It has driven my roommates–who are all fucking certifiably retarded and insane to begin with–past the point of complete meltdowns.

I will admit that I do not live with the highest caliber of people. Most people would actually refer to them as scum.

One of my roommates is a compulsive gamer. He is also a drunk who yells on the corner about how the neighborhood is filled with . . . well, I’ll let you use your imagination but it’s not good. Another roomie is a terminal fuckup that has been the bane of my existence for the past five years. And then there’s one who chooses to walk around the house exclusively in raggy, blotchy briefs. The site of him sometimes makes me crazy to the point that I think I would rather have my own father’s penis dangling right in front of my face than see this.

These are my roommates, but this “man” whom I am dating seems to piss them all off and top this by his talking. He never shuts up. Ever. EVER!

Schlobo has been regularly attending high-decibel rock shows for a good seventeen years. I will ask him politely sometimes if he might think that he has possibly suffered hearing loss as a result of his ear-rattling hobby.

He answers in his usual loud voice, “WHAT DO YOU MEAN? WHY WOULD I BE DEAF,” and I will reply how all of the roommates complain about the volume at which he speaks and how it is too loud and how they wish that it could be a bit lower.

He can’t comprehend this.

When Schlobo and I sit together in bed and talk, it’s like conversing with a victim of Down’s Syndrome. Perhaps he does have Down’s, but I have never asked. He does not have the look. But he is such a loud talker I find myself becoming deafer by the moment when he is around

However, like I’ve said so many times before, what is the alternative? Sliming around Nick’s Pub again at 4 a.m. trying to find some kind of mate? And why do I feel I need a mate anyway? I do not know.

I have never considered myself straight, or gay, or bisexual. I guess “queer” would be the right word for it, but queer is too often associated with the gay community so I really do not know how to label myself, and I do not like labels anyway.

A good girl might be nice. I haven’t had that in a while. I talk to straight men a lot and they cannot understand why anyone would want to be with a male because they’re gross. And I agree, they are. They’re all hairy and brutish. Females are so much softer, plus they don’t have dicks, and I hate looking at penises, I think they’re fucking ugly as hell, but I like sex with men. So I don’t know what to do.

Schlobo has got to go, though. He has made references to our having kids already. It scares the shit out of me. Then I realize he’s thirty. I actually think he’d marry my scummy ass just because he felt he had to, and then we’d have this miserable life. It’s sick. I am in no hurry. That’s for sure.

I might be wasting my time, but I don’t know what I want right now. I just do not want bar sex. I’m done with that for a while. I think I will be done with crybaby loser sex soon, although I bet if I tried to break up with Schlobo, he would not even hear me.

Right now. I lie here. I think I have experienced it. Death. Mental Death. Physical deteriation. Lying here for days staring at the ceiling waiting to be carried up, or go plummeting down. My stomach tight with hunger. My legs cramped from malnutrition. My back aching from not moving. Hair turning strawlike and beginning to thin and fall out.

I remember I’m 25. Born in 1980. How did it happen this fast? I remember the first time I read Ken Kesey’s One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest and read the part about the lobotomy, and the way the protagonist was after it had happened to him, dead in the mind, unthinking, but still there physically. He sounded like the luckiest man in the entire world.

I envied his no longer having the torment of having to think, or worse, having to remember. Waiting for a nurse to come and do everything for you four times a day. Feed you, bathe you, empty your piss and shit, shave you. Watch Nascar on the television for hours. Watch the cars go around and around and around and around the track, never stopping. There is no world around you. You are no longer aware of it. It is gone. You are inside of the safe brick walls. Not inside your head anymore. This is mental death and it sounds wonderful.

Cut to him. He’s fucking your ass from behind while you’re barely trying to cling to the wet, slippery walls of the bathtub while he slams your head into the faucet. Snot mixed with blood and shampoo drip down the side of the tub. There is no escape from this. There is no stopping this. It is raining hot water all over your back, which only makes the walls more slippery, harder to balance your two small hands on so that you don’t go crashing face first into the bottom of the bathtub and break your face open.

There is already blood in the bottom of the tub, although you have no idea from where, it just exists and more is coming. Is it yours . . . his? Too hard to tell. Everything hurts and is wet and slippery. The stench of blood and semen is ripe and in the air. I was born for this.

His engorged cum filled dick slamming into me. I think about my organs moving in all different directions. Through this I am able to stop and wonder if he can actually alter the way that my organs are arranged in my body if this sick troll pounds me enough times.

This is not intercourse. This is not sex. This is not fucking. There is only one word for this and it is sloppy and disgusting and rife with hatred. I look at my legs and see streams of blood pouring down each of the already bruised wreched sticks. How did I get here? I wonder what organs are dying inside of me now.

I know what this is, what is happening, and I say it quietly. And when I say it I scream, and when I scream I scream over and over again until it becomes a horrible beautiful resonating song in my head. He shoves my bloody face into the shampoo again. The bitter taste is inhaled into my mouth while the fake strawberry stench mixed with that of the blood and the sweat and the semen and the genitalia and decay makes my body wretch.

I vomit a light pink color into the tub, followed by seemingly buckets of blood. I repeat the word quietly, over and over. For me, once a word is repeated I soon become numb to it for a time, but not this one. I rip it apart; scrunch it up; step on it; throw it; inflict endless violence to the memories and to this word, but everything is still there. The word, the memories, death is still in front of me staring me right in my bloody bruised face, giving me a sly wink because they all know that they will always be there and that I will never get rid of them.

I want to go home.

I want to go home.

I will not tell anybody what you have done to me. Just let me go home. I wont tell anyone honest.

I will never go home. I will live a desperate rotting life. A life of constant insufficency. It will be ugly and demeaning to all those involved in it. Especially me. The small humilliating embarassing and humiliated product of a wreched degraded and degrading process. My mind, my body, my fucking being. All the time. Everyday. Every fucking Minute.

RETURN TO ABOVE.

This is a eulogy to a friend of mine who died recently. I know what you expect is some crazy sex shit all the time, but this one’s all about death.

You see, I’m not that close with death. You’d think I was, living the life I do, but I’m not. The death of this man took out a major piece of me, like other things do, but in a different way. It was so unexpected, like many deaths are.

James Chambers–better known as “Smiley”–was a panhandler. I knew him pretty well, about as close as someone can get to a panhandler without being a panhandler herself. I do not live in the best neighborhood, and Smiley was on a block very close to my house. One night, he heard gunshots and tried to run from them. He collided into a van, which dragged him thirty feet down the street. Most of his face was scraped off.

When the ambulance came, there was a hospital very nearby that they could have taken him to, but they decided that “since there was no trauma unit there,” or that is what they said, that they needed to take him to a hospital that was much further away. Upon arriving at the hospital, he was dead. It is now a few weeks later.

Smiley, as of this writing, still waits in the morgue. He has a lot of friends in this neighborhood, but, like many people on the streets, he was not close to members of his family. The way that the “system” works is that if there is not a blood relative to come and identify him, he will stay in the morgue from thirty to ninety days, after which I believe he will be buried in a pine box in a grave marked only with a number. James Chambers ceases to be a person, or to have ever been a person. He becomes a number.

I know I rarely write anything political or anything close to this in this column, but I’d like to use this as a forum to remember this man, because he was a good man, and after I found out he was dead, way before I knew anything about this morgue shit or anything else, I wrote him this eulogy.

I originally thought that he’d have a funeral like everyone else and that I’d have a chance to read this there, but that’s not happening. This is a man that lived a full life, but things got tough at one point, and then he died, and now he is nothing. Smiley lies cold in a morgue, just like he was cold outside every night, only now he can’t say anything to anyone anymore.

Various people in the neighborhood (mostly other homeless people) have tried to find Smiley’s family with no success. I put a rose on the spot where he died. It was gone two hours later. I figure someone probably picked it up to give to a girlfriend. But that’s just me.

For the last year and a half of his life, I knew James Chambers because he would hang out outside of the Dunkin Donuts that I went to every night.

The way he died is tragic.

The fact that he’s still sitting cold and dead in a morgue is tragic.

Everything is tragic. But here is the eulogy.

You were so fucking beautiful.

I know that we will be together someday.

You seemed to understand me, and you always said that we would be together and that you would take me out.

Now you won’t be cold.

Hopefully you’ll be happy and warm somewhere.

Far away from these mean Chicago streets that smell like shit and where no one cares.

You will be singing somewhere like you always did with your beautiful angel voice.

One time you told me something that was so beautiful.You said, “This color we are, someday it will all melt away; when we are dead there will be no color anymore.”

And now there isn’t.

You were so wise and always ready to comfort me with my problems.

You helped me through tons of bad times, and sometimes I’d just drive the streets to find you and talk to you because you always knew what to say.

I wish I could have helped you more.

I wish I lived alone so I could have invited you into my house.

But “could haves” never matter.

I talked about you at my job yesterday and tried to figure out the best place for you to go to get you out of the cold.

Today, I went to Dunkin Donuts ready to tell you information I had found out for you.

But you were never there.

Instead your best friend flagged me down at the gas station and told me what had happened.

I wish I could have helped you as much as you helped me.

You were a friend and a role model.

Like I said, I looked up to how wise you were.

Your name “Smiley” was so fitting because no matter how bad everything got, you would smile.

When everything got worse, you would smile and sing.

You were truly a ray of light inside this dark pit of hell that so many of us live in.

You told me once you were a preacher.

I don’t think you ever stopped being one.

I saw you help other people, and everyone that saw you loved you and admired the way that you could deal with the worst by smiling and singing.

You always wanted to help yourself and get off the streets and tell me that you were going to get into programs and help yourself.

I always said that you should do what you can to make yourself happy and tried to help as much as I could.

You were so close, and then this happens.

But isn’t that the way that everything goes?

No more cold nights hopefully.

No more world full of shit and roaches.

Continue singing and smiling beautiful man.

I know if you were here now you would hug me and sing to me and tell me to stop crying.

You would say something wise and comfort me.

I will miss you forever.

*

Something happened the day after Smiley died. I went into the Dunkin Donuts where he stood outside of everyday and the woman who worked in there said to me in broken English, “No more one black guy.”

She was referring to Smiley’s death. I said, “You mean Smiley? Yeah, it’s a shame.”

Then she said, “He drunk.”

I tried to control myself and explain to her calmly that he was not drunk, he was trying to dodge bullets, and then she explained what I said in her native language to the other man that works in there.

He looked surprised.

It made me very angry that she would just assume he was drunk. I swear I never smelled alcohol on him when I saw him. But even if I did, so what? But he would be regarded as a drunk, and that hurt me even more. And now all of this recent stuff with the morgue is horrible.

I wrote that eulogy when I was in a more optimistic mood; when I thought that he would be buried like everyone else. I better than most people should know that usually good things turn to shit, but for some reason in this case, I did not believe it. R.I.P. James Chambers, a.k.a. Smiley. There are still a lot of people that remember you and care about you.

“When will I be in your column?” the unresponsive lump asks . . . as if it is good to show up in here.

I try to explain that if I write about you it is a terrible thing, and I probably despise you. I don’t understand why all of them want to show up in here. To prove that they are “big men with big dicks who tore off a big piece.” If that’s what you want . . . well you got it. Congratulations.

All of what I write goes out to all of you. You sick, disgusting monsters. You who have been eaten up with insecurities and through obtaining and conquering have finally gotten what you want. What you really want is a piece of me. A piece of every person you see and intend to conquer.

I had an experience last week with a retarded man. And when I say retarded, I mean actually retarded in this case–as in, Down’s Syndrome, chromosomes-fucked-up retarded. His name is Butchie.

It is weird for me because I tend to identify much more with the retarded than with average individuals. Regular folks act like they are missing most of their brains, but they are not. Butchie actually does have a messed-up brain. He acts more like people would act if they weren’t forever trying to initially fool you into believing that they aren’t complete morons and pigs.

Rather than making small talk, Butchie just cuts right to the chase and I like that. He tells me, “I love you,” and then grabs at my tits and my ass. He did this upon meeting me and has never stopped. Cut right to it. Past all the small talk and “What do you do?” and all the bullshit that they think matters and straight to what they really want. To grope and grab like apes. The id acting out on the purest and deepest level. Like a little baby.

Like most men, Butchie is obsessed with screwing. He will, as Valerie Solanas put it, “swim through a river of snot, wade nostril-deep through a mile of vomit, if he thinks there’ll be a friendly pussy awaiting him.” But I find it so fascinating that this retard with half a brain is smarter than most of his male compatriots.

It is a shame though that so many women fall for the act that comes before the groping and grabbing and believe all the love talk. This retard only knows the words “I love you.” He does not say anything else.

The other night, at a friend’s house, I found Butchie awake in the middle of the night watching Bill and Ted’s Excellent Adventure on mute with a beer in his hand. His eyes were wide as he stared, motionless, in rapt attention at the screen.

I walked past him and immediately heard the words “I love you.” I politely smiled and said, “Thanks, Butchie,” and proceeded to the bathroom.

He started to say it again–” I love you”–the second time more forceful and dedicated. I gave him a pat on the head and replied, “You are sweet. Thank you.”

It seemed different this time, though. We were alone now, not around all of his friends and my friends. Just me and Butchie.

The third time he said, “I love you,” he grabbed me. First my boobs, then my ass.

I said, “Okay. Thanks, Butchie. Go back and watch the movie.” I am used to this behavior, so it does not faze me too much, but I am starting to get uneasy because we are alone and pussy can turn the most docile man into a megalomaniac war monger. He is also three times my size.

Then Butchie started whispering over and over that he loved me and he rubbed his hands all over me, all over very fast. He pushed me up against the wall and pinned my wrists back, rendering me helpless.

I have the strength of a small bird. Self-defense, short of firearms, has always been a moot point for me. I did have a Taser once, but it broke because my friends and I were using it too much on ourselves when we were drunk.

So Butchie pushed and pushed and repeated the words over and over that I have heard from so many other people that did have meaning at some time, but at this time every time they were repeated they became infinitely more dreadful, and everything seemed to be closing in.

“Stop, Butchie!” I seethed. “Stop it!” I tried to reason with him, but he is missing half his brain, and at that moment all he had was a boner that needed to be gotten rid of. Nothing else mattered.

This mongoloid, I could see, was projecting his whole miserable existence–the years of being mocked, his life of guilt, shame, passivity, his inability to relate to humanity–directly onto me. And he was setting out to prove that he is a man. A big man with a big dick tearing off a big piece. He needed to prove it all.

Butchie pushed me on the ground. This had happened to me before. All of this had. I remembered it. It all rushed back to me. It seemed that his entire speech had been reduced to these three horrible words that a girl never forgets.

“I love you.”

That phrase is so loaded, but with Butchie on top of me, it simply became horrible and terrifying and savage and all I wanted was for this moment to end.

As I was prone on the ground, I just closed my eyes. Everything had changed, again. And then the world stopped for a moment. Everything got quiet. The monster got up. And it was over.

Did Butchie want to show me affection?

Was this his way of doing it?

Was this his way of getting back at the world after years of torment?

Was this his attempt to make love?

Is this what he thought love was?

Was it enough for him?

Will it ever be enough?

Had it happened before?

Will it happen again?

Who should I tell?

Did it really happen?

Did it hurt?

Will it stop hurting?

Does he really love me?

Is he really retarded?

Why did it happen?

Should I have yelled?

Was he drunk?

Was I drunk?

Did I imagine it?

Did I like it?

Did it happen before with him?

Did it happen before with someone else?

Will it happen again? Did he like it?

Did he feel vindicated? Did he feel loved?

Am I telling the truth?

Did he get hard?

Did he ejaculate?

Did I get turned on?

Was it consensual?

Did I touch him back?

What happened?

How long did it last?

Should I tell anyone?

Is there any physical evidence of it like bruises or something?

Am I bleeding?

Is there mental evidence?

How many times has this happened?

How many times will it happen?

Will it ever stop?