Computerized, Lobotomized, Zombified and Bored

Bloor West Village.

From the excessive pigeon population, to the lobotomized blondes, to the rude bakery employees, to the ample supply of mattress stores, there are just so many things to hate.

I really wish Fabricland was situated in a more interesting part of town, one that didn't require a walk along Bloor street, in either direction.

Now, if you'll excuse my lack of focus, I would like to bring up another important subject: telemarketers.

Does everybody get as many telemarketing calls as I do?

I don't think so, because one of the telemarketers that called to harass us let us know that we are in some sort of high telemarketing district.

Whatever that means.

Assholes.

Just now, I was interrupted by a computerized call that told me, after I answered the phone with a "hello", that this was not a valid response and to press one for more information.

So my next response was "Go fuck yourself" and I hung up.

That's telling them real good.

Who's My Precious Little Fluffling?

I got to play with kittens today.

Two fluffy five week old brothers, who would spoon each other in their sleep. One of them fell off the bed while he was playing and it was really cute.

They were so small and soft and playful.

Everything they did was awesome.

They really made my two adult cats look like a couple of assholes in comparison.

babybabybabybabybabybabybabybabybabybabybaby

I never listen to Devo, and I have no idea why.

They fucking kick ass.

I was listening to their rendition of Satisfaction, and although I totally related to it, not being able to get any satisfaction of my own, I couldn't help but feel super happy about it.

Of course, I just had a major fashion design breakthrough while listening to it, so maybe it was that. Who needs sex and companionship when I can have a lovely dress instead?

A lovely dress that will rake me in some cold hard cash.

That's what I'm saying.

I Can Mix Up My Own Batch of Poison, Thank You Very Much

Today, I am truly capturing the essence of hideous.

Greasy, lazy, lipsticked and ragged.

The greasy is in my hair, the lipstick is on my face, to counterbalance the rest of the disgusting mess, the rag is in my drawers, and the lazy is all permeating.

I've been upset over a three pound weight gain, which I will likely lose within the month, but it is a bit of a nuisance.

My love handles are unloved by me, now that they've appeared to take over my aging and ever dwindling ass.

My belly is soft and doughy. Some like it that way, it has in the past been likened to a third boob, but I would prefer something a bit more firm. Taught, I ought not to have fought to achieve that state.

And fucking impatiently horny. Good heavens, whose cock do I have to suck in order to get some cock to suck?

This is stupid. I was in a good enough mood before I wrote this post, and now I am miserable. Why did I do that?

Grapes in the Medicine Cabinet?

Fruit flies. Yeesh.

I remember a friend telling me that he'd had an infestation of fruit flies once, which put him in the habit of rinsing out his empty beer bottles. I wondered why he made such a big stink about them; fruit flies are so small, and they die in mere hours. How could they be such a huge pest?

I've dealt with disgusting infestations before, too. Cockroaches, mice, lice, crackheads. Hell, I even had scabies once, as a child. No one gets scabies in a first world nation, but I sure did. Caught 'em from my mom, who claims to have caught them from the Pickering mall, which, if you've been to Pickering, wouldn't be much of a shock.

And now, I have fruit flies. And they are a pain. Friend was right, who knew?

They aren't as hard to get rid of as any of the other pests I've come across. All it took was to not forget to take out the trash, and they almost disappeared from the kitchen. However, some of them had the sense of mind to migrate to my bathroom.

What the hell are they living off of in my bathroom? Hairspray? Make up? Tampons? Toilet fruit?

Wow, gross, Amie.

Well, I'm Stumped

Look what happens when I don my Nancy-Drew-Mystery-Solving-Chapeau: I fuck it all up!

I totally thought I had these mad puzzle solving skills, but it turns out I actually don't. I even made myself a congratulatory medal out of old cat hair and elastics.

I guess I'll be tossing that in the garbage, along with my stupid chapeau.

That magic feather did nothing.

Would You Care to Knit me an Afghan?

Worn down and torn down.

A bath being drawn several feet away, in the hopes that it will soothe my aching body, empty my fussing mind.

Lonely for the human touch, but left with no option other than my own battery operated love.

A hug? When was the last time I received a heartfelt bone crusher? Or even a bonefelt heart crusher, for that matter? I yearn for yearning, lust after a lustful goal, a crush, a painful rejection that brings me back to my awkward youth, something handsome that makes me feel again.

Feel?

Feel wanted rather than wanting, feel attractive rather than detractive, feel useful rather than lossful, feel important rather than impotent.

Some artistic inspiration and perhaps even motivation would have been nice, too. Sufficient, at the very least, and a boost to my ever floundering sense of self worth.

I suppose Hello Kitty jammies and soft warm skin will be an acceptable end to the day.