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Subject:Well if this doesn't cut it, I don't know what will
Time:12:54 pm
Yes hello. I am writing in this pathetic journal for the first time since, appropriately enough, April Fool's Day, because I've reached the point of no return and there's no looking back.

For those of you out of the know (basically everyone, since I am a hermit with no life skills who detests phones), I broke my leg in spectacular fashion on Father's Day. The accident involved a cab ride to the Alibi, free shots, five dollar pitchers at Interstate Bowl, four inch gold lame cork wedge heels, and falling, breaking every bone in my leg below the knee at least once. And no, I was not bowling - one can be at the bowling alley and not yet have been bowling. If one more person reminds me in kind, well-meaning fashion that you're not supposed to bowl in your own shoes, they have special shoes there to rent, I am going to go ahead and rip the leg off. I have to say, though, thank christ for the booze, cause that shit would have hurt otherwise.

At any rate, because of the nature of the break, I have been forbidden to work or have any sort of real summer, and have been unable to ascend or descend stairs without falling spectacularly and screaming "FUCKING CUNT!" in front of my mother. Because of the stair issue, I now live with her, my sister, and my short, gruff stepfather in their mountain home an hour away from anything and everything.

These past months have been one long monotonous jesus fest. There is no tv of any kind, little to no cell phone reception, dial up internet - I feel like a bad yuppie extra in an early 90's movie who is observed at the quaint motel check in desk screaming, "What do you mean, no fax connection? Tiff, get my things, we're going to the Ramada." It feels like I am 10 again, during that inevitable part of the summer when all your friends go on vacation except you and you're left to sit and watch reruns of "Highway to Heaven" all day, except for now I can't even watch reruns. I get one visitor a week (no, this isn't some weird, little-known mormon by-law, it's just the uncanny way things have averaged out), always without fail Monica, who I have to say is just about the most selfless person on the face of the planet, since most people don't even return my phone calls. This is not to guilt trip anyone, since lord knows I am the worst offender of all; it's just the slow, agonizing realization that everyone has their own lives and we get caught up and busy and who the fuck has time to drive two hours round trip to visit a bored girl with a broken leg who will probably be stoned on percocet the entire time anyway.

My time has been occupied, almost exclusively, with books and netflix, although when the latter arrives, I inevitably watch any and all films immediately, waiting then three more days until more provisions are sent. I've knitted, too, and tried to write and failed, and read more books and sat and stared out the window and read more books.

The worst of it is the feeling of all that I know I'm missing - sitting on the porch, going to the Washougal river, going out, wasting time in general, just the lives of my friends, really. You realize how lonely you are when someone mentions something in passing, in reference to a mutual friend, and you have no idea which of the three hundred questions to lead with and so just smile and pretend like you know exactly what they're talking about when you haven't the faintest idea. The lack of independence, too, being unable to get up and drive to the store to get the fucking Jordan Almonds you've been craving incessantly (fuck, to get up and drive anywhere and not stare at the fucking dogs through the window all day because you've been advised by relatives and medical professionals, forbidden, really, to go outside when no one is home lest you fall (again) and are unable to right yourself).

One more month to go, and then back to work - it's pathetic that I would, in all honesty, much rather have spent my summer blending fake coffee with three hundred pumps of banana syrup than be spending it the way I have been - back to work and finding a new place to live (our lease is up in November, meaning that my home has, this summer, become the world's most expensive storage unit and I will get to speed home and pack and search for a place without the desire or the funds to do so), finding a way to cover the insane portion of the medical bills that my insurance didn't cover (I am so fucking lucky to have insurance and short term disability (STD!! HAA HAA) pay and every other fucking thing that has kept me from having to file bankruptcy, at least there's that), finding a way to feel like I actually still know people and can interact with them.

And finding some fucking Jordan Almonds.
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Subject:DRINK DRANK DRUNK DRUNK DRUNK
Time:12:43 am
Setting: The Fox and the Hound
Players: Me, Daniel, the deaf guy with the jacked up teeth who once made out with Kyle and who always manages to comment on my ginormous hoots, various sundry other people

Me: (pointing at deaf guy) Summerteeth. Summerteeth! SUMMERTEETH!
Daniel: That's a good Wilco album
Me: (as per usual, pointing at the deaf guy) I haven't heard it, and neither has he.

I guess I really am going to hell.

And I guess that's why the call it the blues!

I am going to bake a cake now.
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Subject:Many a mickle makes a muckle
Time:01:30 pm
A few weeks ago I drove my brother and myself up to my mother's house in the mountains to have a delicious family dinner. Unfortunately, after dinner, my fucking car wouldn't start and so I was forced to borrow my mother's Dodge Caravan; it's completely Mormon mom style - all sky blue and boxy and late eighties and in immaculately good condition. I've been driving the thing around for a bit until I get the money to fix my car, but yesterday my mom needed it so after working at four in the morning for 9 hours with some of the most incompetent people known to man, I drove back to give it to her.

When I left the hell that is Jantzen Beach, it was snowing, but shitty Northwest snow that Jesus tricks us with all the time. You know the kind - the ground is covered in rain water and it snows for a bit and you think, oh maybe a miracle will happen and it will become a blizzard, but it doesn't and you are always disappointed because the snow is fucking great. I drove on to her house, which is actually only about 24 miles away, but takes an hour because you essentially drive up logging roads. It was surreal - I'm in regular land, and then all of a sudden I am transported to Finland. I literally turned down a road and there were suddenly inches of snow on the ground. All of these cars kept driving off the road in front of me, or slamming into poles, but luckily I was leading a parade consisting of my mom van and 70 huge trucks who were able to stop without getting stuck forever. At this point, I am well out of cell phone range but well beyond walking distance to her house and I keep having visions of my fat ass getting stuck in a snow drift and having to recall all the snow survival tactics I learned from Little House on the Prairie and search and rescue dogs finding me eating my own arm in a lean-to made of pine cones and bird shit sometime in July.

I kept driving and driving - it's not fucking rocket science to drive in the snow - you just have to go for it and not puss out, which is what the woman who managed to pull out in front of me did down a careening mountain path and up every hill imaginable. I became the worst Tony Robbins infomercial ever- I kept talking myself through it, You can do this, just keep the van and yourself safe, it's not a big deal, but I was also so enthralled by the snow that I kept getting distracted by how gorgeous it was, swerving before realizing how retarded I am to not pay attention in a blizzard.

About four miles away from my mom's house, it became clear by the tracks on the road that only one vehicle had been through the snow before me. It was getting really fucking deep and scary and it was starting to fall really fast.
I keep driving, going about a foot an hour, terrified only because I can't really afford top ramen right now, much less a brand new mom van. I turned down a fork in the road, the last big stretch to her house, the one where the crazy neighbor posted all these no trespassing signs so half of the neighborhood guests get lost and scared and turn back and call from the gas station, only to find they were on the right path all along. There's a huge hill, and this is where it started to get really tricky - I revved the engine and made it about half way up the hill before going out of control and landing in a ditch. So I'm sweating bullets and have to get out of the stuck car for a second to pee by the side of the road because I'm easily frightened. I get back in the van and manage to gun the car so much that I can smell the burning tires in the snow before reversing it 200 feet back down the hill to a safe parking spot. I then hiked 3 miles uphill to her house in about a foot of pristine snow, wearing slippers (I really really wish I were lying about this part - my feet are still cold) and my flimsy work clothes, clutching my purse and falling once every two steps. I then started to really panic and remember all the quaint emails my mother sends me about the cougars they see and how Scruffy down the road got eaten by a bear. The panic (and the work out - good christ, that shit is hard to walk in) drove me into an asthma attack, which was pretty awesome since I was all alone in the wilderness. An hour and a half later, I make it to my mother's, met by her precious dogs. I played in the snow (I found deer tracks! They were precious! I felt like Grizzly Adams!) and then went inside, ate some licorice, fashioned a muumuu out of a sheet while my soaking clothes were in the dryer, and passed out, found by my mother, stepdad and sister a few hours later.

When I woke up this morning, there was even more snow, but back here in regular land, a mere 400 feet above sea level (or whatever the fuck Portland is), there was nothing. Sometimes I wish I could live up there.
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Subject:I was a Highwayman - Along the coach roads I did ride
Time:07:30 pm
I am throwing a raging kegger for my 23rd birthday at my house next Saturday, the 11th (seriously, though - I am currently pricing kegs and will get one if the baby jesus gives me money to do so). If you can read this, feel free to come and bring anyone you feel like, cause I am in a fightin mood. In an attempt to get arrested, I am inviting the queerest, most motley crew (crüe) imaginable. Perhaps there will be a gay gang war. So if you can think of people who hate each other, or hate me (I can name a few), feel free to stop on by. If you're in the mood to throw a punch, come on down. Just got fired? I have a roommate you can take your aggression out on. I live in the ghetto - it will take hours for the cops to respond. The only rule: No booze, you lose - you can't fucking come without some alcohol (and I'm tacky enough to enforce it). Baby needs her bottle.
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Subject:Oh, white people
Time:02:25 pm
A few months ago, Monica broke the CD playing portion of my car stereo by pushing my hands away and forcing in Mariah Carey whilst I screamed. The CD never played and I think that it's more than a little humorous that it actually broke my stereo (we had to pry the cd out with pliers - it is covered in scratches but somehow still works, proving once and for all that Mariah Carey cds are protected in the same type of black magic that surrounds ouija boards (am I the only one who was regaled with several stories of how satan tempts young mormon girls to bring ouija boards to summer camp and no matter how many times the girls see the light of the lord and decide to burn them, the boards just keep eerily showing up at camp, showing us that satan's is a dark and powerful nature, one that tempts through all sorts of board games. I hope he inhabits Parcheezi next)).

At any rate, since I cannot listen to cds and christ knows there is never anything good on the radio, I have taken to singing to myself in the car, because that way I can always hear the songs I want to hear. Yesterday evening was one of these days. I was driving home, belting out the same mortifyingly embarassing song seven times in a row. Close to my home deep in the heart of the ghetto, I was at a stop light, really giving it all of my gusto (there may have been some sultry head bobs and hand motions thrown in for good measure). This is an unusually long light (seventh and Prescott) and as I am going through the chorus yet another time (CRESCENDO!), I turned to my left and saw a black woman in nurse's scrubs, standing on her porch with her key in the lock, staring at me. We made eye contact but I couldn't physically stop singing - my brain kept telling me to stop but my fucking mouth wouldnt stop moving. She just shook her head and went inside.

Moral of the story - Gentrification is ruining North Portland.
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Subject:Do I sound like a musical robot?
Time:04:14 pm
This is an obscenely longwinded story, as per usual, that has a ginormous payoff.

Last week was Monica's birthday and we decided to relive the magic of last year by once again visiting The Alibi, everyone's favorite shithole. We got pretty good and hammered, Monica and I (and the rest of the group, including a Mexican schoolteacher, a Dutchwoman married to a gay guy, a German named Klaus, and a girl who looks exactly like Margaret Cho), and since I am the only person ever with testicles (or is it just that I am an attention whore? who knows), I entertained the masses with about 21987 of my favorite karaoke songs. We managed to get three other tables to leave the joint due to our sheer heckling prowess - first group left after we screamed about their complete inability to prove that they had even HEARD "Californication," much less hum along. Next group just grew really bored of us, and the third table left after monica screamed "FUCKIN ROCKABILLIES" and proceeded to duck under the table, leaving the rest of us to smile and wave when they glared.

Monica, gal that she is, also made the mistake of announcing that she liked a comely young fellow going by the name of Danimal (I believe she told Daniel that she "needed her oil changed"). I tore a blank check out of my check book (in retrospect, probably not the best tool for passing a boy a number) and passed him the following

Monica 1234567 - HOTTT LATINA. XXXX. You know you want her.

We then badgered him, unbeknownst to the birthday girl, and his friends until monica sobered up for two seconds and drunkenly sauntered over to chat for a while before leaving to puke in her hair. The Danimal seemed pretty sad that she left, though, and so the gang convinced her in the following days that she really needed to let love in. Completely out of character for her, she sent him a text message (she hates them and has no idea how to use her phone in any capacity) two nights ago. Hours after she sent the message, she got an automated message back from sprint saying that she had tried to text a land line and that if she liked, she could send it to the land line for an additional fee. While trying to make heads or tails of the message, she accidentally pushed send. Horrified, she looked on line to see what she had just done. Apparently, a robot voice left the following message for the Danimal:

Thanks for being so nice to a drunk girl on her bday (i really, really hope the robot sounded like it was saying bidet). Sorry I left so early - I was busy puking. If you weren't repulsed, give me a call.

The message was received sometime around one in the morning. I, for one, hope that one day I get woken up by a robot thanking me for pucking on the bidet. Moral of the story, though - robots get a lot of play, because he called her back and thanked her for his first text message ever, even more special since it was delivered in a robot voice.

Also, last night a man asked me to grind his coffee for a liberty press. He said that they don't say the F word in his household.
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Subject:Andre, don't embarass me at the Red Lobster
Time:09:20 pm
Huzzah! I've officially passed from "pathetic" into "worthless, shameful waste of space." Who's keeping track, though, honestly?

I am so depressed that I might have to up my netflix quota. Who knows - I could even go up to five. My theme right now is mid-nineties, mediocre costume dramas that received little to no attention and were rushed to dvd in the hopes that someone would confuse them with another movie and purchase them. I'm flying high, kids, and I kick ass for the Lord.

Bergenstein, quit avoiding me when I leave crying messages on your phone. And yes, I am drunk again.
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Subject:Let's all just calm down.
Time:02:05 pm
I've turned to the drink.
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Time:06:32 pm
I need someone to tell me the name of the disease where you lack common social skills, asap. It's Nurfemburgers syndrome or something? I desire this critical info now.
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Subject:In case of rapture, this bar will be unmanned
Time:01:15 pm
Lately I have been accosted by Jesus freaks. Monday it was announced that the hotel across the street was hosting a week-long Teenaged Hooligans for Jesus conference, and that they would need frappuccinos left and right. Let me tell you something - if there's anything grosser than white mochas, it's strawberries and cream frappuccinos, and if I ever make another goddamn one of either of them, I will stab someone. Some little fucker had the gall to imply that I wasn't being helpful because I pointed out that since he wanted as little coffee and as much caffeine as possible, black tea was pretty much his option unless he went and did the Dew across the street. You'd think I'd told him Jesus was a black man. He muttered disparaging remarks about me and I told him that I didn't give a shit what he got - I was not his babysitter. I've also taken to asking random coworkers if they've heard the good news. When they get puzzled, I shout, "He is risen!" and raise my hand to the air in my best imitation of the Borgen. I know that I am a raging hypocrite, as per usual, since what horrifies me at Narnia is now my modus operandi at my place of employment, thus proving once and for all that I am the least logical person ever.

As I type this in the tutoring center, the two biddies I work with are sitting at the front desk discussing how they want to be better people and give up swearing in order to become the best examples of Him they can be. This was sparked, no doubt, by my swearing right before I left to go use the restroom. When I arrived today, she was looking at Christianmovies.com. It's depressing.



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