Bitch Kitty Racing

Oddly enough, I have been the subject of gossip. Over the years, I have heard so many terrible things about myself that I giggle at my own wickedness. None of the rumors are true, of course. The things I have done are actually far worse than the things that I haven’t done.

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This is a very inspirational video sent to me by my friend Amy. Take the time and watch it through.

A. Watch this:



Okay, Barbara Morgenstern is a genius.

B. Now then, to the meat. Today’s subject: Caviar and Truffles

So, today, and I’m not making this up, for lunch I dined on caviar and truffles. I am still clapping my hands and turning around in small circles in appreciation of how lucky I am. Insane, utterly decadent, there are no words for the taste of consuming the ethereal essence of the sea. Truffles? Holy crap, the corporeal body surging with immediate pre-release ecstasy. Oooohhhh, uuunnnhhhh, oooohhhhh . . . . Oh . . . God! Oh, GOD! OH! OH! FUCK!!! OH!!! UUUUnnnnhhhhh . . .

Then I had to deal with the rest of my day which, like any good post-hedonistic festival, involved sleeping. I woke up after a two hour nap (!), and had to go to the bar to earn my daily wage. I have never felt more like a frustrated Jesus, wanted to lay hands on all and lift them up to the glory that is the simple being of life. “It’s so much more than this!” I thought. “Please, I beg of you, look! LOOK!”

Apparently, I’m not the Messiah. No, the evening progressed with the same old slogging pace with which it always proceeds. Still, and I mean this honestly, I want to give motivational speeches to everyone who comes in. “LOOK!” I want to say. “Look at yourself! You’re so talented! You have so much energy! Look what your life could be like if you didn’t sit here eight hours a day! What do you dream about? What do you want to do? It’s all right there! Just go take it! I’ll help you!”

Truffles? No, a deep-seated desire to uplift. I know that success and happiness is the responsiblity of the individual, and I understand that the desire to live life as one sees fit is a deep-seated morality, but damn! some days I just want to grab people and shake them senseless! “You want something more!” I’d yell. “You know as well as I do there’s more than (hand motions disdainfully indicating the fetid shallowness of the bar) this!”

Ah, well . . . To each his own, I suppose. Still, it seems like such a God-damned pointless waste of all the potential that lies in humans to wallow in the day-to-day, to worry about the light bill, to mope over bad relationships, to agonize over the future WHEN IT’S COMPLETELY IN YOUR CONTROL.

I swear, in fewer than two weeks I’m going to be on late night TV pitching a system for achieving personal fulfillment.

What do you want? How can you get it? Plan it. Execute that plan.

Wow, was that hard?

I did indeed run to the gym, and then promptly threw up (hey, you stay thin your way, I’ll stay thin mine). Somewhere in the middle of 500 crunches, I began to get an erection. I don’t even know how that’s possible, but it’s absolutely true. My eyes were closed, I was listening to Dethklok at peak volume, and there I was springing wood. I opened my eyes and quickly looked around to see if anyone was near; there was. There was a sweaty woman about three feet to my right, totally ignoring me. My body was undoubtedly reacting to the pheromones being released in her sweat.

I NEVER talk to anyone in the gym. I do not make eye contact, I do not flirt, I do not say hello, I do not stare. Hell, I don’t even look! I get enough creepy guys hitting on me down there—I can’t even imagine how bad it must be for women. So when I tell you I got a boner, remember that my eyes were closed, my iPod was at full blast. I was in my own world, concentrating on my form, focusing on my abs. I was not looking at her, hitting on her, nor talking to her. I didn’t even know she was there. I am at the gym for one reason and one reason only: to make myself so hot that even people who hate me want to fuck me.

The gym is no place to pick anyone up. It’s not a singles’ bar. I loathe people who use it as such. While working out, I’ve taken to wearing the ugliest, stinkiest clothing I can and farting whenever anyone gets near enough to hear me. That tends to keep most people at bay.

I closed my eyes again and started working much harder to get the blood back to where it belonged, which promptly worked, and went on through with my workout.

On my way home, I stopped at the store to pick up my new phone. Remember, at this point I have just sweat out two hundred dollars’ worth of Swedish vodka, thrown up, stunk to begin with, have on mismatched socks and a t-shirt which proudly announces that my cat runs my life. While being shown the features of the iPhone, I caught myself flirting really hard with the young lady selling it to me, who probably turned nineteen on her last birthday. I quickly gave her my credit card, then ran out of the store, shamefully clutching the new phone like it was porn.

I really need to start dating again . . .

Four weeks to go, people. This horrendous malaise that feels like space leeches have sapped your will is almost over. Unfortunately, now we’re in the darkest part of it, the crazy time. This is when the cumulative affects seem to be their worst.

I fucking hate February. Winter s almost over, but you still have to slog through the last little bits. I always feel worst in February, not depressed, but I have no desire to really do anything at all. And I’m irritable. Okay, that’s depression, but I assure you it’s not the mopey “woe is me” variety. This is just plan old sunlight deficiency.

So, for all you fucking douchebag “I’m here for the music and the outdoor sports” non-native Seattlites out there, what you’re feeling is normal. Well, maybe not normal, but everyone around you is feeling it, too. We of the Holy Order of Natives have been dealing with this problem for 150 years, and we have created a great solution for you: beer. Seattle is the birthplace of the microbrewery and the dingy-yet-cozy and comforting pub.

So here’s what you do: call someone, anyone, and invite them out for a beer. You need to be in human company and say things like, “Wow, it’s really incredibly dark outside,” to which your friend will reply, “I know! I know! Jesus, I can’t fucking take it anymore! I feel like I’m going crazy!” Then you can talk about how great the Superbowl was or something, but the simple fact that another human being understands what you’re going through can get you through another day.

Oh, and, for the record, all you fucking douchebag “I’m here for the music and the outdoor sports” non-native Seattlites out there (may Belltown, Fremont, Ballard, and now Capitol Hill fall on your heads an crush them to a bloody gelatinous pulp), this was a REALLY PLEASANT Winter here is Seattle. The rain and gray and dark has been kept to a minimum. It usually rains here for at least thirty days straight, and the clouds are so low that the only difference between night and day is that you’re not in your office anymore. This has been GORGEOUS.

Good luck, fuckheads!

P.S. Really, go to a bar!