Please don’t freak out.

Heat Shot painting by: aaViPiR

Head Shot painting by: aaViPiR

There are little to no differences in the schedule of a dog and an unemployed person. I know because as a part-time contractor and full-time unpublished writer, I am by all means “unemployed”. Between the frequent naps, snacking all day, and looking at the window checking out every car and neighbor that passes by, me and the dog have a lot in common.

There are only two major differences between our schedules. He gets out of the house way more frequently than me, and he gets to lick his genitals.

I cannot stress enough how terribly depressing is to work from home. I’ve never been more interested in suicide in my life, so much so that I feel very passionate about it. Passionate enough to NOT want to do it. I have found something that has peaked my interest and is worthy of living for: death by own hand.

So, in my quest for research into the matter, I have explored countless of gore sites, seen tons of pictures/videos of botched suicides, and gone really creative about how to plot the most hilarious and yet poetic suicide of all time.  I want people to hear the story and ask themselves these two questions “what the fuck? and, how is that even possible?”

Scenario #1: Birthday Party for the Dead.

I get a birthday cake that says “I know who killed Kennedy”. I will collect a bunch of dead forest critters: squirrels, skunks, geese, rabbits, birds, even a couple of small snakes. I buy birthday party supplies: hats, balloons, party favors, and mini tuxedo outfits. I rent a room in a shitty motel- the shittiest I can find within a 150 mile radius. I bring my cute little dead friends and outfit them with the party hats, tuxedos, put slices of cake in front of them, I smear some frosting on their little dead faces, and smear some on mine too. But here is the kicker, I give the squirrel a handgun… and I shoot myself with another one. During forensics they will know the squirrel didn’t do it, but think of the person that walks into that scene.

Scenario #2: The Set Up

Befriend someone I fucking hate. Have them invite me over for drinks/coffee or even dinner, and when they are not looking- poison my drink! They will go to jail for it!  (Ok, it is only funny from this side of the fence.)

I guess there is another major difference between me and the dog: the dog is definitely a better person than I am.


Classy snatch

6a00e54f8eb1d488330120a6410bb4970c-piI thought the interview was over. I was feeling like a champ. I nailed this!
Then the guy in the corner goes: “Clearly you’re brilliant and you have a lot to offer. But I feel you are too poised and elegant for this position. You are, high-maintenance, and I do not think you will be happy here.”

My immediate thought was “..dis mo’fucka”.

I should have conference called my Vegas friends. Hearing someone say I am too classy for anything would have been the most hysterical thing they hear all year. These are the people that saw me dunking myself though a basketball hoop, head first. The same ones I have gone in a 4 day camping trip in which no one showered, not because there were no showers, but because we just didn’t feel like doing it. The same ones I have woken up next to on the floor of a living room so destroyed, even the owner himself thought he was at someone else’s place.

I have been soaked in some else’s diarrhea, peed in someone’s shampoo, smeared dog shit on windshields, eaten tequila worms, chased by cops, stole from a blind dude (who was an asshole), paid a junkie to beat up a girl I didn’t like, and worse… eaten candy corn, TWICE!

And this guy, this talking snatch with testis, is telling me I am too high class for his non-profit.

“Two weeks ago my dog ran outside. Iw as expecting him to make me chase him, but instead he stopped just a few feet away from our porch and appeared to be smelling something on the grass. As I approached him I see he is interested in something pink. He is licking it and eating it. I realize this is my vomit from 2 days before when I got food poisoning from eating half a dozen of bad oysters. Apparently when my ex husband tried to help me, he took the bucket of vomit and emptied it there. I yelled and screamed at the dog. The dog wouldn’t stop eating it. I ran inside and grabbed a broom, mind you… I have no shoes on. I start hitting the dog with the broom. He is faster than me so he ducks, and in the time it takes me to recharge, the dog takes more bites of the putrified vomit. I accidentally step on it, the stench is so vile I gag. I have to step away from this hellish scene. I start puking. The dog runs over to me and gets puke on his head and begins to eat my fresh vomit off the ground. I managed to grab him by his collar while I continue to gag and throw up. I tie him up to the tree and run inside to take a shower. After my shower I hose down the dog. As disgusting as this was, I didn’t think it was shocking enough to tell anyone, so I never did, until now.” -that is what I should have replied.

Instead, I proved him right by replying “I beg to differ.” Shook hands. Thanked them for their time. Left.