1,000 words

February 24, 2005 - 2:30 a.m.

Bored. Self-indulgent. Self-absorbed. It’s an “All About Me” page.

Start:

(For the locals): I’ve lived in 8 different apartments in the 8 years I’ve lived in Chicago, in the following neighborhoods: Little Italy, Old Irving, Wicker Park, Logan Square, and Lakeview. The best crib I’ve had by far, is my current one, which will rock your balls off.

I live alone, pay my own bills, sleep on fabric-softened sheets, and drive a Honda. I am 28. My next car will be a Honda.

I work in the Loop on the 34th floor of the swankiest building you could possibly imagine. This place makes the Sears Tower and John Hancock look like Cabrini Green and I ain’t even tryn to give credit where it ain’t due. We’ve got it all here, including marble bathrooms, and a lounge with a tv and a couch. We all have real wood desks; there are no cubicles or awful fluorescent lighting, and everyone here thinks I’m a total bitch.

I would lose my job in 500 milliseconds if my employer found this blog.

I totally hate all of my co-workers because they bore me and I think I’m better than them.

I probably shouldn’t go into too much detail about what I “do” but let’s just say that I’m kind of an art fag, only I’m not irresponsible with my money and I don’t blame the world for my failures.

I AM TOTALLY NOT A SECRETARY.

I do graphic design.

My favorite personal creative projects have been: making realistic fake money with my face on it, Christmas cards and CDs, birthday cards with talking dogs on them, Tori Amos compilations, construction paper cut-out nature scenes, love letters to my boyfriend with hand-drawn pictures and sexual euphemisms, putting my face on the Snuggle Bear, my series of 3.5 by 5 foot photographs, and pretty much anything involving a glue stick and an X-acto knife.

I so rule the school when it comes to project time. If you were my friend you would totally reap the benefits of my T-square and cutting mat.

I ride my bike, walk, and take the subway every single day and take my car out of the garage maybe once every two weeks.

I can spell “Pharmaceutical” without thinking twice.

My father has read every entry of this blog from the very first one all the way to December 15, 2004. When I first discovered this, I flipped my wig, shut the site down, and confronted him. There was arguing back and forth, but finally we came to a verbal agreement that he would never visit my site again. I know his IP address, and I’m monitoring him, so now it is safe for me to talk like a ho again.

Now my father talks like my blog, having picked up all of my slang. Do you know how it feels to hear your 60 year-old bald father say, “She was a skank; she was probably a hood rat,” over Christmas dinner?

I have five female friends. Total. I don’t know why they stick around.

I smell good, all the motherfuckin time, thanks in part to Issey Miyake and coconut-lime lotion. Who am I kidding, all bitches smell good.

When I lived in my parent’s home, my mother forbade me to use tampons.

I also wasn’t allowed to date until I was 18. Guess where that got me.

My parent’s strictness turned me into a drug using idiot who barely graduated from high school and grew up to work at Burger King. While I was playing the role of the Whopper Keeper at 5am every day, my live-in boyfriend was at home sodomizing himself and thinking about better days in the Marine Corps. Burger King did not offer free food to its employees, and we had no food at home except Crisco and Ramen, so every day I would stuff my pockets full of chicken fingers. Dipping sauce was a luxury. I never once made it out of there with a real Whopper.

Thanks to that period of my life, I no longer “believe” in living with a boyfriend, a man, a lover, or any other male who is not my husband. I see “Shackin’ up” and “Movin’ in” as the epitome of White Trash Living, hillbillies playing house, people too poor or uncommitted to do the real thing. I would be a disgrace to myself. No offense to ya’ll, though.

Every morning I have a real fear that a white spider, millipede, or silver fish has crawled into my bag of whole bean coffee and I will unwittingly grind it, brew it, and drink that bitch for breakfast. Do not laugh because this is a real fear.

Every night I wash my face before bed, and when I dry it with a towel, my waterproof mascara leaves little brown clumps on the towel. I spend a lot of time worrying that my guests will see this and wonder why I have brown streaks on my towels.

I have a brother and a sister who are 7 & 8 years older than me, live 75 miles away, and they are both divorced. I feel that this reflects badly on me, and unfairly stamps a scarlet D on my chest.

Even though I have every reason in the world to hate my body, for some reason I don’t. I have completely deluded myself into thinking I’m super-cute. But please, someone give me $300 so I can bleach my teeth.

I was born and raised living next door to a pedophile, except that he never molested me. He did, however, surveil me with a hidden camera, in all of my daily kid playing in the yard. When I was 12, I was dog sitting for he and his wife and while snooping through his shit I found a huge VHS video collection of my own childhood caught on tape. Why would he allow me into his house alone, if there is a secret tape collection?

Aw shit, there’s your one thousand words, right…there!

PS- He continued taping throughout my puberty, high school, until I was older and started throwing parties at my parent’s house. He would hide in the bushes and watch us outside smoking and drinking, and I would yell and slur, ‘Wha thaFUCK areYOU llloookin’ at – MUTHErrrFukKKER? Hay eVRYone! Therz that CHALD Mah LESTER! yAH pre-VERT! It’s Chest-ah da Molest-ah! FAGGGOT!”

And everyone would chant, “Yeah! Molester!”

After a few years of this, he finally got the point and stayed in his house.

The End.

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