get off me homes

.
Looking for a new pod is like sweet kisses from a dirty vacuum. I am losing strength. All the hallways reek from a combination of ramen noodle soup, lemon pine cleaners and dirty sneakers. The hallways that I can afford with my monthly cash dollars, that is. The sharks are swarming around the smell of new ink on a blank check. I am swarming from the designer imposter cologne. I sit at a sterile desk surrounded by a bustling room of swarming conversations. I would rather see a desk with a hula dancing troll doll and shrunken head of an old family python than nothing. I sense these people are droids, The Pod Droids. They are too quick to hug and keep changing the rules, one dollar sign after the next. I fear their instrumental Nirvana ballads are lulling me into sweet sweet submission. I have talked myself out of everything I wanted. Now I'll wait to see if the droids will give me what I don't want...and I will be excited when I get it.

an amphibian in the esophagus

...and another mouth to feed.

I have decided to keep a log of first audible human interactions from each morning. My attempt is to uncover a consistent correlation between time of day and language choice. Here begins a running list of the first utterances of the day in my general direction.

Wednesday December 14th, 2005
"After you sir, I mean madam."
Findings: Common social bumble...today I donned a freshly lint-rolled top hat and newly shapened handle bar mustache. Note-to-self: These items are typically attributed to stately southern gentleman and male persuaded circus professionals.

Thursday December 15th, 2005
"Thank you."

Friday December 16th, 2005
"Hi are you stuffed up?"

galax-city hot rollers

.
I was sent to an event called a roller derby. I did some research by looking at old roller-skating magazines from the years 1977 and 1984. I discovered that in order to fit into this setting I would need to use a curling device to “feather” my hair….the result is a strand convention resembling the delicate wing of a surly macaw. I went to a clothing store to gather up a one piece leotard and a bright puffy zipper jacket with a lovely sheen….so much sheen that I can adjust my blue eyelid liner in its reflection. I was sent on this particular mission to study female aggression and the coined phrase “cat fights”. I did not see any cats, thankfully because they make me nervous. However, there was a lot of underpants shoving and trash talk. I also witnessed an alarming altercation between a Jesus figure and a slice of cheesecake. The hooting and hollering from the audience lead me to believe that the injuries in the rink were both revered and envied. The hair pulling and obscene gestures were ones in which I have never studied before. I have decided to delve further into this wheel riding, butt cheek bruising underworld. I am going undercover and have decided to start my own chapter of roller “babes”. So far I am the only glider….but I’ll recruit Mr. Pantsuit and Unkle Schmunkle. They’re both accustomed to falling over and parading their undergarments to a crowd of yelling faces…yes, I know that was an accident but still an impressive tidbit for your resumes none the less.

I have concluded that the human species’ next evolutionary steps are wheeled feet and internal “Kool and the Gang” tracks running through their earlobes.
Godspeed you funky big bad mamba jambas.

Haunted by Ghost Dogs

Salutations Mr. Harley Lipman Esq. Feudal Lord:

It appears as though you have hired new help to tend to your fields. I have neither seen them nor the two k9s they have in their company. I am writing this letter to say you were right. I should not have a dog on the premises....but someone should, that someone being not me, preferably. Now I see, it all makes so much sense, like putting my forehead on a baseball bat, spinning 360 times and then roller-skating down a football field...I did it yesterday and everything is starting to make more sense to me. All of it, I'm figuring it all out one soggy vurp at a time.

In celebration of my newly shared quarters: I hope you wake next morning with cold meatballs in your pillowcase.

Regards,
Your Disgruntled Serf
a.k.a Young Lady