Aaaaand she's back

June 21, 2006 - 10:47 p.m.

No time for the thinky-thinky so here’s a list. I hate numbers. Shoulda used bullets…

1) I am temporarily driving my brother’s second car while I am getting my car repainted, in another city, by some kid who works out of a garage. So it’s going to be awhile. My brother’s car is a Miata convertible, a tiny little death box on wheels. It’s not nice, so don’t even start picturing it. My brother was born in 1969 and has forever used that as a joke to promote his Pimpness and such, and he’s also in to vanity license plates, like EVERYBODY in Illinois is. It’s because they cost basically the same as a regular plate, so we’re like, why not? You would too so shut it. I have always had vanity plates, so have my parents, family, and all of my friends.

So without explaining why, let me tell you that the Miata’s license plates say “MISS 69”. Now, when there’s a dude driving it, people dismiss it and attach no sexual connotations to it. But oh mercy, when a girl is driving it with the top down, summertime, ponytail in the wind and shit, suddenly the girl is a professional fellatio performer. I’m so stupid. The first time I drove it, a truck with 2 dudes pulled along side me, hanging out the window, talking to me. Ha ha! I thought it was because I’m so cute that they saw how cute I was from a mile fucking away! Yeah right.

The attention has gotten so bad. I would say at least 50% of all cars that drive near me at the very least turn to take notice, or to see if I’m ugly or a man or something, or to comment. I often see middle-aged couples following me, through my rear-view mirror, and they’ll be smiling and pointing to the back of the car. Glad to make your day, PREE-VERTS!

I was approached in the parking lot of Home Depot, “What’s up Miss 69?” “I gotch yer number girl!”

Leaving the house is a whole big “thing” now…and there’s nothing I can do about it. Can’t even bother getting mad about it, cuz I’m totally asking for it. If you see me, Miss 69, drivin around with the top down and I look like I’ve been ravaged by wolves…maybe with torn panties…around my ankles…please stop me. And offer to buy me a beer. I so need it, like you wouldn’t believe.

2) I’m upset because I just found out that my professor is gay. Did I mention to you that despite his Mohawk and earrings, that he is smoking hot? Of course I didn’t, because I had a boyfriend when I wrote about him. But he is *fiiine* ya’ll, I mean it, like HAN-SUM. I was hoping he’d be my summer crush and I could ogle him every day, maybe befriend him, maybe (long shot) he could be my summer ass as well.

The other day I went and got my million dollar haircut, to ya know, cut off the old dead shit and let new growth begin, *ahem*. My stylist Charlie had the exact same haircut as Professor Lamarr Johnson. The swooped Mohawk with a line shaved down the side. I told Charlie this, and he demanded that I reveal the identity of this hawk-thief, because he INVENTED this style, so who stole it??? He said, “Wait a minute, I know Lamarr Johnson…he dresses really sharp? Really clean cut? He’s some kind of scholar?” Yup, yup, yup. “Oh hell no! He stole my haircut! He used to be my client and one day he asked my where I get my hair done and I was like: I do it myself, duh, and then he stopped coming to me. He went somewhere else! Where does he go?? Who cuts his hair?!” I told that diva that I had no idea, that Lamarr had only mentioned a Humboldt Park barber shop.

“How dare he?! I’m the one that gave him his first Faux Hawk! He was nothing before he started coming to me! His hair was just – blah!”

Then Charlie, who is a closeted Queen with a soon-to-be-disappointed girlfriend, told me that Professor Lamarr Johnson is gay. “You lie!” I say. But no…it seems that Lamarr picked up one of the gay stylists at the salon. I still don’t believe it. I stare at his perfect hair line and gleaming white teeth but I see no evidence of gay, besides the nice clothes, which can be explained by the black, which we have already discussed.

Neither way, I walked out with some healthy beautiful hair, so soft…I want someone to touch my head.

Moving on, quickly.

3) My grandma is dying so I might get sad and reflective soon. And talk about the true meaning of life and shit.

4) I have a cyst on my left ovary the size of a walnut, when in actuality it feels more like a golfball that is in my pocket all the time. At first I thought it was a baby or cancer, but my doctor determined that it was neither but I still regard it as my Ectopic Tumor Baby. At first I was hysterical with fear over the cancer or baby but now I am fine and me and my golfball live in harmony, and I wait for it to “pass” – however that works. I can feel it when I do side sit-ups and it’s creepy, like: *squish-squish*, squeezing an eyeball or something. Sometimes I reach down there and touch it gently, and think that it is like a little baby.

HORRIBLE HORRIBLE ASIDE, THAT IS HIDDEN BEHIND THE BLACK CURTAIN IN THE BACK OF THE VIDEO STORE – ENTER AT YOUR OWN RISK:

(when I had to seriously consider the possibility that my distended belly might be a baby, I was over come with warm and love and awe…and then I decided that I wouldn’t keep it, because I could not have a baby with that man, that I would never subject my children to a father like that…I planned the whole conversation in my head, telling him that I was having an abortion, discussing who would pay for it, etc. Then I had to walk around with that knowledge, thinking “I would abort this man’s baby.” *ouch*)

5) I ran in a breast cancer race with my mom and dad (who ended up walking it because my dad is the Tin Man, and has that metal rod holding his leg on). I raised $680, which sounds kind of sucky, but I think is really good and also it provides some evidence that I have a friend or two. And I didn’t even have to ask you guys!

6) I’ve been doing this beauty regimen for months now, anticipating my future single-dom and this hot-ass summer. Gym out the wazoo, Abs Class From Hell, skin care, and now TEEF! Because I am so fucking ghetto, hell, you’re gonna love this. Uh. My dentist wanted $400 to bleach my Cornteeth, and knowing my nibblets they’d probably need like 5 in-office light sessions and no TOOF is worth $$GRANDS$$. So I got to thinking…how can I do this myself, at home, for cheaper? Those Crest things do not work for me. At all. My teeth are shellacked with a golden-yellow like a nice, solid oak end table. I need sandblasting. I knew I could get my hands on real, professional grade bleach from all those shifty dental hygienists hockin it on the black market. But how do I keep it on my teeth? How do I make a tray? Saran wrap?

BOXING BABY! Teeth guards, yo. They conform to the teeth. Like a tray. I ordered one online, black and bright green. It’s lined with soft plastic and you drop it in boiling water for a minute, stick in it your mouth, and it makes a permanent mold when it hardens. AWE-ZUM! Perfect, crooked-ass toof mold!

I’ve bleached my teeth 7 times already and I’m not even half way there. Here I am chillin at home with a fuggin mouth guard, sexy-hot, drooling out the corners.

And please take a moment to admire my new beautiful skin, thanks to the toxic waste I ingested for 3 months that probably ate my eggs. This photo is straight up, no retouching, no photoshop, no lies or trickery. Extreme close up, lookit! Is so boo-tiful, you don’t think??

I would also like someone to touch my face. Hey you boys, that read this, that been strokin it to Shawna Mooney for the last 2 years, hey! I’m available yo, now’s your chance to prove you got a little sumthin sumthin for Shawna. *call me*

Backin a flash~ ~ ~

Love, Shawna

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The Fast, Days 1-6
January 28, 2007