The Play's The Thing

As you all know (you do keep up with my life religously, don't you?!)
I've been doing some community theatre lately. I'm really quite
pleased to have gotten back into it. I am...big but coming in 5 4 3 2

But! Being on stage, even a community theatre stage, makes it
extraordinarily hard for me to care about my job. I know. I know!
Everybody has to get the bills paid & I'm lucky to have a job where I
get to help people. Hell! I'm lucky to have a job! I get that. I do.
And, as long as I had absolutely nothing to do with the theatre in any
way, shape or form, I was content with that. Now? I'm a malcontent. I
don't want to be but, sadly, I am.

There's only one thing I ever wanted to do (OK, fine, when I was 3 I
wanted to be a paleontologist. So, sue me!). But, due to a long
boring, daft story, I, for lack of a better term, crapped out & let it
go. But here's the thing - I'm over all that boring daft idiot crap.
The past, as somebody once said, is prologue. I'm concentrating on the
next act. The kid is trying to get back on track...I don't know how
yet but I'm inching my way forward, feeling my way along in the
dark...and other cliched phrases as well!

So, let's make a deal! If you catch me back sliding give me a kick in
the ass (it's quite close to the ground so this shouldn't be
strenuous) and, in return, I'll try to give a crap about my day job.
Because, if this isn't love it'll have to do until the real thing
comes along. Sound fair? Keen.

Yours In Christ,
Dark Furt

Three (3) Things That Made My Week

1. Spending a morning studying the physical signs of various addictions. Because, let me tell ya’, until you’ve been innocently eating a granola bar and a picture of “meth mouth” pops up on your screen, well, kids, you just ain’t lived. Fun, good times! Please, ignore the fact that I screamed, jumped and almost spewed granola across my cubicle, go Google that shit! (don’t.) It’s pretty! (don’t.) Pinky swear! (seriously, just don’t.)

2. Spending two hours at DMV. You meet such great people there! The staff is super friendly. I may send them Christmas cards this year! Also, of course, it’s great for your self-esteem. There’s nothing like being “cat called” by random, dirty (literally) dudes outside of a government agency to really perk a girl up. It’s hot. White hot. Combine that with all the children who’s parents allow them to roam, free range, around the room and it’s a nice third world atmosphere. All they need, to complete the motif, are a few goats and chickens. I, as a tax payer and lover of a theme, am more than willing to carry the extra expense. Again, I love a theme! Which works out well since the DMV photographic equipment always manages to bring out my inner Mexican. Somehow, I wind up with a tan in any picture they take there. Not just any tan either. But a glorious, dirty tan! The kind of tan that can only be achieved by spending years out in the desert, harvesting cactus to make tequila. . . sans sun block . . . or a hat. Combine that with the fact that you’re not allowed to smile and I look like an angry deportee. Ay!

3. The hotness that is me when I leave the gym. Honestly, boys! Hang onto your control! I’m only one girl!

I do, honestly, heart PITAIYO and know that, in the long run, it’s a good thing. However, that being said, after an average class I look like I’ve been dragged, backwards, across the Serengeti. My hair escapes from my head band within the first ten minutes. Within the first twenty my head scarf is sitting forlornly beside my mat and, by the end, my ponytail holder has given up the ghost as well. Therefore, when I walk out my hair is loose and bigger than ever (it doesn’t like it when I try to confine it and gets . . . Angry).

That’s on a regular day. This week my instructor ate cake before class. We suffered for it.* So, in addition to the hair, this week my pale, sensitive, allergy prone skin was bright red. Which would be fine if it was all over but it wasn’t. It was just in two round spots on my cheeks. Picture it, if you will, stark white face, pink cheeks, huge hair, arms that barely work hanging limply at my sides. I looked like a demonic doll.

Again, boys! Give a girl some room to breathe! I know . . . I know, you can’t help yourselves. Totally understandable. Helen of Troy eat your heart out!

*I, it should be noted, did not have cake. It may be silly but if I’m going to be punished for cake consumption I’d like to be the one consuming the cake. I’m wacky like that!

YUMMO!!!!!!!!!

I love the following website almost too much.

http://community.livejournal.com/rachael_ray_sux

Stardom isn’t a profession; it’s an accident.

Whatever happened to celebrities? Call me old if you will* but when I was a kid I seem to recall that people who were famous were famous for a reason. I mean if you were in a magazine or on TV there had to be a reason (except, obviously, in the event that you were on "The Love Boat". . . they'd take anybody). Either you were someone of note in the literary, political, theatrical or musical arena or you'd killed somebody. These were the options. Well, you could also save a small child from a well but, honestly, how often does a break like that come along?

Who are our celebrities now? No. Seriously. Who the fuck are these people? I don't know. Do you? Could you tell me? I doubt it. Because now we're barraged with the dregs of the Earth a.k.a. the children of famous people. We're deluged with "celebutantes" a.k.a. the rich bitch brigade. To quote Dorothy Parker, as I tend to do, "they make me sick. They make me tired."

Why do I, or anyone for that matter, need to know anything at all about Rod Stewarts kids? I barely care about Rod Stewart. He had, what? Two good songs a million years ago? So, naturally, I must care that his son is BFF's with three other brats of actual celebrities and that the kid spends more on fake spray tan in a week than I, or anybody I know, will make this year. Yeah. Sure I do. In who's world?

Where is the fascination in Paris Hilton? Jesus Herman Christ on a crutch, I can't wait till this broad od's. I mean that. On the day that she's found in an alley (but a very posh upper class alley) with a needle in her arm and an eight ball in her big fuck-off Fendi bag I will dance the dance of sheer joy. . . . With props. I'm not saying I want her to die. I just want her to go away and not come back. In fact it's better if she lives but people are just collectively tired of her bullshit.

How do we all manage to care so much about the privileged, spoiled, slutty, ignoramuses on MTV? I don't know. It baffles me. The only thing I know for sure is that come the revolution there will be no spray tan and Daddy's money won't be able to help you so you'd better learn a trade. Just ask Tori.


*Don't.

Gimmee Some Sugah', Baby!

I just got back from the grocery store. I love driving. You see the most interesting things.

What can one say about a full grown man driving a Chevy Nova with a license plate that spells out sugar drop? Hmmmm...it's a tough one....This will take some ti---OH! Wait! I got it!

One can say - "HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! Oh, you sad, silly little man. You make me laugh."

Yep. I think that about says it all.

Best Day Ever!

Originally Posted: Wednesday, November 29, 2006

I was driving to work today and I saw the best thing ever.

The car in front of me was covered in archery bumper stickers. Covered. My favorite? "Archers Hit The Bulls Eye". Wink. Wink. Nudge. Nudge. Ribald (for her pleasure)!

I pulled up to pass the car. I looked over to make sure I had room to pass. . . And . . . Wait for it . . . .

The driver had an eye patch. It made my fuckin' day.

I'm a misanthrope. Go ahead. Act surprised.