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?

I am going to tell a humorous story that revolves around this attached picture. I have a friend that pees in sinks whenever I am with her. The picture to the right is the picture of a sink. Once, I ended up at an after party at a house reminiscent of the house on paper street in fight club. I was sort of fucking impressed that they had running water, but their fridge had been modified into a keg-o-rator. This is what happens when you allow thickheaded men to live together. Anyways, I was walking down the street when this dude walks by and says "Hey, I know you! You're so-&-so's friend. You should come to the after party it is on Abbot Kinney & Main!" Because it was after 2am and I live in Los Angeles this invite was as good as any so my friends and I trotted down to said spot and found the party. Everything about this place was filthy and falling apart. I am pretty sure I contracted meningitis from merely walking in the door, but the drinks were free and flowing & the men were relatively good looking. And how I love men. Continuing on, I found myself in the bathroom with Gia and Katie when I came up with the idea to piss in the sink while Gia pissed in the bathtub and Katie in the toilet. We are like proponents of outhouses or something. Regardless, I lean up against the sink to take off my pants and I lose my balance and crash into it. That mere movement jars the molding around the sink loose and it falls off. Somehow no one heard the lightening crash & old mother die--so the three of us begin to scramble to figure out what to do--the end result was shoving the molding around the sink under the sink like fucking retard and slamming the door shut. In the picture, you can see a bottle of scope and the wooden piece of sink jammed on top of everything. You can also see where the sink used to reside. The moral of this story is--do not fuck with shit in the house on paper street unless you are a God and want to be able to send out photos to the world of your destruction handy work. Amen.

Dear blogger, I continue to hate you to the fucking max. I just finished my post when fucking blogger had a seizure and I could not stop it to shove a wallet in it's mouth to prevent it from swallowing my post. Anyways, I basically wrote about how I am bionic and that the flu cannot stop me because I was a functioning alcoholic and the symptoms of the flu and a hangover are basically the same. That means I am basically saying fuck you to the stupid flu.

Anyways, please bask in the glory that is Todd. I met him probably a month ago and have never been the same NEVER BEEN THE SAME. Ok, I have been the same and even seen/experience/dated tons of men since then, but I think it all comes back to Todd cause he is sort of hyper manly and he talked about curbing someone's face within moments of meeting him. Nothing says love like a hyper charge of testosterone & an 8" dick. The end.

I am giving myself seven minutes to do this because I have to go running and get my life together cause I never even slept last night. Oh my god, I am a fucking wreck. I had a pill party and blacked out and woke up at a hotel and then tried to get it together and drive home but I could not keep my eyes open so I would pull over and sleep alongside the beach and be like OH MY GOD, I AM ASLEEP ASIDE THE FUCKING BEACH IN MY CAR LIKE A FUCKING HOMELESS PERSON. Then I would create the gumption within to begin driving again, but that was like driving inside an asteroid moving slower than a grain of sand falling from an hour glass and I would immediately go to sleep again. I am in party overload cause some man thought he could tell me what to do.

Let me break down this scenario. I meet person A. Person A says he has broken up with person S and is looking for some good times. I am those good times. In the meantime, person K, whom I used to go out with, also had a thing for person S. Person S. was blowing him off in a big way. A big, big way. Anyways, to make a long story short, I told K. that it would be hilarious if I would bang A. because I would never bang K. and in the end it would fucking implode everything between A., S., & K, but I would continue to remain unscathed because I do not care about anything ever.

Then I started banging A. because I was bored and my psychic said I should because a real man wouldn't even be coming into my life until September and because the sex might be fantastic. I also did it cause that morning I banged B., my ex, and left and told him we shouldn't see one another anymore. God, are you following this, I am a whore. Anyways, I baned B. at 4am & A. at 11pm that same day, and now I am in an elite whore club. In the meantime, A. starts acting like I am going to be his girlfriend or something crazy. So I decide to play with it because it always ends up funnier that way & in the middle of banging in his car he is like WE CAN ONLY HAVE SEX WITH ONE ANOTHER--Sorry baby, they aren't called sweet nothings for, well, nothing. What he doesn't know is that I was trying desperately to bang this model the night before, but he had done so much coke that his dick could not get hard and it ended up being a show where I was like YOU HAD COKE AND YOU WOULDN'T GIVE ME ANY--AND NOW YOU CANNOT FUCK ME--AND YOU HAD COKE AND WOULDN'T GIVE ME ANY!!! I am a classy broad. Then the next day A. thought it would be a great idea to tell S. he is banging someone new & K. had already told her that I said I planned to bang A. so now London Bridge is all falling down and children are burning and dying so A. & I decide to meet and talk about it, but end up fucking in the car instead. Then he agrees it is not fair to S. to openly fuck me or label our non-relationship, which I am fine with, but I am not fine with being a secret. What he doesn't get is that I wanted to do this and I wanted to upset everyone and now I have and there is nothing left to do but let the time bomb go off and see the real shit storm when I hand deliver the package to S. Boom!

Here is a memo--after a night of pills & drinking you can get me to agree to pretty much anything. That's just in regular conversation when I am feeling euphoric and wanting to spread around the happiness. You know how it is--so asking me something when I am in that state is one thing, but asking me while you're in the middle of fucking me is entirely another, especially when it is coupled with the fact that I have been boozing and cavorting crazily with a multitude of illegalish substances.

In my head this all wrote itself & is not coming together nearly as well in print. I guess I should get to the point and be like:

I am not sorry that I banged you cause the sex is fantastic, but I am sorry that you thought the right time to bring up the fact that you have decided that I could probably and am most definitely still having sex with other people and it should stop, was right in the middle of fucking. In the middle of fucking I would sign on the dotted line and become a fucking prison bitch in some skin-e-max made for cable film starring Rosie O'Donnel.

At any rate, I am thankful that this blog is unpublicized and said man cannot track down my inner thoughts. The closest he is going to get to any of that is my inner thighs.

P.S.
I love this photo cause it looks like the man is going to kick off the ladies head in a fit of joy the moment he comes. Amazing.

My idea of the perfect life consists of being with a man that barely wants to deal with me and never wants to see me so there is the perpetual chase continuing forever. I live in my own house with my own servants where I wear underwear and silky robes all the time. When solicitors ring the front doorbell and Rosa answers it I will swoop down from the top of the stairs, the feathers from the cuff of my robe floating around my arms like halos of sexual enticement. COME TO ME, I AM YOUR OVERLY DRAMATIC ANTI-HERO.

Oh god, here is a complaint about men. Do not look at me and be like, "Uh, I cannot get an erection because I did too much blow." Especially when you are the best looking guy ever because that is like saying, "Uh, I don't even have to fuck properly cause I am fucking incredible looking." Cause then I'll get jealous cause no one invited me to do blow and I'll be like I GUESS I SHOULD MAKE YOU FUCK ME NOW and then I pass out. Although, I do appreciate how a man will wake you up 47 thousand times to try and fuck you--even though he is loaded out of his mind and never will. What I appreciate even more is the fact that I will be like OK, LET'S DO THIS. Like I am the intro to Wild Thing by Tone Loc. Amazing.

I guess, here is another memo. I am incredible. I wish I lived in the 1930s and I would rob banks and live in a blaze of glory, riding across the land, fighting and bank robbing and getting shot up by the cops eventually. THAT IS HOW I WOULD LIKE TO GO OUT. Turns out, I will never really fucking rob any banks cause it is not that easy anymore and Big Brother is into everything and that is fucking sick. I just want to rob a bank and fuck in the getaway car. Is that too much to ask?

Men are fucking idiots. Sometimes I think they misinterpret my condescending arrogance for damsel-in-distress and they immediately go into action to help save me from myself. HOLY SHIT BATMAN! I GUESS IF I MADE IT THIS FAR I AM DOING ALRIGHT AND WILL BE ABLE TO KEEP ON, KEEPING ON. DUH. I realize that looks can be decieving and I appear to be a fucking train wreck locked inside a bottle of Jameson(tm) swimming around, trapped, but as it turns out I can climb out of the bottle whenever I want. I guess I could be adequately compared to Guenivere. That bitch was a raucous skank. The bitch could party and then slit your throat. Then she went and fucked up the rountable with her lascivious ways. Poor Lancelot, I bet he never saw that coming. In the end, it is important to remember a few key things when dealing with me: No amount of money, charm, gifts or orgasms will kill the beast within because I am more than Little Red Ridinghood. I'm also the Big Bad Wolf.

Hello, I am a female valet. I run from point-a to point-b, making sure my tits jiggle just enough to mimic Pamela Anderson in her beach running days. I do this because I get more tips than God and let me tell you, that God, he gets tipped like a mother-fucker. I am a female valet and this is what I do for a living. I drive around in cars and flirt. Look at me! My hair is on fire like I am the Phoenix and you're throwing your keys at me while I am like I hope I do not fuck up your car, idiot. I can do this in a tank top, dress shirt of costume or your choice. I am your Madonna-Whore. I am just that complex. You get what you pay for and I think sometimes people forget that I am sitting around making trouble because no one has paid up yet.

It turns out that I continue to only be in love with myself. Why this is a mystery to people I will never understand. How can people not be in love with themselves? I find myself wondering this all the time. Even when I was fat and boring I was still in love with the idea of myself. Basically, I am sort of diluted. I am also sort of broke. That being said, this is why you do not switch jobs for no reason unless you have checked your brokerage accounts cause you forget to stop spending money like your bank account is the vault housing the riches of Scrooge MacDuck. Most of my life I have been swimming through coins thrown in my direction that I don't really know what to do when the world is not raining dabloons on my wench head. I don't even think this is much of a worry as I will just go to the bank tomorrow and be like SOMEONE FIGURE OUT HOW TO GIVE ME MONEY BEFORE I COME BACK IN HERE WITH A RONALD REAGAN MASK ON AND PRETEND THAT I AM BODIE IN MOTHER-FUCKING POINT BREAK. I guess maybe that is what my life has been setting me up for--to become a fucking bank robber that surfs and fucks my time away before I take the ultimate plunge, whatever that may be. God, I want to run away with a troup of banditos and be as bad as possible. I want to be a serial aids rapist. I want to be epic. Instead I am only being stable.