Chooch just let out a shriek that caused blood to stream from the cats’ ears. Instead of telling him no, I answered back with my own banshee-yodel. This went on for a few minutes and I hoped that Henry would have come home in the middle of it, because boy would that have ever made his day, but I ended up out-screaming Chooch so he surrendered. Quitter.

Eleanore’s not here tonight, which is a blessing (it’s quiet!) and a curse (it’s quiet!) all at once. I’m not missing the way she tapdances upon my nerves, but now there’s NO ONE sitting near me so I can’t swivel in my seat and start talking.

Except to myself.

So I took a picture of myself which I’m going to print out and tape up in front of me to make the conversations more legit.

My friend Amelia sent me a surprise package today which completely made me squeal. It came at the best time, too — I was just leaving for work when the mail girl hurled it upon my porch. Asshole.

Hidden under a mound of that sparkly silver ribbon stuff that my cats love to eat then regurgitate was pretty much a mother lode of odds and ends; in other words: stuff that someone weird like me would covet. In addition to a black baby doll, a pair of doll arms, a roll of b&w 120 film (which I needed!) and two small handmade notebooks (scribbling has already commenced) was a giant gummi heart, the kind of delicious treat that I’ve always wanted a Valentine to place into my outstretched hands, perhaps with a pack of Garbage Pail Kids for that extra special touch.

The back of the package says:

THUMP THUMP BEAT BEAT

MY HEART FOR YOU

THAT’S OH SO SWEET.

Who doesn’t want that?? Skinheads, animal sacrificers, and Kathie Lee, that’s who.

So now instead of doing actual work, I’ll be overdosing on candy organs and sticking doll parts in things, which is much better than Thursday night, when I listened to Three Cheers for Sweet Revenge* for six hours straight and dreamt of slowly draining the blood from my veins. Thanks, Amelia!

(*I know, what the fuck, right? More proof that I’m secretly sixteen.)

Urgent. Will die without reading.

• 13:31 I should NOT be crying over Duff Goldman’s Chefography. I need a shot of hate. #
• 18:03 Today a fifty-something year old crossdresser told me I’m weird. I laffed. #
• 19:33 I live for tattling on my son. Its all "HENRY! CHOOCH IS STICKING OUT HIS TONGUE AT ME!" over here. #
• 11:17 Talking to henry about solid cherry caskets while our son begs for trail mix. should be a song. #

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Chooch and I were sitting together on the couch this morning and I accidentally got too close to him, so he kicked me, yelled at me, and then finished me off with a smoldering glare that sent me straight into the Devil’s embrace.

Sometimes we’ll be sitting quietly and I swear I haven’t encroached upon his bubble of personal space, turned the channel, or breathed too heavily, yet he’ll still slug me. He’ll just haul off and sock me in the arm, never taking his eyes off the TV.

Also, I don’t think that flinching should be my natural instinct every time Chooch approaches me, but fuck, he can turn any household item into a weapon. If I take my eyes off him for a millisecond, there’s no telling what’s going to get chucked at my head. Hopefully not an anvil.

I was thinking about it this morning, wondering why he does shit like that, when I suddenly saw myself sitting next to Henry, punching his arm for no reason other than that he’s sitting next to me. I saw myself hurling pencils, candle sticks, cans of peaches, vampire porn DVDs at Henry, for no reason other than that he’s breathing. (And also — that it’s funny.)

Clearly I’m a great role model. I should be starting up a daycare or something, make a line of parenting DVDs.

Urgent. Will die without reading.

• 15:52 On our way to Toys r Us. I’m gonna pass out crack rocks to children. #
• 17:40 Stuffed cranraisin in henrys mouth while he’s on phone. Totally overreacted: DONT EVER DO THAT AGAIN #
• 19:17 Wasn’t invited to neighbors bday party TEN YR OLDS SUCK ANYWAY. Besides, party dress needs drycleaned. #
• 19:18 Everyone knows "don’t" means "do it" #
• 20:24 Wishing I could blow off reality, responsibilities, priorities and work at a record store. Fuck. Or the morgue. #
• 09:45 Confirmed: will never change my mind about Alaska. #

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Urgent. Will die without reading.

• 15:01 Wondering: who was the first person to eat feces and report "Do not eat. Tastes like shit." #
• 17:47 Worst: bees in bonnet or ants in pants? I mean they could be FIRE ANTS and maybe you already have crabs and they start fighting for crot … #
• 18:05 FOR CROTCH SUPREMACY is what that would have said if I knew how to obey word limits. #
• 19:11 Cauterize caught her eyes cod or fries? #
• 20:05 Just defended my favorite golfer. Srsly, do NOT fuck with Phil Mickelson or I’ll scratch a fucker’s eyes out. #
• 22:54 Rediscovering an album I used to love is like, almost as good as not getting electrocuted when sticking foil in a socket. No, it’s as good. #

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I don’t see Dennis very often, because he’s usually assigned at my company’s other office, but when he’s at this location he always stops by to chat. He’s an older man, fifties at least, and always smiling. Sometimes he comes packing candy, and he’s always packing compliments.

One night, he begged for permission to tug on my pigtails and I laughed because it’s funny when old men flirt with young girls. And kind of sick, but I’ll take it, because I’m hard pressed for some action these days.

Earlier tonight, Dennis stopped over to say hello to Eleanore and me. In conversation, he mentioned that he had plans on eating popcorn and watching golf this weekend.

"I love golf! Phil Mickleson in the house!" I cheered, happy to finally be a part of a sports convo.

Dennis’s smile faltered slightly, so I repeated, in regular adult speech, "Phil Mickelson is my favorite."

Dennis’s smile was all but a sweet memory by that admission. "You think so? I think he’s a terrible putter. He’s not that good at all."

My lips tightened. "I love him," I said tersely, blood rushing to my cheeks.

"He’s left-handed. Watch his putts sometime – they all veer off to the left!" He chuckled and shook his head, clearly delighting in some fucked up replay of Phil putting.

I couldn’t think of a retort so I sat here with my mouth slightly agape, eyes squinting back ire.

"You don’t really know anything about golf, do you?" Dennis asked, laughing.

"Phil Mickelson is handsome!" I shouted, shoving past him to go cool off in the kitchen. Then I emailed Collin about it, hoping he’d sock Dennis in the nuts for me, but instead he LAUGHED. You know, through email he laughed. It was easier being on LOLpatrol when I sat next to him.

Seriously, don’t fuck with Phil Mickelson. One time, I was perusing his website (this was back in the height of my adoration for him, back when I had a Phil desktop shrine and cat-called every time his ExxonMobil commercial came on) and in the forums, some ASSHOLE had the audacity to post, in a very slanderous manner, that Phil had sired an illegitimate child.

Oh no. No, no, no. I wasn’t about to sit back and let some dickshitter sling such scandelous words about my Phil, so you know what I said?

"STFU!!!!!!"

And you know what that bag of shit jelly said back to me?

NOTHING. NOT A GODDAMNED THING.

EDIT: My favorite security guard is here right now and he just said, "Oh Phil! Yeah, Phil’s i-ight." This is why he’s my FAVORITE guard. Also because he’s cute. And has the boy version of my name, best name ever.

Last night I needed a short break from my loneliness, so I went outside and called Christina. While on the phone, a car crept into the lot. The headlights were suspiciously out. It only took me .3 seconds to yell, "Oh my god, DRIVE BY!" into the phone before taking off like a cartoon blur. It could have been gang initiation or something. I could have died so some asshole could become a Crip.

Once inside, I lingered in the hallway by the guard station. The loading dock door was open, and I saw the shady car pull into a spot up front. The lesbian security guard saw me huffing and holding my hand over my chest and she laughed at me because it was just one of the cleaning people.

But like that’s any better! There’s a new person on the cleaning staff and he appears to be straight out of the Pen. Last night, as he emptied my garbage can, as he lifted that garbage can with the same hands that maybe have garroted a hooker or stabbed a dealer, I politely thanked him. He grunted at me. GRUNTED at me. You know I whimpered audibly. 

Bob replied to my frantic email today and said the new cleaning guy is probably going to abduct me Buffalo Bill-style and now I’m full of fear and paranoia. Thank you, Bobby!

I guess it won’t matter that I’m all alone here at night once I’m DEAD. Because I doubt Eleanore will hear my screams over top of her coupon-cutting frenzy. Where’s Tina when you need her, you know?

Urgent. Will die without reading.

• 10:11 Everyone I talk to at AT&T sound like sleepy retards. #
• 11:52 Lining Aunt Jemima bottles all in a row. Gonna bowl ’em over with a hog head. Skippy’s next. #
• 17:35 Checking into the Hotel Bella Morte. Please forward all calls. #
• 20:10 Thinking about albinos. I never see any, it’s like they live in the sewers or something? Come out and play, albinos! #
• 22:17 Lamenting that no one ever wants to get drunk against mausoleum doors with me. Sober up later by floating down the river in a douche canoe. #

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Made a mixtape for ya’ll, I did.

HELL DOESN’T GIVE OUT FREE WATER.

This week, I’m obsessed with flax seeds. I made Henry buy me a nice plump bag the other night, even though he was yelling things like, "You don’t even know if you’ll like it! You won’t eat it! Youdon’t even know what it’s supposed to do!"

I know that Britney Spears sprinkles it on her yogurt, and I know that it helps prevent prostate cancer, and I know that it’s chockful of that omega shit, and that’s enough for me.

Turns out I’m now addicted to flax seeds. I throw five leaves of lettuce in a bowl and douse it with flax seeds, stir and enjoy. I love how nutty they taste, nutty like peanuts. Nutty like me-nuts.

Today, I was supervising Henry while he worked like a busy little bee in the kitchen, diligently preparing my dinner. He was sauteeing some sort of rice mixture in a skillet and when I leaned in real close, close enough to burn my face off, I didn’t see any flax seeds. You better believe I pointed this out to Henry.

"You don’t have to put flax seeds on EVERYTHING," he sighed. But he still retrieved the jar that used to hold dumb shit like pretzels but now encases my beloved seeds of flax, and sprinkled not nearly enough of it atop the rice.

I was halfway to work when I realized that I left my dinner at home. And it was vegetarian stuffed peppers! WITH FLAX SEEDS! I only had 43 servings of flax seeds today. How will I get through the night?

Urgent. Will die without reading.

• 15:59 Just gave myself a tracheotomy. #
• 16:00 Just refilled my coffee mug from my trach hole. People applauded and some guy in a hat gave me a dollar for my effort.
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• 18:18 Hair appt tmrw. Thinking of having it shaved, nay — scalped, and replaced with a permanent plastic beehive.
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  #

• 23:12 Thinking of ways to steal Eleanore’s scissors. Who knew coupon-cutting could create such a cacophony? #
• 23:30 HOW IS IT POSSIBLE TO CUT SHIT FOR EIGHT HOURS??????? Are there even that many coupons and fingernails OMFG.
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  #

• 09:11 Lazytown dance party, heeee-eeey. #
• 15:17 I wish dramatic soap opera music followed me around all day. Will make that happen. #
• 17:47 Nothing blocks out annoying co-worker phone convos better than Punk Goes Crunk, muthafucka. (Originally typed ‘mouthfucka,’ holla.) #
• 21:59 straight up now tell me, is it gonna be mac n cheese forever. wish i was fucked in a hit and run. #

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No more Collin. No more Bob. All I have in my company now during these long nights are Eleanore’s scissors and loud rap music;  Kim’s incessant complaining and motorcycle discourse.

Look how sad those chairs are! Just sitting there, no one to move their wheels, static and empty. EMPTY. EMPTY LIKE MY HEART.

I might kill myself. Or find another job. Right now I’m too lazy to achieve either, so probably I’ll just whine a lot about being bored and alone and abandoned.

You know, the usual.

Henry made me take today off from working out.

Mainly I guess because I can’t get my left arm to go straight.

Probably also because he wants me fat, fat, fatter still. Very strategic.