I KNOW… WORKING ON GETTING IT FIXED. I putzed around with the CSS like I know what I’m doing. Can I get a double oy?!

UPDATE: Hi, all, webmaster here. I reset the CSS to the original. Watch for more changes this weekend, when Katie and I will put the new-and-improved theme into place.

UPDATE 2: Hi, it’s me again. I hope you like the new background.

Aside from the fact that I have an eye infucktion burning my lady ball, and I’m busier than a tunnel rat foraging for a fuck, and more eggzhausted than a street walker pulling an all nighter wearing this ensemble, I’d say I’m doing mighty fine.

Let’s play the “will you please stop emailing the wrong katiegirl game”, shall we? Great!

Hey katie wua?

What is a wua? Enlighten me. I asked, but didn’t get a response. I’m thinking it’s an acronym for Wear Underwear Always. This begs the question, how do you know I don’t and why is my undergarment status of concern to you.

I was invited to a (not my words) chic champagne brunch by Queen of the Lake, in Reno. If someone can please explain what’s chic about Reno, I’d appreciate it. Having been there many times, I can’t say that it’s synonymous with chic. But, what do I know?!

Kyra screamed this into my inbox:

I invited you to chat !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I explained that I wasn’t the Katie she was looking for, to which she responded by calling me a snot. Really? I was so disillusioned by her response given her zeal to chat. She couldn’t muster a ‘cuntzilla” as Grainy calls me.

My good pal Rye-Rye sent me this. Ha. Loved it.

Rylee is one of our favorites here; she sends me emails all the time and this month was no different. I received 5:

Why don’t you ever email me?!=:(:(:(“.

Three frowns. I hope she didn’t throw herself over a bridge.

Kyra stomped her feet and threw a tantrum later in the month.

I INVITED YOU TO CHAT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I think reasoning with her at this stage in our e-stalking relationship isn’t in the cards.

I received another FooPets e-card, this time from Madelyn. Dog. Dead. Deal.

Rylee emailed me with even more frowns, if you can believe it.

I had such a board time at curch:(((((

Love “board”. I sent her a link to postal service of the saved, so she’d feel that her endeavor wasn’t for naught. I also wanted to ask her why she bothered going, but it seemed inappropriate. Speaking of the postal service, did you know there’s a website called Postal Reporter, big postal fun: A postal news blog, postal photos, books, videos and postal attendance. Everybody clap.

Good ol’ Rylee came back for more. Apparently, I forgot a few things…

Hey whats up? Hope you can play. I want to pik to chat with u. Oh and Katie you forgot your pillo again!!!!!!! Well see u soon love, me:)! Rylee if u wer wondering:))!

I appreciated the ‘Rylee if u wer wondering” at the end, concerned that I’d forgotten her. As if?!

How apropos, I just received an email from, I kid you not, 1-800-suicide.

I would…

1. Play with them all day regardless of who was watching, my hand would spend so much time in my pants, I’d have to charge it rent
2. I’d treat them like marbles and ping-pong balls
3. I’d play with them in front of old ladies
4. I’d sit in restaurants spread eagle and watch people’s reactions while I was sack-plunging
5. I’d unzip my pants and let them hang out every so often for fresh air and a spot of color (always in search of a vitamin D boost)
6. I’d nickname them, something manly like “Jimmy the butcher and Vinny the neck:
7. I’d give them literary nicknames like “Bukowski and Vonnegut”

Whether I’m in a conversation or happen to be eavesdropping, a favorite past time. If done correctly, it’s exceptional cardio. I’ve leaned so far that I’ve fallen out of chairs—stretching my legs, neck and arms enough to pull muscles.

I have noticed that everyone has a guy for a thing, whatever that thing is, have you?

1. I need someone to install my hardwood floors. I’ve got a guy for that.
2. I’m looking for someone to fix my hairdryer. My guy is great, cheap and quick.
3. My sunroof isn’t closing properly. Hire my guy, he’s the best.
4. I need my vibrator repaired. If you don’t want to buy a new one, my guy can do it. If you let him watch, he won’t charge you.
5. Oh shit, I ran out of cash and need menstrual pads. My guy will walk around with snatchpads (towels) between your legs for 7-days; he’s super easy going and has a menses fetish.
6. I don’t feel like going super big potty right now. Pulling down my pants, undies; it all seems too daunting. Plus, the seat is cold and I don’t feel like having chilled ass at the minee. My guy has this shit laser transformer thing, it’s so cool! He basically points it at your intestines and teleports the shit from you to himself. The best part is that you feel NOTHING. Isn’t that great?! Love him—total shit-meister.
7. I need to have my gall bladder removed, but I so can’t be bothered. My insurance sucks ass. They’ll cover maybe 20%, if I get my MD to sign a 20-page document and my upper GI guy to sign a 10-page document and fax it all to Agent 5608983719042 on February 12^th @ 3:07 PM. OMG, my guy LOVES Jello. Wait for it—do you need a guy to be your MD/GI guy? I have one.

Who is your guy and what can he do for me?

I was born Katie Schwartz. I know there others out there, thanks to Google and not being retarded.

For years, I have been dying to talk to other Katie Schwartz’s to find out if we have any commonalities. I’m curious, okay?!

Don’t you wonder if people who share your name also share your likes and dislikes and if there are similarities between you? I do. I’m freakishly inquisitive by nature and about this.

I friended (as of this evening), 30 Katie Schwartz’s on Facebook. Only two have accepted my request, argh. I’m hoping more accept. Below is the questionnaire I’m going to send them via Facebook.

Is it too over the top for an introduction? Should I consider foreplay, like “Hi, how are you, nice to meet you.” and stop there to wait for a response before delving into the below Q’s?

1. Is your given name Katie Schwartz?
2. How old are you?
3. Where did you grow up?
4. Did you move around a lot as a kid?
5. Are your parents married or divorced?
6. What do you do for a living?
7. How many siblings do you have?
8. What’s your favorite color?
9. Do you have nightmares?
10. Do you like dark comedy?
11. What’s your sexual orientation?
12. Did you ever have feathered hair?
13. Is your hair dark or light?
14. Is your hair naturally curly or straight?
15. How tall are you?
16. Are you thin or chunky but funky?
17. Have you struggled with weight during your life?
18. Do you have a thyroid disease? If so, what kind?
19. Do you have a genetic autoimmune disease?
20. Where is your family originally from?
21. What religion were you born into?
22. Is your family loud and gregarious or quiet?

If anyone has any suggestions, by all means, toss em’ my way.

If you’ve been following my twitter stream, you know about the break in. If not, keep reading.

Let me begin by saying, you know you’re an addict when…

1. You wake up at 4 AM and realize you’re out of fucking coffee. Your mind feverishly races.
   1. You curse yourself and everything else out.
   2. The desperation to smell rich, butch coffee percolating is so intoxicating that you’d blow a homeless person; allow Satan to anally rape you and promise to deliver a quality spawn a la Rosemary’s Baby, but way more 2.0; stop writing and become a grave digger.
2. You clumsily grab your things, a la pachinko ball style; hoist hooters into bra check, pee check, pocketbook check, keys check-ish.
3. As you exit your apartment locking the door behind you, you realize you took the wrong fucking set of mother fucking keys. You’re locked out of your house and the building, should you leave. You don’t have your car keys and you left your Blackberry in the friggin’ house.
4. It’s pouring rain, not drizzling; torrential beads of rain are pounding the building and bouncing off of cars. This does not deter you, you just need a plan.
5. You exit the back door of the building and place a mat between the door and the lock, so you can re-enter if your dumb ass idea fails.
6. You make your way into the dirty, knee deep in mud, bug laden pathway between your building and the one next door. Once there, you try to figure out which apartment is yours. At 4AM, who thinks clearly?!

Fortunately, I keep all of my windows open. After fondling screens that seemed to be mine; once I hit window, I realized; like a schmuck, I almost broke into my neighbor’s apartment.

Clomping through the mud, more window fondling, and I was outside of my living room, the most reachable window in the joint. I’m a Jew x 4 = fat. Still. I couldn’t maneuver myself into the window without assistance. And, and, and, I had to remove the screen. I don’t usually carry screw drivers in my pocketbook. I did what any girl at 4 AM would do; I tore the screen open with my key and determinedly yanked the screen off the wall so hard, I fell backwards into the mud fab. At least I was able to hurl my pocketbook through the window.

I trekked through the mud looking for wood to create a pile in front of my window, so I could reach it. More rain, more mud, a shit load of heavy ass wood and I thought I had the perfect pile. I kept trying to reach—bupkas. During one attempt, I managed to get my bra stuck on two nails as I slid back down, so did my titskas, out of my bra and towards my waist.

40 minutes later, I was almost there, I just needed something to make my pile taller. I walked all the way back to the entrance and found a multi-gallon thing of white paint. That thing was so fucking heavy. I dragged it and myself through the mud to my wood pile, what fun! Once on top of my sorry ass pile of wood, it was precarious at best and reeked of, if I fall, it will be on a nail that pokes a vital organ.

Would a crack addict give up? No. I was staying the course. After a few botched attempts, I was in the perfect position to jump through the window. Picture it—a fat chick soaring through a window with the grace of an elephant stampede.
I didn’t think the landing through, shit I didn’t think any part of this debacle through. I landed on my head on the hardwood floors. I digress… fab.

One would think that I’d give up, right? Wrong. Or, at the very least, assess the damage to the window and oneself. I grabbed my bag; the right set of keys and went straight to the car.

At the GroSto, I bought three things of coffee. Nobody said jack shit, so I figured I must not be as muddy as I thought I was.

HA. After I got home, I went to the bathroom and found globs of mud on my face, strewn through my hair and all over my sweatshirt. The GroSto peeps probably thought I was high, or blew the aforementioned homeless man in the mud.

Nobody called the police. I was simultaneously relieved and disgusted. If I was a robber, evidently, I was a shitty one considering I was louder than a crane falling on a building. What if someone was trying to bust in and kill me, what then?! Have we devolved into a society that doesn’t bother to see what’s going on? Conversely, I was thrilled; getting arrested for breaking and entering at the crack of dawn wouldn’t have gotten me any closer to that fucking cup of coffee (@JoeTheCop, can you be arrested for breaking into your own house?).

PS: I still don’t know where the other set of keys are, which is probably for the best, and I destroyed my window.

As we’ve discussed, blogs are one-part confessional and another part… well, whatever we want them to be, right? This would be the one-part confessional.

7-days into 2010, is akin to having my head shoved up geriatric, hemorrhoid addled, musty smelling rectums. Like a famished dog, I’m waiting for the moment when embracing the New Year washes over me, igniting feelings of hope and enthusiasm for what this year will bring. So far, I’m disgusted, outraged, irked, nauseas and overwhelmed. I’d rather vomit then wake up to another shit10 day.

I thought the last decade was the worst of my life and it was. My biggest fear is reliving that debaclecade over. So far so good, huh?! I digress… Trying to stay positive is like asking a born again Christian (not a Christian), to accept other religions or watch Sarah Palin talk, or watch an episode of Toddlers and Tiaras. What’s not painful about that? You don’t want to see it or do it, but you kind of have to. Of course, you keep your vomit bucket within arm’s reach. Still.

I hate people. I hate how shitty many people have become. I hate how disillusioned I am about certain people. I know better, yet the blow is still a hard one to take. Slamming my head against the wall won’t help, I tried. Kidding.

A fight broke out this afternoon in the building next door to me – girl-on-girl – I know, straight peens are jerking off at the idea of a crotch fight. Anyway, they’re sisters (I realize this is hotter for the straight peen reading this blog. Calm yourselves). Their fight was over their mother’s Will when, when, when she’s dead. The broad still has a pulse. Dude, seriously?! They were screaming like greedy whorellas, slamming doors and hitting each other. WOW. Disturbing, no?

Drivers have lost their ever loving minds. While plodding along, minding my own business, they cut me off and curse me out for being in their way. Nice. Real classy. Being called an (unjustified) cunt makes a lot of sense.

Not one person I know and love isn’t struggling or hurting, or frustrated, or revolted. It kills me. What can I say? Find a bridge and do the drama diva swan dive. I’m drowning myself. Who isn’t?!

At my last doctor’s appointment for my lady balls (blurred vision, double vision, I can’t fucking see without tinted or super dark glasses), my ophthalmologist’s prescription, I kid you not, was “Be positive”. I told him, “You might want to turn off your tape recorder now,” and proceeded to tear his ass gland wide open. I’m sure there’s room for new tent cities should anyone need to resurrect one.

Life is shit. And, no, a pulse isn’t enough.

On that shituation of a note, let’s discuss the lame ass emails I keep getting. Why not, it’s entertaining.

Someone signed another Katie Schwartz up for Twit with Ease; that was nice. Being a 140 character addict, I can see the menschiness of that act. I just feel bad for the other Katie Schwartz. I’m also curious as to why we have similar email addresses. Don’t mimic Jew x 4.

Caitlin keeps emailing me. Her last email was really short and to the point “Jocelyn”. Super informative, right?

Someone signed me up for a Neo Pet, so fucking great. My username is “Sing Star Sam”. So me, I can’t stand it. I’m ready to Neo Pet myself into a frenzy (boychicks heads-gutter-remove).

Another sweetie signed me up for Pets Next Door. Bitch, my dog is dead. You want to pet next door, fondle your neighbor. Clearly, I still haven’t resolved my issues with death.

Phang just got back from Phucket and sent me a Christmas card. How many levels of wrong is that sentence?

Katieroxol, that’s my new username for Foo Pets. Dog. Dead. Deal.

What the fuck is with people and online pets? Is this a kid thing? I’m so not their demographic. I guess my email address is.

I received a Santa in a Speedo picture; he works a Speedo like nobody’s business. Santa’s got mad crotch thrusting skills.

Did I mention that my Outlook isn’t showing my sent mail as of this afternoon? Fucking fantastic.

Happy Fucking New Year,

Katie

When I read FLOW: The Cultural Story of Menstruation, I had assigned so many emotions to the book, I didn’t know if I was on spin or rinse. Rather, in FLOWguage I didn’t know if my tampon was in a twist or my womb was doing the jig.

As a feminist, I felt grateful that Elissa Stein had written FLOW, for women who have always embraced their periods and for women, feminists or not, who are uncomfortable calling it what it is, and who choose to cloak it in society’s accepted verbiage: “The Rag”, “That time of the month”, “Aunt Flo is in town”, among others.

I felt validated and lucky that I grew up with parents who cried tears of joy when menses commenced; parents who encouraged us to say “If you have your period, you have your fucking period.”

Having embraced menses to the point of engaging in menseversation with grocery store clerks, strangers, friends and family, and having written a few essays on the subject, I was so proud; I wanted to bleed stains of joy.

One part confessional and one part factual history; for me, FLOW wasn’t just a great read. Saying that marginalizes the enormity and significance of FLOW—for women and for men. Obligatory reading for teens (can I get a FLOWhoo from high schools who teach sex education, please?!), and women who have and continue to menstruate, as well as men who fear the bleeding tunnel and, or want to better understand it.

I savored every menselicious second, absorbing Elissa’s personal, often hysterical and heartfelt account of her menstrual history. Paired with facts about the origins of menstruation; without giving away that time of the month, women took herculean measures to contend with their mighty streams. Facts about what menstruation really is and the myriad of misconceptions we have assigned and assumed, and so much more.

I would beg, no plead, no strongly urge you to buy FLOW and permit yourself the opportunity to trek through unchartered, forbidden tidal waves of menstrual loveliness.  If you don’t believe me, check out these reviews: Rebecca Elia: Bring on the FLOW, YouTube Flow view, Elissa Stein: History of Tampon, Tampax and a Belt with Hooks, Changing People, Inspirational Women: An Interview with Elissa Stein, The Undomestic Goddess: Elissa Stein and more. In addition to the great interviewers mentioned, FLOW has been reviewed, and Elissa has been interviewed by many other great writers and magazines.

Elissa gave me the opportunity to interview her and her blook, FLOW:

1. Why do you think FLOW is considered a controversial book with respect to feminism and menstruation?

Menstruation isn’t talked about, in an open, honest, thought-provoking way in mainstream society. It’s a punch line, a joke, or something to be avoided at all costs. By taking on all that it does—sex, religion, politics, advertising, big pharma, medicalization—FLOW makes people nervous.

2.  What made you write FLOW?

My period stopped for a year. I was too terrified and embarrassed to say anything to anyone. When I finally went for help, the doctor literally patted me on the knee, handed me a pack of birth control pills and told me my hormones just needed “jump starting.” I was dismayed by both how I was dismissed, and how difficult it was to overcome my shame. About something that’s a biological reality. It was then, over 15 years ago, that the first glimmers of FLOW appeared.

3. FLOW has the power to change public perception about menstruation, both for men and women, was that one of your intentions when you wrote the book?

FLOW goes beyond perception. It has the power to educate women, and men. To chip away at the walls of shame and secrecy built centuries ago about menstruation.

4. When you were growing up, how did you feel about your menses? How was menses perceived and treated?

I still remember sobbing to my mother, standing in front of her 1971 green Plymouth Valiant, after sitting through that film in fifth grade. I was horrified and it didn’t get better. We never talked about it in my family. I tried as hard as possible to keep it a complete and total secret.

5. What are your feelings about “The business of menstruation”?

I took it all for granted until FLOW. And then my eyes were ripped open: the packaging, the pristine white-ness, the endless landfill, the plastic applicators, the negative advertising that kept age-old messages fresh. There are greener options out there that I never knew about, but, sadly, am too set in my old ways to switch to.

6. What is your favorite part of FLOW, if there is one and why?

I LOVE the art. As a visual society, we communicate through images. Including the ads, books, and products that have so often shaped how we think and feel, was a huge part of the story— a big shout out to St. Martin’s, who understood what this book needed to be. My absolute favorite piece is “Are You There God, It’s Me Margaret?” I called booksellers all over the country looking for the edition that was out when I was ten. When the package arrived and I pulled the purple-covered book out, I was transported to my friend Rachel’s basement, seeing it for the first time.

7. What do you define as the worst nicknames for a woman having her period and why?

Anything that’s derogatory. Like “on the rag.” What a horrible thing to say. Rags connote dirt, garbage, needing to sop up messes. And by phrasing it that way, menstrual blood is nothing but negative.

8. Why do you think women have so much shame about menstruating?

At this point in history, I believe it’s ingrained. Menstruation’s been getting a bad rap since the start of recorded history—and I’m sure long before. Check out the Bible. Menstruation was considered impure, unclean. Women had to be ritually cleansed before they could be touched again. By their husbands. After getting that message from the most holiest of sources for centuries, how could one possibly put a good spin on menstruation?

9. What do you love most about menstruating?

I’ve become so aware of my body at this point that I can feel the hormone shift, before the bleeding starts. I go from cranky, tired, wound up, to mellow. Happy. And I know, from that emotional change, that my period’s starting soon.

10. Let’s dish about you a bit… Tell me about Elissa Stein. FLOW is not your first book. Can you tell me about other work that you’ve written and more about you?

Elissa Stein. Hmm. I’m a mother first. The most important, life-changing, exhausting, exhilarating thing I’ve ever done. I’ve been married for 21 years to a person I’m still delighted to see every day. I’m a graphic designer, which led me to publishing, and then writing. I practice yoga, which keeps me steady. I’m recovering from an ebay addiction—I love vintage coats and outrageous 1960s summer dresses. My NYC closets are now packed to capacity.

FLOW is my tenth book. My first, CHUNKS, was a compilation of vomit stories. I’m not kidding. I’ve done visual histories of iconic pop culture: beauty queens, stewardesses, cheerleaders. My husband and I wrote a labor support guide for dads, inspired by his own ineptitude in the delivery room. I’ve got a host of projects I’d love to do next.

11. Are you a feminist? If so, what does feminism mean to you personally?

I had to answer this question recently and it took a couple of days to figure out what to say. Yes, absolutely, I’m a feminist, when that means working to continually challenge society to accept, respect, and acknowledge that women are equal, but different, from men.

12. What is your favorite curse word and why?

I try SO HARD not to curse and have managed to stop for years—having kids was the motivation. But I’d have to say fuck. It says a lot in one word.

13. What are your favorite foods?

Watermelon. Fresh green peas. And super sweet pineapple. Not all together.

14. What makes you belly laugh?

Trying to win a staring contest with my son Jack. We both are terrible at it and absolutely crack each other up. EVERY time.

15. What makes you happy?

Finding grace in a yoga class. Especially to a good soundtrack.

16. What makes you angry?

Having to repeat myself. Over and over.

17. Where can I read more about you and buy FLOW? Who do I contact for an interview/review?

FLOW is in bookstores all over, and at amazon.com. There’s more about FLOW at www.flowthebook.com. My publicist’s info is listed. And for more about me please check out: www.elissastein.com.

THANK YOU, ELISSA, for writing FLOW, for being you and for your valuable time.

Now, off you go to buy FLOW. Follow Elissa on Twitter and Facebook. Visit her website.

I have been OCD’ng on Harvey Milk’s last quote (Will) from the movie MILK. It’s resonating so hard for me, personally, with respect to Dear Thyroid and with what’s happening politically and health care wise in this country.

Sometimes I forget that all of our individual voices collectively make up millions of voices that have the power to invoke change.

Thanks to my good pal @SoCalVillaGuy for finding this quote for me.

I wanted to post about it and I wanted us to discuss. So, discuss.

Last week I got a phone call — –from Altoona, Pennsylvania, and the voice was quite young, and the person said… Thanks.” You’ve got to elect gay people so that that young child and the thousands upon thousand like him know there’s hope… hope for a better world… I ask this… If there should be an assassination, I would hope that five, ten, one hundred, a thousand would rise. I would like to see every gay lawyer, every gay architect come out– –If a bullet should enter my brain, let that bullet destroy every closet door… And that’s all. I ask for the movement to continue. Because it’s not about personal gain, not about ego, not about power… it’s about the “us’s” out there. Not only gays, but the Blacks, the Asians, the disabled, the seniors, the us’s. Without hope, the us’s give up– –I know you cannot live on hope alone, but without it, life is not worth living. So you, and you, and you… You gotta give em’ hope… you gotta give em’ hope.

I broke up with J Crew, but we got back together.

I’ve noticed that a lot of Born Agains are starting to follow me on Twitter. To be clear, I don’t mean Christians or Catholics, I mean Zealarellas (zealots). I’m wondering… What part of me screams save me?

One broad told me that she loved everyone. Shocked, I asked everyone, I mean, every single person?! Yes, everyone, and with conviction. In 140 characters, I couldn’t go into detail, so I will here. While I think it’s a lovely, altruistic notion to love everyone, in my mind, it’s literally impossible.

I don’t love George Bush or what he did to this country and I think he should be tried for war crimes, along with his sick fuck side kick, Dick Cheney and Donald bottoming-for-Bush-and-loving-it Rumsfeld, et al. I don’t love the people cock blocking Universal Health Care from passing. They’re willing to spend our tax dollars on weapons, but not our health?! Can you spell fucktardsquared?! I don’t love hard core republicans. In fact, I hate what they stand for. I don’t love doctors who mistreat their patients and lie to them. I don’t love insurance companies — I hate them. I don’t love murderers, pedophiles, or rapists. I don’t love assholics. I don’t love people who embrace censorship and who want the government to determine what’s appropriate for me to view, listen to, and read. I don’t love people who want to infringe on my choice to have an abortion. My list is endless and I won’t bore you with it, but you get the gist of what I’m saying. I think love is a gift. I couldn’t love everyone, not because I’m a hate junky. It’s simply unrealistic.

Another person told me that if I didn’t follow him back, I wouldn’t be saved from Armageddon. If I don’t believe in Armageddon, how will his 140 character tweets save me? What am I missing? Oh, did I mention that I’m a Jew? Aren’t we the chosen ones at the minute, the gateway or something? I can’t remember. I’ll have to email The Postal Service of the Saved for clarification.

Someone else assured me that it wasn’t too late to be Born Again. Thanks. But, I’m willing to take my chances, I said.

Why can’t I be a Jew? Perhaps that’s the issue I have with this lot of followers, intolerance and a lack of regard for my beliefs. Everything is cloaked in a threat, if you don’t, than you won’t. I digress… I intolerance.

Now, let’s discuss the rectal warfare that took place in my intestines last Friday morning. My intestines weren’t arguing, they were waging “Shock and Awe”, careening towards my pucker pellet at the speed of light. I still can’t figure out why or what I ate that made my intestines have a, yes I’m going to go 80’s on your ass, COW. Everything came out just dandy, thanks for asking. Though, for a moment I thought that my intestines were going to fly out of my tuchas. Fortunately, we’re still together.

Friday, I was at Cedars for blood work and there was no fucking parking. One of the lots closed due to construction. I have never seen so many cars trying to get into parking lots in my life. LA drivers don’t give a shit about who is behind them. They stop in the middle of the road, la-de-da’ng on the phone or talking to someone on the sidewalk, even though you’re behind them with ten other shmucks. Please, in NY, in less than a minute, baseball bats would be smashing these cars.

After 30 minutes, I was ready to shoot myself (that would’ve cost a bundle, so I passed). Mind you, it only took me 10 minutes to get there. I finally found a lot that I was able to squeeze into, though it was a valet lot, I was Despy Desperalla and her twin sister Tranta Gavant.

This super homeless guy, like scale of 1-10, definitely a 10 on the homelessesque scale, approaches me and says, “I’ll take your car.”

Right. Cause I’m stupid.

Meanwhile, there’s a guy in the booth at the valet stand, wearing a white shirt with the name of the p-lot co. on it and I was trying to get his attention. Homeless guy says, “What? You don’t trust me? Give me your car!”

I kindly asked him to unzip his jacket and show me his shirt. If it was the same as the guy’s standing in the booth, great, I would’ve given him my car. Most valets don’t sit on the ground with their dressers duffel bags.

He says, “Why I gotta unzip my jacket? I wouldn’t ask you to take your shirt off.”

Um. Okay, let’s review. I’m now late for my blood draw. I need to get it done. I’ve been driving in circles for 30 minutes with shitty drivers who want to be FIRST, FIRST, FIRST. I’m profoundly irritated.

“In this situation, I believe I’m entitled to ask to see your shirt before I hand you the keys to my car.” I said.

He responds by saying “You don’t trust me because I’m black. You’re a racist.”

I was so fucking angry at this point, I got out of my car and screamed, “HEY, I HAVE SYSTEMIC TRUST ISSUES. IF YOU DON’T BELIEVE ME, CALL MY PSYCHIATRIST AND ASK HIM. YOU THINK YOUR FUCKING RACE OR GENDER MATTERS TO ME? YOU COULD BE A PURPLE, HERMAPHRODITE GNOME AND I STILL WOULDN’T TRUST YOU.”

Cedars security came out, and instead of asking what the problem was, he exacerbated the issue by telling us to take it elsewhere. Seriously, hospital-mall-cop?!

I ended up at another lot because I bribed the gatekeeper with a $20 to get me in.

You’d think I was trying to get into some hot restaurant, not that a $20 would cut it, but you get where this is going, right? Right.

Caitlin will not stop emailing me. All week, I’ve been receiving emails from her:

Hi!

and

Hey, I analyzed the name ‘caitlin’ using the iPhone Name Analyzer.

It means:

Cute

Awesome

Inspirational

Tipsy

Lovely

Imperfect

Naughty

Seriously?! This improves the quality of my life?

Someone signed me up for Millsberry.com as Justice4Ever. I can create my own buddy and join the city. The site is for tweeners at best, so of course I’m a perfect fit. I’m sure they’d welcome Justice4Ever calling CutsieTeenyTot snatch for moving into my crib and boosting my gluten free pretzels.

This concludes my rant fest.

If you haven’t read @SoyGoy’s interview, check it out. Coming up next, Elissa Stein and her new book FLOW, followed by, In The Belly Of The Fail Whale. I’m plotzarella.