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.

Everyone is always raving about Prince William. WHOA HE IS GOING TO BE KING. Yea, I remember another king--he ended up bloated & dead on a toliet. I guess being a king is not everything it's cracked up to be. Which brings me to my point, Prince William is sort of ugly and balding and he seems like sort of a loser-prick. Prince William is not worth fucking. That other one, the little one, the one that looks like his mother's lover--THAT KID IS RIGHT UP MY ALLEY.

Here we have a red headed fire cracker that likes to dress up like Hitler for Halloween and be like WHOA, I WAS NOT SURE THAT WAS GOING TO COME ACROSS AS OFFENSIVE. Sure. That is what people say when they knew they were going to piss people off ahead of time, but decided the best course of action would be to play undeniably stupid. THANK GOD. This is the same kid that is known for getting outrageously drunk and being like SO WHAT, I AM A FUCKING PRINCE. And this is the same guy that will never be king so he has something to prove. This is the brother I'd fuck because I'm certain he'd pass along a STD & that's the sort of brother worth fucking.

I really hate having a blog because I feel like whenever I have anything clever to write I am busy sitting in traffic and I think the idea to death or start mega dancing in my car to entertain myself beyond human comprehension. I hate having a blog even more because I think it highlights my failed writing career and the fact that it could never be failed cause I would have had to actually participate in the idea of pursing a career and not incredibly good looking guys or free drinks. Blogging is like making a toast to all the things in life that I was too lazy to work for. SOMEONE START HANDING ME SHIT FOR FREE. What I hate even more are bloggers that are like HERE IS A CRYPTIC MESSAGE. I AM PRETENDING TO SOUND DEEP BY TALKING ABOUT PAPER CUTS ON MY EYELIDS AND SMALL CHINESE BOYS WITH SEVERED INTESTINES POURING FROM THEIR ABDOMINAL REGIONS LIKE THE THOUGHTS IN MY HEAD--THE PROBLEMS IN MY LIFE. Whoa, that is so contrived I want to grow into a tree of Dr. Giggles and kill you all. Especially, because I am one of you sons of bitches.

This is what happens when you run a blog for over five years and then one day you are like GOD, I HATE EVERY LAST ONE OF MY STUPID READERS. Then you just stop writing on your blog and to show up to the star of John from Cincinnati's house and you let him tell you that he's in love with you after only being around you for less than five minutes. Then you give a lot of thought to the entire scope of your life and how you hate that people can read about what they think your life is about. THEY ALWAYS THINK YOUR LIFE IS SOME REALLY POORLY EXECUTED BRET EASTON-ELLIS NOVEL AND IT IS MAKING YOU CRAZY because it is a finely crafted Bret Easton-Ellis novel, something he has yet to write or even conceive of--your life is his magnum opus and maybe he might never get around to writing it because you are too fucking amazing to allow him to have the rights to your story. So then your love affair starts across the country via e-mail and still you save your story for yourself. The only way this could happen is killing that old, stupid blog and starting fresh. A blog where you have never gotten drunk and typed your last name 45 thousand times. A blog without your pictures and face. A blog that could get you into more trouble than anything, but without any trace of the who in you. This is the story of the Hurricane.

Sometimes you go insane at work and you stand up and look at your boss and gently, but firmly announce that you hate everything about your job, including but not limited to the size of his fucking Herman Munster head. The moment this happens you are gainfully unemployed, effective immediately. Then you go home and take some pills with your sister until you blackout, the inside of your head is static & everything else is the cling.

Later, your friend calls and she says that she got "laid off" and in a pursuit for complete and total lack of focus, you should continue this quest for chaos by coming to visit her instead of searching for work like most "competant members of society."You weigh your options and decide this is a fantastic idea and you run away to her city & state thousands of miles away because there are times in life when the only way to deal with shit is escapism and it's that time.