Different Strokes

I've not recovered from being called an ego maniac--that is, I'm still blushing from the flattery. Other such fitting titles are welcomed. And yes, please stop me on the streets and ask for my autograph. I always have time for the groundlings--regardless of what they look like. They're usually the ones who ask if they could sit in my white limo, and that's when the tinted window separates me from them--as if I really need a window to do that.

You don't bring me flowers anymore.

All this time I've known you...thanks...thanks for not telling me you had it. All the times we've been together. Just yesterday we drank out of the same extreme can of Mountain Dew. No wonder you're so obsessive about washing your hands up to the elbows. We experienced some pretty contagious laughs, you know (pardon the pun--how insensitive of me). I thought we were close. I thought we could talk about anything, but I was so wrong. I know I gave it to you, but we could have been more open about it. You have made a fool of me. Why? Why didn't you tell me that you knew that I knew that you knew I gave you the creeps?

It's "sweeet," not "sweet."

I saw you with your two friends walking to Brit's Pub downtown on Friday. You were tanned, well-groomed, wearing jeans and a light blue shirt, untucked, cuffs rolled up for that casual "going out" look. You were so L.A. (where I'm from if you ever want to come home with me for a drive up the PCH)--your sandals pulled the entire outfit together. Dude, I totally dig you.

You probably say "sweet" a lot. "Sweet!" when the guy at the gas station tells you to make a right turn on 46th to get back on the freeway. "Sweet!" when the grocery store clerk informs you of the new hours. "Sweet!" when I take one of your sandals and bop you over the head with it, you fratboy fool, you. You probably rave about Chipotle too: "That shit is goooood." But God has not forgotten you, and you will marry someone very special one day.

For Pete's sake, pick up the fork.

You see, Pete's Chinese, and he doesn't care whether you, inept chopsticks user, use chopsticks at Chinese restaurants. Please, urges Pete, don't use the chopsticks for his sake. He won't judge you for using a fork, but he will judge you for having your chopsticks stick out of your bowl as you would a spoon while you converse animatedly with your hands. Instead, rest your chopsticks on the table or on the rim of your bowl, your chopsticks, a sort of bridge leading to a harmonious multicultural society, where no one is kicked out of restaurants by insulted chefs who witnessed you douse your food with soy sauce.

Songs from Childhood

Take the 605 to you know where! _____! _____! Cerritos Auto Square!

No you won't get a lemon, at Toyota of ______.

Reunited and it feels like crap.

Just last week I waited in line at the mall to get a sheet of the 5x7s featuring me, sitting meekly on the Easter Bunny's lap, a nervous smile on my face--just like the good old days when I was 5. The Easter themed display was a bold one that took up the entire east wing of the mall. I was impressed; it felt like the real thing, like I was actually on the Easter Islands for the first time in my life. There were like giant eggs all over the place! They were like wild trees growing all uncontrollably and stuff. At one point, I got scared, remembering velociraptors, afraid they would hatch on this island on which I was currently stranded. I got so desperate that I lit up a cigarette to send smoke signals into the air. For that, I almost got kicked out of line, and that's when I remembered I wasn't stranded on no island! I was about to reunite with the Easter Bunny. So it was quite disappointing when I finally came face to face with him, because he didn't remember me from back in the day. I kept asking him, "Remember me?" He just nodded and smiled nervously. There was all this tension in our encounter, because the costume job didn't recognize me and wanted to play it off like he did. I felt all weird when I left. I didn't like that.

Make me over!

It's time to shop for a new face. I want a cheetah face so I could model and sell Cheetos.

Story: Climbing my way to knowledge.

Today I fancied apple trees and pearl necklaces. I wore three pearl necklaces, while carving my lover's name into an apple tree. The tree began to cry, begging me to stop. It said, "Stop! Please stop and eat an apple." I climbed up the tree to search for the prettiest, shiniest apple in the giant green crown, and the tree swallowed me in its enormity. Just kidding. Trees don't have digestive systems. But the apple monkey does, and it swallowed me as I reached for the prettiest, shiniest apple near the top. The apple monkey thinks it's hot shit with my pearls around its neck. Meanwhile, the apple tree is scarred with my lover's name, yet the monkey can't read. I hope you never forget this important lesson, my dear children.

Ovaltine is old-fashioned.

So what milk-based hot beverage is considered cool these days? Lattes? Let me tell you what I think about your pansy-ass, lilac-flavored, twinkle-toes-tulip-topped 2% lattes: I think they're too expensive. Why, my fellow Americans, my barista-loving bastards, do you keep handing over $4.95 for a cup of watered-down milk when it doesn't have half the vitamins and minerals found in Ovaltine? Ovaltine makes you strong enough to knock out a Starbucks customer on the way to the office.

Explaining Important Things

I haven't been writing because stress has paralyzed my desire to give birth to creative expressivenationness. To wind down at the end of the day, I watch a lot of t.v. in my brand new fifty thousand dollar monster SUV. Lying also helps me cope with stress. I'm a liar who got her teeth cleaned at the new dentist today. He's not new but he's new to me. And even if he were new, he couldn't be a whole new because that's just something stupider people say. Stupider people can say funner and still be correct. They have more fun than people like me. I'm going to go and draw black SUVs with some crayons or something. Oh shit. I can't. My creativitizationality is paralyzed.

Completely Pointless Point

By the way, I hate unwitty oxymorons, but this is an unwitty post, so maybe it's appropriate. Gee, how excitingly ironic. And how blandly sarcastic. Anyway...

When I was about 12 years old, I joined some extended family on a walk down Hollywood Boulevard. One of the kids begged his mother to get him a souvenir. He was obviously illiterate at the time, because he was whining over a cheap t-shirt that read Eat Shit and Die. Well, my dog ate shit once and was promptly reprimanded. A few months later she found more shit to eat and ate shit again, but she didn't die. Eat shit and die...what a useless threat. It's not even true.

In the corner of mind my is you.

You are waving to me, and your eyes, bright. I get closer, anticipating our exchange. I stand before you now, and you say, "Crap!!! I found the pack of socks I bought from Kmart three years ago!" You hug your six pairs of bright whites, closing your eyes for added drama. I stumble back, shocked, saddened. In a fog of rage, I attack you with bug spray. You shrivel up but, out of courtesy, crawl into the toilet bowl where you'll conveniently be flushed away, and die. I steal your socks and put them back in the corner of my mind. Don't be going though my shit like that again.

It's after lunch. You're at work.

And you're reading this goddamn blog like you ain't got nothin' better to do. Like they pay you to sit on your ass and read this shit like you ain't gotta earn your shit. Fuck you. You are killing America. Yet, you wholeheartedly believe in the American Dream. And you're not going to quit your job just because you're going to buy a house one day. You're going to keep working, and you're going to read blogs and eat Fritos while on the clock. By the way, your boss is standing right behind you with a butcher knife, and he's going to hack up your PC and make you alphabetize some files from 1987. You asked for it.

Hello? Would you like to come?

Hey...um...I'm not good at leaving voice messages, but I'm just calling to tell you about my party this Thursday. A few of us are going to hang out. Don't worry about what to wear. Just wear whatever...jeans...I don't care. My friends are cool. I think you'll like them. Just...whatever you feel like...if you're busy, that's cool. If you can make it, please call me so that I know how much to get at the grocery store. Um...this message is getting kind of long...sorry. Um...what else, what else...did I mention it's an OVALTINE PARTY?

Take Advantage of YOURSELF!

I'm a motivational speaker now. When I brought it up to my boss at work, she was skeptical. She was like, "Don't take this the wrong way, but are you serious?" I said, "I like salsa music, but that doesn't make me a jokester." See, that kind of strength comes from within. The spirit drives all of you. Without a strong core, you are just mealy apple matter. The core holds it together. So when you feel like life has dealt you a really shitty hand, build a card tower, and then blow it down with one powerful breath from within like a mighty wolf. The world is full of pigs always trying to bring you down. You have to fight the powers that be. You can't let them build brick houses on your spiritual landscape, because that's your property. Put your heart and your soul first. You can do anything, but not before you know how to do it, so come see me this weekend only at the Minneapolis Radisson. Bring two friends and get a free Starbucks coffee.

Mmmmm BOP!

You are a fallopian tube in love with David Hasselhoff. You remember when you posed, thumbs up, sitting in the Knight Rider car at Universal Studios back in the 80s. You even spent $3.25 on a photo button of your superstar so that he could literally be close to your heart. You wish you were German. You wish you could gyrate to his music, but you can't. You are just a thumbless, heartless, hipless tube without the Hasselhoffian goods.

Bomb Ass Employee of Da Month

Da Bomb Ass Employee of da Month is back, yo! After my long ass vacation, I was pretty sure the people at work missed me and the enormity of work I churn out by the minute, but no. After my announcement at the front desk, sister payroll from cubicle 24 was like, "You got a nickel for my five cents?" All of a sudden I felt all average and shit, so I started doing paperwork at light speed to prove my worth, and my supervisor was like, "If you're going to play origami, I'll give you some work to do." I was like, "What, you mocking my Asian status or something?" She was like, "Nah," and she quickly backed off like I was her manager. Later, I felt bad, so I folded her a paper crane.

Los Angeles...

has a lot of wankers. Some were my friends, and we were kickin' it, non-smoking Los Angeles old school lounge style. There were these people on the road gettin' me and my homies all stressed out. They're all road rage and shit, because they're insecure and go around hatin' everyone all the time because their rides ain't all pimped out and they're all exposed through their non-tinted windows and shit. Let me tell you something: Pimpin' ain't easy. I ain't got that kind of energy, straight up. And that's why I kick it with the wankers behind the tinted shit.

Uh oh, Sylvia's got a case of the Mondays!

MONDAY: Waking up for work is such a drag...

TUESDAY: I hate waking up for this shit.

WEDNESDAY: I hate waking up for this bullshit.

THURSDAY: Oh, hell no.

FRIDAY: Where the fuck are my jeans?

Who makes you cool, baby, who?

Tom Jones, baby. He reaches my emotional core, leans on the frame of its door, and goes, "What's new pussycat?" And, like, I just DIE! Then I make him take me to JC Penny, and he buys me anything I want. On the way there--in a limo, of course--he'll sing his heart out. Sometimes, though, while he's singing, I'll be smiling and tapping my foot to the groovy beat, but inside I'm thinking, "Slow down. Damn, you'll get a hernia..."