BLOOD BATH in the TREEROOM

Why? Because I had way too much energy bottled up and was ready to combust. Potential combustion plus absolute boredom behind the bar equated blood bath.

Started out whipping the towel “WHHPSH!” (uh that’s the sound of me whipping the towel at great speeds.) Then I grabbed my serrated knife and started stabbing holes with all my might into objects. Then I moved to juggling which as it turns out, I’m reasonable decent at. A natural juggler for sure. Next hackisacking with a lime which is stupid. Then I decided to start doing tricks with knifes. Which is why I’m almost missing a finger and I have blood all over my freshly dry-cleaned white work shirt.

It was blood bath 2009 Jason style (which I mostly saw on Friday the 13th…Classic. No screen writing and dialogue can compare with Jason movies)

Who Wants me Dead?

You all remember my previous post about being sick for 12 days, the will, the funeral plans? Well I recovered only to find my immune system failing me once again. Swollen glands, aches, headache, sore throat. I'm starting to feel like that poor, helpless, little girl from The Sixth Sense (Marissa Cooper) whose step mom kept putting poison in her soup to keep her sick. I'm the vomiting girl in Sixth Sense! Whoever is trying to keep me sick, I'm not into it.

This is a threat: If I meet my premature end, I will come back from the dead, cold and pale, in a pink night gown, hide out in your little red tent and under your bed and I will expose you! I know whats going on!

Updated Will:
Yankee Hotel Foxtrot Vinyl....Lacy

Mui Bien Tamale??

I would just like to publicly congratulate myself because I have just now and officially finished 24 tamales in less than seven days. I accomplish things. I have goals. Some people finish college, get real jobs, start families. Some people eat 24 tamales in less than seven days.

We have exchanged corpulence for starvation and either one can kill us.

12 Days and Counting....

…I’ve been sick. I think it’s an appropriate assumption to assume that my days here on this big blue and green earth are numbered. I’m dying. It’s a tragedy the plague cut my life so short. And even sadder I went out with out really contributing to the history books. Didn’t invent anything meaningful, or say anything profound. I didn’t even get my face in a newspaper. If I croaked now my existence could be forgotten and on my tombstone it might as well say “she settled for mediocrity.”

My Will:

All the cash in my wallet…Lone Tree Hill, the homeless Indian guy I met at Pioneer Park. (Please ask him to tell you the joke about the cow and the wife).

And this song will be played at my funeral:

Goodbye cruel world…Geeze you didn’t even give me and Lone Tree a chance.