I think this picture about sums up what is going on in my life. If I was hyper amazing and clever I would just end this post right there and have the 6 of you reading be like WHAT, YOU ARE A STREET WALKING DOMINATRIX? And then I could kill this blog too and die knowing I faked out the internet with my savvy, vixen photographs. Too bad there is way too much to brag & bitch about otherwise I could be the coolest loser on the internet right at this moment.

Seriously, why is it that I feel like everyone is going slower or I am going at hyper speed. I am feeling like that all the time and not just when I am in a heated conversation. I feel like that all the time: when I'm driving, when I'm peeling an orange, when I am in line at the fucking grocery store. I am moving at the speed of light and everyone else is basically just hanging out and dwelling. I hate to stress in each post how all of this shit sounds way better in my head, but it usually does.

You know what else sounds better in my head, being with one person. Oh my god, men are quite possibly the greatest pains in the asses of all time. First of all, this new guy made me fucking barter with him to get fucked because he was sure if we started having sex I would never show up again and how in the world could he find some other strange minx that could drink, fuck & fight like the man that he isn't--god we will never know. That man made me wait a week to have sex. Then finally I had to turn into Courtney Love pre-rehab and be like IF YOU DO NOT HAVE SEX WITH ME TONIGHT I AM LEAVING FOREVER BECAUSE NOW I HAVE EATEN ALL YOUR PILLS AND AM NOT MAKING SENSE BUT I REALLY, REALLY WANNA FUCK AND THAT IS THE OPTION YOU HAVE.

Now I am fucking this actor-idiot on the regular and last weekend he called me his girlfriend in casual conversation and I pretended I didn't hear it cause when you validate shit like that you perpetuate the problem. I, on the other hand, ignore basically everything and then start fights based on nonsense. Look, I am sorry that the female friend you had come and visit from San Diego was hyper intimidated by my gigantic tits. I am even sorry that I made things worse and left all crazy like in a huge Scarlet O'Hara scene in the middle of your apartment where you felt the need to chase me to my car almost to the point of screaming STELLA on your knees, but I am not sorry that I will use the fact that I decided to leave cause I made things super awkward against you for the rest of time. I am also not sorry that I stole that bitches glasses. However, I am sorry that you are blaming Gia for stealing them and I am sorry I am lying about it, but fuck it. I will eventually be lying about cheating on you, this much I know--and knowing is half the battle. YO, JOE!

I think it is hilarious how men are personally offended when you have to tell them that you do not plan to date them. I also greatly enjoy how their entire perspective changes and they are like OH, I NEVER WANTED TO DATE YOU ANYWAYS! I CANNOT BELIEVE THAT YOU THOUGHT I WANTED TO DATE YOU. WHATEVER. Yea, sure, thanks Teenwolf, but unless you plan to get up on Style's van and dance that sort of lame, high school copout makes you seem like a worthless faggot.

Not that I am talking down to the queers or anything. A good faggot is worth his weight in gold. I cannot finish this cause now I have to work. Fucking Lame

Ever since I have been a little kid my dad has kept this picture of my Great Uncle Jack in the garage, above his workshop. Creepily enough, Uncle Jack looks like his head is bursting out of a giant ball of fire and I have been afraid of it probably my entire life. My mother forbid him from bringing it into the house cause I would burst into tears because Uncle Jack looked like the giant looming head that fronted as the Wizard in the Wizard of Oz. So Uncle Jack spends eternity in a gaudy gold frame hovering over my father while he tinkers away on frivolous shit. If we could become anymore stereotypically Italian my nipples would turn into spouts and red wine would pour from them while every time I opened my mouth all I could do was yell and food would pour from my lips--not like barf, but actual meals. God, I sound more and more insane each day.

Speaking of insane, my mother used to have this painting of a clown that hung in our bathroom when I was a kid. When I initially wrote that sentence it said "when we were kids," but you were not a kid with me and probably most of you have never met me. At any rate, you were not a kid in my house, but I like that I think in the editorial sense. It makes me that much more awesome. Anyways, there was this horrible fucking clown painting hanging on the bathroom wall, watching me every single time I was in the bathroom. It drove me crazy. I couldn't even pee. At first, I chose to piss in the shower because it gave me a bit of privacy, but I eventually got sick of having to get in the shower to take a piss and I moved on and started taking the painting down whenever I had to use the bathroom. Creepy clown man, watching me pee was entirely too much for me and soon I was like I AM AFRAID TO PEE BECAUSE OF THE CLOWN. This sort of astounded my mother because I think she thought she'd designed a kids bathroom that was fun and fancy free, but instead it was like a fucking nightmare. Long story short, my parents are fucking nuts. This is not a shocking allegation. I should probably continue by writing about the new guy I am seeing, but instead I will just lie in bed for 30 minutes and then go running

Here is my life as I am living it written within 7 minutes and then cut off even if I do not complete my thoughts. Anyways, what do you do when you meet a man that is infinitely crazier than you, withholds sex, can outdrink you and takes more pills than Billy Crudup in Jesus' Son? You date him because he also has a police record & a DUI. He is a shiney piece of foil that you are desperately turning over so that it begins to lack luster and usefulness. Too bad that object does not mind being objectified and has no problem with the fact that you are generally emotionless unless you have been drinking Jameson for hours and get sexy-pouty and demand sex until you are like OH MY GOD, I AM OUT OF HERE, MY HEAD IS ON FIRE AND I AM GOING TO SHAVE THE CAT YOU DO NOT HAVE. And then he has to give in and fuck you because he is only a man and it is only natural to fuck after going through a psycho sexual drama, ok?

In my head this sounded way better, trust me on that. Cause here I am being like--WHOA, SOMEONE IS TRYING TO SETTLE ME DOWN, AND I AM TOTALLY AGAINST IT, EVEN THOUGH I AM BASICALLY LIVING AT HIS HOUSE AND BEING ACCUSED OF BEING A NYMPHO BECAUSE I DO THINGS LIKE FUCK IN MENS BATHROOMS AND RIP HIS PANTS OFF IN PUBLIC PARKING LOTS BECAUSE IT TURNS OUT I AM SEETHINGLY ATTRACTED TO HIM. I KNOW, RIGHT? Anyways, I am not sure how to climb out of this hole, but rest assured that I plan to fuck it up. Fuck it up in a big fucking way. Amen

Oh my god, I am dapper as hell. See that hat, that is professional hat wearing skills at work. The entire cast of Newsies took a shit over my hat wearing abilities.

I started this blog on like Tuesday and now it is Friday afternoon and I am sure whatever it was that I had to say on Tuesday was not nearly as cool as what I am going to say now. Ok, that is probably a lie since anything I come up with is fucking brilliant anyways.

I have always wanted to be apart of the side-show at the circus. I have a mole on my chin that has a dark hair grow out of it. Maybe I can be the bearded, big titted lady with lots and lots of tattoos. Too bad I can find a lady like that at the coffee shop I go to and the idea of it is totally unnovel now that America has decided to accept stupid things like big tits, beards and tattoos as a fucking social norm. Way to shit on my parade America.

Speaking of shitty, somedays the happiest I can be is right after I take a giant shit. Hello? Who knew something so natural could become the enlightening catharsis that brightens my fucking day. I am like a proud parent taking their child to kindergarten's for the first day each time I flush the toilet. Fucking amazing.

In other news, I am 26-years-old & incapable of having a relationship. This is stuff we already knew. Probably because the seven of you reading know that I am basically against relationships. What I am not against is fun & taking pills. So what happens when you start seeing someone that has pills, mental issues, and a drinking problem? Probably severe co-dependency. I told him he has three weeks then I am dumping him. So unless he delivers me a '79 Firebird Trans Am--he probably has only 16 days left. He could however medicate me to the point where all the days get lost and I am crawling around like an infant. He did something like that to me on Tuesday to get me to spend the night--too bad I was fucking excited about it cause he was roofying me and there is basically nothing I like better in the entire world, other than having sex in public. Oh my god, I sound like a victim of abuse. Awesome.

Oh, here's something else, HE WOULDN'T EVEN FUCK ME THE FIRST NIGHT WE HUNG OUT CAUSE HE SAID THAT I WOULD PROBABLY DISAPPEAR AND NEVER SPEAK TO HIM AGAIN. What in the fuck? How did he know I would do that? What creeps me out even more is the fact that he wanted to know why I would do that and kept asking until I rolled my eyes and started throwing back drinks like I was David Hasselhoff and he gave up. I am not sure what planet he is from, but he cannot out psycho analyze me because I am the best at this game and he is fucking crazy and going to therapy a million times a week. I AM GOING TO BE CRAZIER, I SWEAR TO GOD. He told me I wasn't even that crazy and it pissed me off. I AM THAT CRAZY. I AM BETTY FUCKING FORD. I HATE YOU ALL.

Seven minutes in heaven is the best approach to dating that i know of. After the initial seven minutes are up I am always sort of bored and worried I might have to deal with someone. This sounds like a lame after school special where the girl was violently raped by her Senior boyfriend, when she is a Freshman and she becomes the school slut. Too bad it isn't even that cool. Once, I watched this Lifetime movie called "She's Too Young" about the school slut that contracts syphilis and causes the entire student body to have to be tested because she basically banged everyone with a penis. I watched this with Erin and my little brothers and sisters. That afternoon we taught them important lessons about being slutty--like don't let your parents know you're a slut & don't have sex with every guy in the same group of friends. Idiot. Anyways, if I contract syphilis I refuse to get it treated because I want to go fucking insane like Al Capone and if I'm lucky I will get to be featured on Cops for some of the whacked out shit I'll attempt to get away with.

Speaking of STDs, I think being a serial AIDS rapist is probably the perfect profession for me. What else is there to do with my time but fuck and plot against men? If you said drinking & reading you're probably right, but I can continue to get wasted and reading if I have AIDS and am systematically destroying mens lives with my succubus vagina.

I am getting sick of going out. Today, after I got off work, I mixed whiskey with crystal lite lemonade and put it in a 7-11 Double Big Gulp cup, laid in bed and listened to Hank Williams until I was delirious. While this was going on I daydreamed about the idea of freedom. No hopes. No loved ones. No desires. No problems. Although being a robot is suppose to be a sense of enslavement, if you do not really feel that sense of oppression are you really oppressed or actually free? It took all afternoon to deal with this intellectual quandary.

I found the picture of the pregnancy test in front of one of the nicest houses I have ever been invited to party in. I guess it just goes to show you ridiculously rich people are just as trashy as I am, and perhaps more so, as I always throw my test in the trash at the local CVS right after I complete taking it. On an unrelated note, it was also to one of the most boring parties I have ever been to. Turns out not everyone wants to get wasted beyond belief and swing on the rafters. Although, in my own defense, it was Charlie Chaplin's old house and I can tell some fucked up shit went on within the walls of this place and it misses all the chaos. That house spoke to me and it said to burn it down because it is so boring now it just needs to be put out of its misery.

This is what happens when I am suppose to be working for the man! By man I really mean elite mother fucking 1% of America that pays one of the top chefs in the land to cook at his party for a fucking ONE year old. Amazing! Later I will upload the photo I took of Malibu. I guess even the lame boring things I do like work are fucking glamorous. Be jealous. Really, I command you.

Welcome to downtown Los Angeles. I guess I will tell the story of Rabwa because I can write whatever I want and the five people that read probably won't even comment and that puts me at ease. When I was in college I would eat an entire pint of ice cream covered in instant coffee and then stay up all night reading and writing at warped fucking speed. Nowadays, I be better off putting adderal and coffee beans into a coffee grinder and eating that shit whole. This has nothing to do with Rabwa and I am not sure what point I am getting at.

I think no one really gets to know me until they have seen me piss drunk. Not because turning into Elizabeth Taylor is the real me, but succumbing to the fact that I am a tyrant in front of another human being is a completely humbling experience & I therefore am left with no choice but to share who I really am with them. I guess this is a good excuse for the fact that I was drunk non-stop for a year, right?

Today I was stalking people on myspace like a good contemporary American when I stumbled upon the profile belonging to some erroneous attractive guy--THIS IS A GROWN MAN. A GROWN MAN THAT IS HANDSOME AS HELL & HIS MYSPACE SONG IS SET A DRIFT ON MEMORY by PM DAWN. I can never lust over him ever again. I can however bookmark his profile and if ever there is not enough gay in my life I can click on said link and the power of Richard Simmons & John Waters will revive me via this miraculous poetry to the ears.

Speaking of super gay, when my sister used to do makeup this pre-op tranny that worked the Benefit counter told her being Italian she has thicker hair follicles and the best way to shave her legs would be to douse her legs in baby oil and then use a man's razor to shave. On my birthday we ran into this man/woman at lunch. I told Gia, "Do you think that woman knows her boyfriend is gay?" Gia paused and sort of tilted her head to really give the situation some thought and finally said, "Uh, that woman is a man. She is the person that taught us how to really shave our legs. Everything I know about being a woman I've learned from men.

Men probably are the stronger, smarter gender. However, I am the fairer sex. SEX SEX SEX. I think that is the optimal word. Go ahead and be stronger, smarter and for that matter more logical. I'll win merely via the power of XX chromosome and my ability to smear sex appeal all over a room like it is a canvas and I am Jackson Pollack. Drunk & disorderly.

Rabwa. The night I met Todd I took a friend of mine out to get over breaking up with her Ex. Instead of being a good friend I immediately set up house with Todd and decided I liked that he smelled like man & sweat. I am ruled by Dionysian desire & fueled by my inner fire. At some point the night was over and I was attempting to put my name and number into Todd's phone when my motor skills died and in the same moment I handed my sister the phone to figure it out, Todd went to kiss me. Like a suspension bridge in a storm, I was jolted on all fronts as my sister flashed the screen of the phone at me and said RABWA? Which is what I'd saved my name as--while this was going on Todd took my face in his hands. I opened my mouth very widely to laugh and it ended up looking like Todd was going to suck out my life force succubus style instead of kiss me. RABWA. That's me.

Flannery O'Connor had it right. A Good Man is Hard to Find a bad man, on the other hand, is merely around the corner or in the shadows at your bar. Thank god for that.

And yes, I sleep in leopard sheets. This is what happens when you're a mother fucking grownup. I will probably write an actual post when I am not dog tired tomorrow and should be working.

**Update**
Now, I should be working so obviously I have way more to say because the work is mounting and the pressure is rising. THANK GOD I USE DEGREE DEODORANT!

It turns out I am actually human and a woman. I have conceded to the fact that the days when all men happen to worship my Goddessness I can stand every and all things. My happiness is dependant on the level of praise men are singing me. I should have been a professional sex symbol except I believe the aging process would force me into a frightful tailspin of self aggrandized actualization and I'd morph into disgusting Sally Kirkland. Who, as it happens, decided never to accept the fact that she became old and disgusting and pretends like she's still a sex goddess. Too bad her face is melting off and her body can best be described as ooze. I guess someone should memo the devil that it is ok to renig on certain contracts because this poor old bat needs to be let out of our misery. This is what it sounds like when the doves cry, right?