undying love

You are my sunshine, my gray-hair'd good time, the sweetest pussy I've ever kissed...

You are shrrredding Google again, baby! You are number #1 still, baby - with or without an apostrophe!

You are, then as you are now and into the future forevermore, the world's greatest cat, baby. And I love you, Maui!

posted on the last day of oct 2008, right after eating 2 slices of chocolate pie

the holidays are like an orgasm

every time they come, my ranter screams.

I gave up ranting after I realized that I'm ugly when I'm angry and typing at the same time - but several items are causing serious internal combustion and need exorcising before 2009 rolls around. They are

1) Ex roommate - nutty, twisted jerk - a therapist, plagued by various forms of OCD, some well known, and some I believe she's discovering and defining daily. I hope her cat, Boy, drags cat poop in on his sweet, delicious haunches and into her bed...and down under her country floral comforter...then wedges it deeply between her ironed & starched bed sheets. Standby.

2) Some destructive troll from craigslist who singled me out this past summer and then hounded and harrassed me for months on end while I was looking for employment (during a long period of illness no less) by sending numerous, unsolicited, poorly written email containing "advice" on ad writing, several emoticons, and a not so subtle hint of future harrassment to come. A few weeks and replies back later I learned that I was the topic all "her readers" were discussing. Here's the part where I'm confessing that I finally resorted to laying a trap and created a fictitious help wanted ad that I would use to trick her into confessing to being a serial-flagger. Flawless- I done went and outdone myself and managed to get several confessions from the troll. Normal people would be satisfied by this accomplishment and be done with it by now. I believe this toxic asshole is at large and currently operating within 7 degrees of blog-separation- if not, I'll make good and certain I'm read. I'll get you my pretty.

I admit it, this bitch got the best of me. Wanna screw with me? Just taunt me anonymously from behind a computer, reach into my real world and deliberately try to micromanage my destiny. That's a winner. And you know, there's a lot to be said on the subject of being tortured by some freaky wannabe blog-star shooting off harrassment email containing LOL, LMAO and HAHA to a total stranger; that, too, wore me down - as did the bullying and sick power play of flagging my employment wanted ads, which caused actual monetary loss. I've since vindicated myself...but you know, I'm still fucking pissed off. Evil people still shock me.

Here's some good advice for you miserable, destructive cyber cowards: pick your target wisely lest you unwittingly encourage new ideas. Don't pick one anyone smart. Don't pick on anyone creative. Don't pick on anyone in pain. Don't pick on the meek. Don't pick on the strong. Don't pick on anyone who has memorized Poe's Alone. Don't pick on cat people. And don't pick on a prisoner about to be paroled.

Worn down from living in poverty, and disgusted with people in general, I did what any red blooded vengeance seeker would do...I used the same forum and power formerly used against me to make 1000s of dollars a week, and still do.

You're mine now. I got you, my pretty—flag this. How do you like me now!

What was that? Was that an utterance auditioning for coherency? some sort of venomous spittle dribbling from your accursed little tongue, attempting to form itself into a thought? Answer me, "LL". Speak up! Speak up, you disconsolate jealous bitch, I can't hear you—how do you like me now! Get on your knees, now, you horrid little troll, and bark like an epileptic dog, then get up and get down-dance like a puppet (dance! dance! dance! get down and boogie!), weep like a spoiled princess and go flag those ads while I shop online at Bose. Yeeeeeauh - how do you like me now. Uh! Yeah! Uh! Yeah! How.Do.You.Like.Me.Now.

This will be the only time I ever stoop low enough to type out such an obviously pompous claim, or to toot my own horn...People who are neither funny nor creative need to face one immutible fact: I am funny and creative, and they are not.

3) Never one to rule out possibility: Me

posted some time in Oct of 2008

cats, glorious (heart breaking) cats

I miss my roommate's cat. I miss my dead cat. I don't miss my living cat - and he doesn't really behave as if he cares one way or the other, so we're even. The only thing that living cat has going for him are his looks. He's a lovely and ornate empty vase, an antique Tiffany lamp with a 25 watt amber blub. Bless his little heart, he's as dim as an amber 25 watt bulb.

What idiot said "If you can't be with the one you love, love the one you're with"? It's a lie - it's pure BS. Oh, Testify, thine own heart!

I'm in near proximity to one of the most beautiful cats ever placed on this earth - a living, breathing masterpiece of feline design - and here I live and breathe, catless and profoundly lonely.

If I don't get a cat fix soon I don't know what's going to go down.

Sometimes I feel like my beating heart depends on a warm cat.

And while I am here, an update re: the below post, and a reminder to myself that my penchant for withholding pleasure from my own self is alive and well. I can afford a shelter's worth of my favorite drug, but instead I reason with myself that I'm just "not ready" yet. Not ready for what?

What is wrong with me?

Answers accepted in comments section.

His Royal Highness, Maui "The Nuzzler" Onion
Dead Cat - All Hail! gap & Maui, forever!

Boyfriend, (Ex) Roommate's Cat

Harry Bezalel, 25-watt Living Cat

posted some time in the middle of Oct of 2008

the feud

Once upon a time there lived a lonesome woman. She grew tomatoes and dearly loved her garden full of light, delighting herself in all life that grew there. Daily she watched as the sun fed each fruit, her heart swelling with joy as they each bulged; as they did, so she grew.

One day just around the time the sun began to put itself to rest she came upon a large fruit ready for her basket. The sight of it filled her, for she felt simple and innocent in her garden as she bent over the tender ripe thing, and knelt. As was the daily routine of symbiosis between heart and her creation, the excitement washed over her - but today the sinking orange light hid the stirring shadow of what Satan himself embodied as he ascended from hell that day and settled into her garden—slithering out from a hidden worm hole bored clear to the core of the red fruit glowered a cold, metallic threat of death as the widow peered deep into her eyes, proclaiming telepathically:

Drop my house bitch—or die

posted sometime this month, july of 2008

my colors are showing

and so are my neighbors.

So, I walked outside to the front yard this evening to pop my Ambien—well, not really - but what I saw could have very well been the hallucinogenic result of popping it and then staying up past the point of sleep. Directly across the street a little girl danced, twirling and oozing forth - her image reflecting off the voices of the other two people involved, her tiny little spirit leaping toward euphoria while two fat, frizzy haired middle aged women sat by, coaching the child, "Now. Turn a bit more. That's very nice. Yes. Twirl and turn...there you go", followed by muffled sounds of more instruction. The little girl, pleased by the encouragement (or simply responding to her own true nature - who can tell these days?) reached her hand and ripped a gash through the air across her front side and then downward to grab her cowboy boot from the driveway just in time bring it back upward and down again to nail some invisible crawling creature on the driveway-to which the two ladies responded by resuming instruction, disappointed by the interruption but undaunted. Round and round the little girl twirled, spinning about with seeming delight when I finally realized that the tiny little girl was a boy with all the male energy of Rambo—his dress not on, and not off, but hanging playfully off his tiny little body in an undecided fashion.

By now I had positioned myself so that I had front row seating, adjusting my ass on the pavement to get a clearer see without being too obvious - after which this surreal hallucination played on another five minutes...the two vicariously obsessed fat ladies issuing specific commands with all the panache of Broadway choreographers - while I sat a bit shocked, every conceivable and logical answer melting away. A stream of drool may have escaped the side of my mouth just in time to alert me to the fact I was gawking. And disgusted.

I'm really not sure quite yet, but I might be a bigot.

posted some time in june, 2008

Your blog was down; hope you see my comment!!! w00t!

I read you EVERY DAY! And I Love ur blog!!!

But, I don’t use tapes or do ANY SORT of "BUN FIRMING", Praise the lord. The lord came to me and spoke very clearly and told me that I should not have anything in the house that pictures women in tight clothing, that His Creation was never meant to prance around half naked and make bun-firming exercises available to the masses–because firm buns seem to attract the WRONG KIND OF ATTENTION and send out the wrong kind of message to others’– namely that we are focused on external appearances. And who else focuses so intently upon externals...Candy? Satan and his unclean masses of this earthly domain, that's who! Rock hard BUNS are a deterrent from the fundamentals of godly Worship, not to mention that you and your bun-firming idolater sisterz are unwittingly sowing into the already soul oppressing patriarchal concept of perfection. REPENT.

So, anyway, this is where we totally disagree...Candy, the lord NEVER meant for our buns to be so shapely that we would focus intently upon them 3 or 4 times weekly. Unlike a lot of Christian ladiez, I have decided to allow mine to weep naturally in the way of the lord.

Please understand, I don’t begrudge or judge you or anyone else for wanting firm buns. Well honestly, I think, it’s exceedingly self centered, and it takes away from the worship we are to give Our Lord, ever so slowly undermining our spiritual foundation one hallelujah squat at a time. BUT if you and all the other ladiez aren’t grieved by tight buns then GO FOR IT!!! LMBO.

It’s just that the one time I did attempt to strengthen my buns the enemy wedged within them so much opposition that I craved vegan for weeks.

Nevetheless, I might be persuaded to try a workout if the music was 100% Certified Christian made with less emphasis on appearances and more on church planting. I have noticed A LOT of Christian ladiez tend to forego godly judgment and let slip in music of the secular sort while they’re working out. Okay, let’s stop here. Listen, in my opinion the devil then has a HUGE AND WIDE INROAD into our souls.

Again, I read your blog EVERY DAY, and am an AVID reader and we are sisterz in faith. Really, all I am saying, is give natural buns a chance - but if you need to look firm, PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE, use Photoshop.

Thanks for letting me share. Love ur blog!

posted some time this summer of 2008

To be, or not to be (committed), that is the question.

I love timeandate.com, and use it every morning to be sure it's really the day I think it is. After my cat, Maui, died, I started pulling up the year I met him...nothing obsessive or weird - just a little running of my mouse over the day I met him: remembering (maybe—oh God please—if I run my mouse over the date I met him he'll reappear...) Then the most genius thought burst forth and I knew timeanddate.com needed to know about this, so I wrote them immediately!

Okay, so timeanddate.com wrote back and told me very politely—very delicately, even— that they are sorry for my loss and that unfortunately at this time they will not be able to accommodate my request to grant Maui his very own timeanddate.com calendar page. I sensed they thought that I might be insane.

So I wrote again. I explained that all I really wanted was for them to insert my favorite photo of Maui into the table that contains the numeral "15". You know, my favorite photo...that really super nummy handsome photo of him? the one where he kinda looks like Clark Gable? I sent my reply on a professional email template, too - and just in case, I enclosed a spectacularly executed 5 page PowerPoint presentation including 31 hand selected favorite photos of Maui. Exerting myself to be so formal and polite was like putting myself through a personality-bootcamp - and yet not even all this could have prepared me for their reply. Which of course was total silence. Asssssholes.

It was time to take matters into my own hands.

— I hope they appreciate what I've done with their nice page just as much as I appreciated you, Maui.

posted some time around march, 2008. i think

i can't get over my cat

My latest mental trick is to stare out my bedroom window at the cars passing by below and watch the sun's glimmer reflect off various parts of the passing cars. In my aggrieved, childlike imagination, I've wished that if I stare long enough that the reflected light will somehow break apart like a big bang and reform the molecules that made up my cat, then deposit him back to the foot of my bed. It's not as though I'm surprised this hasn't happened- yet it's always disappointing when it doesn't work.

Before that trick I tried purchasing a lot of DVDs hoping that by immersing myself in fantasy and theatrics that maybe I'd get so lost that when I finally got found I'd find him lying in his favorite spot in my bedroom, looking at me like he thought I'd lost my mind. In 4 months I've purchased over 100 new and used DVDs. CVS has $1.99 movies, some of them very good. None of them have delivered the hope or the cat I've lost.

iTunes has made a bundle off of me. Never shop when you're grieving or starved. They saw me coming. I've tried to apply the same principle as I did with the cars, downloading music and reminiscing deeply while staring off into his photos, hoping for that star trek like trick to materialize his body back here. I long to feel him slung around my shoulder, wearing me like a garment, with his head nestled up into my neck, eyes closed, my heart beating in rhythm to the sound of his breathing. Some days I feel suffocated by the air he once breathed.

There's more, so very much more, and I'd love to go on but he's not coming back no matter the desperate state of my reality.

His ashes are in a plain cedar box. In another, longer, box painted with ornate designs are some of his whiskers, a tooth, a small patch of fur, and my whole heart.

posted some time in march, 2008 secret message here: it's been almost 14 months. oh my dear little maui, with all my heart and all my soul, I miss you and it hurts terribly. i would love you and do it all over again if i had that chance.

harry bezalel

I love things about Harry. I love that he's fluffy and warm. He can be picked up and transported to any destination, and just left there to sit willingly. He's like clay being molded. I love watching him run and play. he is like a feather floating slowly back down to earth. He is like light being captured as a streak in a photograph. He has beautiful eyes and his coat is as silky as any surface known. His paws are too big for his body - those paws with tufts of chocolate brown fur jutting out. He has yet to grow into those big paws. I love that. And on the legs that own those big paws are longer cream colored hairs just starting to grow out. I love that too. He hangs limp and accepts being twisted into a pretzel, or dangled and folded. In the morning he sails through the air and lands on my neck. Other times I wake to find a nose being burrowed into my face. I love these things about Harry.

He has a lot of toys, but his favorite toy is a ball almost as hairy as he is that he likes to stalk like prey and then parade it around the house. I love the way his head hangs low like a bloodthirsty hunter; hairy ball in mouth. Harry is like a confection on a dessert tray, you know the kind you see carted around in expensive restaurants - there are so many flavors and textures and varieties of different creme and chocolate desserts sitting on that 6 month old kitten. I love that his body weight has already increased from air to 20% of a total. Soon that 20% will be 50%, and soon that 50% will be a part of 100%; Death by Chocolate. Harry is a dessert and I want to eat him whole.

I love that Harry blends in with every human being he meets equally, and favors not a one. No, not even myself. He is one with everyone and everything and everyone and everything is one with him. This is Harry's being, and it makes him both unattainable and aloof - and completely, utterly irresistible. Harry is as aloof as any cat I have ever encountered. His eyes don't settle on any one person for too long. He is no one individual's cat - he connects only with his greater purpose: he exists. He is a part of everyone and everything, part of the collective. And that's why I love Harry Bezalel. I can only ever love him simply, and only, because he exists and breathes air.

Maui was only and ever only just part of me-he loved no one else - and it was that way from the first day he came to possess me. I was madly in love with a being who demanded that kind of love. And I am still, and always will to be, madly in love.

posted, 2008
see my harry bezalel hear my song sung to harry bezalel

this is not a love song

I like cats, the little girl replied

when asked her request

on the eve that she died

Furry and warm, its settling coat

pressed up into her quivering throat

I like cats, that she would say

'though her love for the creatures

brought no new birthday

posted some time in february, 2008