Tuesday, September 13, 2005


I have more scans today but I am not gonna do them. Nuh-uh. I'm just gonna crawl under my desk, regress 25 yrs and suck my thumb until some well-meaning manager comes and lets me curl into his lap in the fetal position while he strokes my hair and I sink my teeth deeply into his thigh while sobbing. Yeah, I have killer cramps, what's it to you.

Bad mood. Hair not behaving. Chocolate on face.

Don't come near me.

Especially if you are a toothpick-thin actress, whose delivery is wooden, talking loudly on your cell phone about Emmy crap (as if I'm really impressed) while smoking, because they all smoke, even though they are probably barely legal.

"Simmer down, Fattie." - rude-assed commenter over at Conversations About Famous People. Dang, they make you guys all look like Miss Manners-!

Ask me if I give a shit if they die young. Where are all their mothers, is all I wanna know.

Oh yeah, spurring them on while posing for Playboy, that's where.

She'd better not get to close to me, either, or I will use her skinny, non-toned legs as toothpicks and her napkin-sized doll clothes to wipe the chocolate muffin off my face. Then, I will make a lampshade out of her bad weave.

I am sick of these skankoid, tanorexic, unhealthy girls; mean, shitty club kids who would pseudo-starfuck them (male or female) given a hair of a chance, terrorist threats, power outages, and L.A. in general. I don't wanna live here no more. This is a sick freak of a town. The air is brown. It's going down. Like a stripper clown.

It's a real place, folks.

Carry on.


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