I've been writing all this crap lately. Barely able to formulate anything even remotely grammatically correct, I realize I need to do something else for a little while:
Dear Miss Candy,
I have a problem that I think you need to know.
Yes, Miss Candy, I do have to remove myself from the activities which continue to disable my current mental capability. The brown men are filling my head with crazy ideas, and I end up a comatose wreck after all the brain dancing is done.
I used to be a simple girl from the Midwest with bigger dreams of conquering the world. Drugs were never in my vocabulary back then, and I never foresaw the evil future I now live and breathe in as any kind of common occurrence. Once, twice, three times a week we have smoked the pot. And what has happened to my brain as a result? My writing is horrendous, I get horny watching sub actors fucking on TV, and I am still ten steps behind actually doing anything at all with my life.
Where I have never been a big drinker, and knowing my family has zero incidents of addiction in my past, I must tell you, Miss Candy, ...
So I went to my fab party with a little friend of mine, Candy Darling,
stoned. We got interviewed by the redbull tv crew, drank a little, and jet our tails right out of there after the boredom became more prevalent than our mildly amused slobbering.
Sometimes I think the constant deliveries by the little brown men
are a bit too much for my brain to handle.
I can function in an altered state, usually claiming to be completely
indifferent to the condition, but it's always the tobacco that wrecks me
in the end; through smoke and incessant coughing.
That, and because of my boy's ridiculous schedule and inability to see me. Girls like me need to get their cardio on a regular basis. If it doesn't happen, I tend to get all riled up with simple ideas.
Sex is one of those benefits we get. It's free, and with the right person
can far outshine any initial investment into getting it.
Aside from that, I woke up at 5:30 am, finally sober. I have this eerie
knack for waking up only after the drugs/alcohol are cleaned from my
body. It could be two hours later, and I still will rile myself awake,
freshly rejuvenated from the mini toxi-nap I got myself into ...
So yay for me I get to go to some exclusive redbull smashathon tomorrow evening at some photo studios renovated to look like an outdoor wonderland complete with trees and all that other stuff. Woot woot for me.
Strangely I did discover why my boy has such an aversion to corsets. When I spoke with him about this lace number I had purchased to wear to the event he said, "well, aren't corsets for huge boobs?" "Uhm yea," I said. Then he said "well you are always the one complaining about it, and yet you bring attention to your smallness by wearing a corset". I put this puppy on and not only does it appear that I have boobs, but they kind of pop out the top. The solution? Stuff those puppies with a ton of tissue if he has such an issue with it. I would like to once again draw attention to the girls with less than supple mammaries; boys don't seem to play with them to the extent that they play with the girls with wonking gazongas. One word: gravity. So my mother was a flat-chested androgony until she got pregnant and sprouted children? Maybe I am not ...
