April 29, 2006

Beehives and City Slickers

It's a rainy day in Minnesota. It's not a stormy day, but a refreshing day of spring showers, which will do us well.

Driving through the neighborhood on my way home from the grocery store I noticed a woman holding a leash, watching her dog nosing around and crapping on the boulevard.

The woman obviously disdains rainy weather, or else must preserve the hairdo she receives every Friday at the local beauty salon. She had on her head a silk scarf (or polyester, probably) and one of those fold-up, clear plastic rain bonnets over the scarf. She also carried an umbrella. As we all know the slightest bit of moisture will ruin that hairspray-riddled bouffant (also known as "beehive") in a minute.

What completed the picture was that her little, yippy, butt-sniffing dog was wearing a rain slicker. A little, yellow, doggy rain slicker. Ten-to-one that little tail-wagger scoots his poopy hind-end across her beautiful Persian rug to relieve himself of the annoying itch of worms, but heaven forbid his flea-infested fur be cleansed with nature's spring-fresh rain shower.

Perhaps I can't relate to all of the woman's headdresses because I've never done anything with my hair except wash it every day and have it cut when needed. But believe me when I say if I ever were to own a pet for the sake of companionship or out of a basic love for animals, I would never, ever make it wear clothes.

April 27, 2006

A Sad Day For Ben Hur

As heard in a report given by Mike Evans on KQRS radio, actor Charlton Heston is nearing the end of his battle with Alzheimer’s disease. He fought the good fight, but the tough guy seems to be losing.

According to my personal inside sources, family members of Heston first suspected something was wrong when they found him on a rooftop with two slate flagstones, one in each arm, announcing to the neighborhood, “The Lord has handed down these Ten Commandments!” They were able to coax him down after he was convinced his wife wasn’t really a monkey with a British accent.

His strength is waning as he refuses to eat. Sources say he just stares at the food and shouts, “Soylent Green is people!”

We believe, however, that he will go out of this world and into the next in a blaze of glory. In his withered and weakened state he will fall to his knees and pound the floor with his fist while roaring, “Damn you! Damn you all to hell!”


Sometime when I'm feeling a little blue I like to fantasize about my dream house. I've always wanted to live in a mansion, and probably did in a past life. I could never hope to make enough money to ever live in anything bigger than what I have right now. If you'd like to donate to the Buy Meredith A Mansion Fund (BMAMF), please indicate so in the comments section of this entry, as well as any future mansion-related entries, and I will give you the particulars on where to send your hard-earned money to put me up like a queen.

I took a drive today, down the avenue of my dream houses. I found that quite a number of them were for sale. There were none over $2M, so I might be in luck. Could I ever imagine shelling out that kind of jing for a house, not to mention the taxes (easily $12,000 a year) and the upkeep a building that is over 100 years old?

Here's just one of the homes that is actually for sale. I would love to live out my fantasy. Please, give generously.

April 25, 2006

The Balancing Act

This morning when I was gently awakened at 5:00 a.m. by my loving boyfriend I cursed him. I cursed the social service agency I work for, and I cursed the light of day itsef. I absolutely, undeniably, indesputably abhore getting up in the morning to go to work. Not only do I have to go to work, but I have to go to work for someone else. And I have to provide a service to people who unabashedly try to beat the system. Being behind the scenes at this little do-good social service agency has made me jaded in ways I wish had never occured.

But I am independent, have a lovely home, and have been forced to learn and practice social skills beyond the realm of "how-do-you-do" as a result of my persistent struggle toward an early retirement and decent pension. And I finally see the light at the end of the tunnel. While it takes every fiber of my being to drag my ass out of bed every day and present myself as a clean, well-groomed and polite person to others who haven't the decency to respond to "hello," I am nearing the finish line. I know once I cross the finish line I'll be glad for the whole experience and proud of my accomplishment.

Mustang Sally e-mailed all of her friends and informed us that she had quit her new job as a graphic designer. She lasted a whole two weeks at this one. She claims the work environment was less than she desired and the demands she presented to her superior couldn't/wouldn't be met. One of her complaints was that her job didn't support her dream of becoming an actor.

I'm completely befuckled. The only explanation I have as to why this woman refuses to support herself, honor her debts, and spare her parents from her whiney-ass presence in their home is that she believes she can have a life completely devoid of everything but the theater. She will stop at nothing to achieve that. Her lack of education in the field, her lack of talent in the field, her lack of connections in the field, and the lack of the field itself where she lives are of no consequence to her. She believes her higher power will bestow upon her the life of which she dreams. Be damned all you who struggle through cab driving and table waiting while you hope for your big breaks. Starving artists are but an illusion.

Perhaps I put too much value on independence. Perhaps I'm too realistic. Perhaps I'm painfully resentful of the fact that Mustang Sally feels no remorse for sponging off other people while I am compelled to be responsible, at least so far as to pay my own way through life.

Tonight I'm going out for drinks with a friend who is an aspiring writer like me. Neither of us is published, but we don't expect anyone to pay our way while we pursue our dreams. This doesn't make the dream less valid, nor does it put the dream further out of reach. We sacrifice here, compromise there, and one day we will be published writers. We support our families, and contribute to households and society. And we write.

And then we write some more.

April 23, 2006

Axis II

OK, so I haven't done any spring cleaning since I last spoke of it. My boyfriend's mother would be so disappointed. I didn't do any last weekend either, but that was because it was Easter. I dusted and vacuumed like a mad woman because Boyfriend and I were hosting Easter Sunday dinner for his parents. Interestingly enough, they never made it to our house.

My faux mother-in-law, to whom I will refer to as Faux-Ma for short, seems to have a problem with coming to our house. Maybe she has a problem with us. Maybe she has a problem with me. There has been a history of them avoiding our attempts to entertain them on our turf, especially for holidays.

One time in particular was especially offensive. After several years of celebrating Christmas Eve at their house, we decided we would have them to our house. Actually, I decided, as I longed for a Christmas Eve of my own making, with shrimp cocktail and champagne, nonstop Christmas music piped throughout the house, a crackling fire in the fireplace, and a glorious tree decorated with a Victorian flare. Suffice it to say that my idea of Christmas Eve is as lavish as hers is stark.

We all had a lovely time that Christmas Eve, or so I thought. Six months later Faux-Ma told her son, in private, that she didn't want to have Christmas Eve at our house any more because, "it just isn't the same." Well, she wasn't lying. Christmas Eve at our house wasn't the same as it is as their house, and that was intentional on my part. Boyfriend and I have since stopped trying to do holidays at our house for fear we will make Faux-Ma uncomfortable, and figure that at her age we should just let her live out her remaining holidays any way she wants. Until this Easter...

Boyfriend and I don't usually spend the Easter holiday with Faux-Ma and Faux-Pa (from the French phrase faux pas meaning "false step" or "horribly embarrassing mistake"), but due to extenuating circumstances we thought we'd extend an invitation for them to come to our house for dinner. We caught them off guard with our invitation, and Faux-Ma had no choice but to accept. I planned a wonderful dinner, decorated the house with Easter Bunnies, tulips, colored eggs, and chocolate treats. I spent my entire Saturday preparing for our guests. Boyfriend acted as sous chef and was equally eager to once again try to impress his parents with our hospitality.

We woke up early on Easter morning, putting the finishing touches on the table and preparing the food for cooking. At 8:00 a.m. the phone rang. It was Faux-Ma, sincerely apologetic that they wouldn't be able to attend our feast, our lovely festive afternoon, as Faux-Pa had taken ill. Stomach troubles.

I spoke of this incidence with some friends of mine who know the history of Faux-Ma and Faux-Pa dodging our attempts to entertain them. Interestingly enough, one of them posed the question, "what do you think [Faux-Ma] fed him to make him sick?" Could it be true that Faux-Ma would actually poison her own husband just to avoid coming to our house? It didn't really tax my imagination.

It all made me wonder if this could be a new psychiatric disorder: one part Munchausen by Proxy and one part agoraphobia. I think I'll call it Munchaphobia.

April 22, 2006

She Used The Word "Folk" - I Hate That

I've always been uncomfortable with the word "folk" or "folks." It's not really a bad word, and my discomfort with it has always perplexed me. The dictionary defines folk as "1. A people; an ethnic group; a race. 2. People of a specified group or kind. 3. The members of one's family or childhood household; one's relatives." There is absolutely nothing wrong with the word "folk," and yet I shy away from using it and cringe when others use it.

Mustang Sally had an audition for a professional acting job today. She asked everyone she knew to send good vibes, positive energy, and prayers her way. I dismissed her pleas and went about my daily business, forgetting all about this monumental event in her life until I read her latest e-mail.

First of all, she felt the audition wasn't difficult enough for her. I'm not sure what that means. I can't imagine that she's terribly accomplished as she has never had any professional jobs as an actor, nor has she gone to acting school, per se. I would think she'd be happy about it being not difficult, seeing she has practically zero experience. Zero experience, zero training, wanting to be hired as a professional. Go figure.

Secondly, she's a snob against community thespians. She hasn't had a lot of experience in the community theater either, but feels that professional actors are her "tribe," and back-handedly belittles the "nonprofessionals." I think that attitude really stinks.

Thirdly, she refers to these people, professional actors, as "theater folk." Sir Lawrence Olivier, Elizabeth Taylor, Sir Anthony Hopkins, Bette Davis...theater folk? I think not. I believe Mustang Sally has lost sight of the heights to which a professional actor can reach. The legends in the field and their indescribable talent seem to be forgotten by the girl who smirks at the difficulty level of her audition for professional status in that cultural hub known as North Carolina.

But it could very well be that Mustang Sally herself is the stuff of which "theater folk" are made. As I look further into the definition of "folk" in my dictionary I find, "occurring in, or originating among the common people, especially untutored or unrefined."

You go, girl.

April 21, 2006

Who Pooped In The Gene Pool?

Who Googles people when they're bored at work? A show of hands? Everyone does it, and I'm no exception. Today I saw, in all his glory, my cousin.

Dickie was always a goofy little kid. He sported a buzzy haircut and had our grandfather's ears, kind of big and sticking out. He was always kidding around and making the girls in the family scream either by being gross (like when he would turn his eyelids inside out) or antagonizing them (like when they were trying to adorn themselves with Grandma's scarves and miscellaneous dressing table accessories). He was your average, trouble-making boy. Skinny and rambunctious. Drawing attention to himself in a family where the kids were mostly girls. Dickie was an all-American boy right out of a Norman Rockwell picture.

Through Google, I found him on a meat-market site, which I won't even dignify with a link. I would have never guessed it was the boy I knew by the description he gives of himself. He claims to be ten years younger than his actual age, even though an accompanying picture makes him look ten years older than his actual age. He is "looking for gals for fun in the Northwoods." Gals? Gals?! Not only is he looking for gals for fun, he is looking for fun gals who are half his fake age.

Apparently Dickie has found many gal friends on this site, judging from the risque pictures posted under a title advertising "Dick's Friends." My guess is that he paid a pretty penny to be associated with them, even if only to be allowed to show their come-hither looking faces on his page. And those gals are of consenting age as sure as Dickie is the age he claims to be.

I know I risk sounding naive when I say I am appalled not only by my cousin's brazen attempts to get laid by young girls, but that there is a website that allows and actually promotes such obnoxious behavior. Shame on all of you.

While still reeling from the shock of seeing Dickie acting like an old pervert in front of the entire universe, I can't help but remember him sitting at my grandma's pink Formica kitchen table with the rest of us kids, eating Snickerdoodles and blowing milk out of his nose.

I guess it's true: once a pig, always a pig.

April 20, 2006

What About Joe?

I've known Joe since I was sixteen years old. Maybe I don't really know him any more, as I haven't seen or spoken to him in well over five years, could even be closer to ten. But if I were to see him today, I bet we could pick up right where we left off and it would seem like not a day had passed since we saw each other last.

I put Joe in the category of being a good guy, but he's really, really dysfunctional. It's all his parents' fault, of course. They were pretty hard on him, and he did his best to rebel and prove his point, whatever the point-of-the-week was. The mother I knew him to have was really his stepmother. I thought evil stepmothers existed only in fairy tales until I met Joe's. His real mom, to whom he referred as "Mom-mom," lived in another state. I didn't get to meet her until Joe's wedding day. She seemed pretty cool, but I'll bet she was a hell-raiser in her day. Joe's dad was a raving alcoholic/porn addict.

Thinking of Joe's dad reminds me of the time a girlfriend of mine and I decided to toilet paper Joe's house. I had never done such a thing in my life, but figured it was high time to get started on my life of crime. I was a sophomore in high school, after all. We went to the store and bought loads of TP and headed over to Joe's house in my friend's 20-year-old Mercury Marquis in the still of the night. Quietly we began our work, throwing the rolls of toilet paper up into the trees. We were doing a pretty good job of it when all of the sudden the back door flung open and Joe's dad shouted, "who's out there?!" We hid behind the biggest tree trunk we could find, laughing so hard, trying not to pee our pants. We knew he'd find us simply for the fact that we were making so much noise. Instead hearing his big footsteps walking toward the tree we were hiding behind, we heard gunshots. The god-damn lunatic was going to kill us. There we were, Kegeling as hard as we could to prevent peeing our pants, out of fear now, shouting over the gunshots, "It's us! Don't shoot us!" Can you imagine, a couple of nerdy, skinny high school girls being shot at by their friend's screaming drunk dad? When we peeked out from behind the tree, we saw him standing there laughing at us. Then he invited us in for a beer.

Apparently Joe saw us from his bedroom window and told his dad what we were doing. His dad claimed, as we were chugging those beers, adding to the already full bladders we had so carefully kept intact, that he was shooting blanks. Many, many years later when I attended Joe's wedding, his dad took one look at me and started laughing just as he had that night gunshots rang through that dark and quiet neighborhood. "I always knew you were a good kid, cuz you knew how to take a joke." Crazy bastard.

Joe is a recurring theme in my head, if not my life in general. I haven't seen him in quite a while, but I don't think I've seen the last of him. I dream about him once in a while, which can only mean he's either dead and speaking to me from beyond the grave, or he's sending me telepathic messages. So Joe, if you're reading this, drop me a line. I'm pretty sure you're back in Minnesota and you looked up that tramp of an ex-girlfriend of yours. She's divorced, you're divorced, and you were both the easiest thing for each other, so what am I to assume? I won't judge you too much for getting back with her. You might be an addict for gambling, drinking, and Football Head's delicious goodies, but don't forget me, the one who risked her life trying to impress you with a little toilet paper.

April 19, 2006


Honest to God, they are The Warriors of Oz. Apparently they are figurines to display on top of the console TV in the doublewide.

There should be a law against taking something so wondrous and imaginative as The Wizard of Oz, with its yellow brick road, talking apple trees, and flying monkeys and turning it into something so trite, giving it the appearance of a computer game noir complete with jiggling decoulatage and violence around every corner.

The Scarecrow, wishing for a brain where he only has straw. Where The Scarecrow in the movie was a gentle and intelligent friend, Warrior Scarecrow looks like a thug wearing a ski mask, ready to shoot anyone through the heart with his bow and arrow. He's also got the weird armadillo-looking sleeve things. The Scarecrow would never don anything but old flannel and denim.

The Tinman, longing for a heart, personified all that is sensitive and empathetic in the movie/book. The Warrior Tinman looks like some kind of robot modeled after the Jack LaLanne physique (‘60s version) with tiny little waist and broad chest. He, too, wields a weapon, which generally looks like a long, pointy, metal stick of some sort. That's a far cry from an oil can.

And who could forget The Cowardly Lion? The poor thing had circles under his eyes because he was too afraid to count sheep and hadn't slept in days. The Warrior Lion looks more like a werewolf with a horribly unmanaged coif. And what's with the pants? Please don't tell me that the Warrior Lion is anatomically correct and must be modest.

What about Dorothy? Remember that girl who lived with her Auntie Em and Uncle Henry? The one with the adorable braided hair, the blue and white gingham pinafore, and the endless sense of wonder in her eyes? Warrior Dorothy is a bodacious specimen showing enough skin to make even the wise wizard blush. Her hair is gelled back and her face is professionally made up to accentuate her fine features, yet show a sense of bad-ass bitch. At her feet is little Toto, who seems to have wings, fangs, and an arrow-shaped tail, just like Satan. Dorothy restrains him with a chain, at the end of which is one of those balls with spikes on it.

What do the Warriors of Oz imply about the other characters from The Wizard of Oz? Is the whole thing contrived to create the Superman Bizzarro World where everything is the opposite as it is in real life? Would the Wicked Witch of the West have golden hair, lily-white skin, and a spiraled horn growing out of her forehead as she personifies a unicorn, the symbol of all that is good and pure? Would Glinda be the spawn of the devil? I hate to even think how the Munchkins would be portrayed.

All in all, it’s a distasteful transformation, to say the least. I have to wonder what kind of person would tamper with something as wholesome as the story of The Wizard of Oz? Worse yet, what sort of person would buy garbage like The Warriors of Oz? It’s just wrong.

April 18, 2006

Hey, Can Someone Give Me a Lift? or Get Your L-Words Straight

For most of life I wished for larger boobs. Not huge boobs. Not even large boobs. Just larger boobs. I started wearing a training bra in the 7th grade. I didn't even need one; my mother probably just felt sorry for me. I stuffed that trainer once in a while, thinking I was all that, until I noticed it didn't give me bigger boobs, just crinkly-looking boobs and an occasion corner of tissue peeking out from under my blouse. All through high school I wore a double-A cup. People pegged me for the athletic type.

I would pray to God, "Please God, give me larger boobs." In the midst of reading Seventeen magazine I would break into prayer when I saw the perfect set of perky, teenage breasts. "Please God, larger boobs, just like these," I would say as I pointed to the picture.

The other day I looked in the mirror and cursed God for misunderstanding. Oh, I don't have that little set of mosquito bites I once so modestly covered with what amounted to gauze pads attached with elastic. Careful what you wish for, they always say.

"Damn it! I said larger boobs! Not lower boobs! Not longer boobs! Larger!" Of course I'm not praying for anything on my body to be larger at this point in my life. Now I just pray for the day when we can all live on the moon where zero gravity will be my saving grace.

April 13, 2006

Mustang Sally

I named her Mustang Sally. I did so because like in the song, I have a unrealistic compulsion to get her "flat feet on the ground."

I met her a while ago, although it seems I've known her for ages. She talks incessantly about her struggles with life, and it seems the more she talks, the longer I've known her. It is said that one's frustration and fury toward another is really the subconscious relaying to the conscious what you hate about yourself. If anyone knows, for any reason, ways in which I resemble Mustang Sally, I beg of you now, put me out of your misery.

She is an aspiring actress. Of course that came along after she was an aspiring teacher, which came after being an aspiring writer. Her passions have lain in a multitude of arenas and she has yet to achieve success with any of them.

More importantly, she has yet to achieve success in merely holding down a job to support herself and be a productive member of society. She claims that her body reacts to jobs that aren't related to her passion du jour. She therefore "listens to her body" (because she is kind to herself) and quits those jobs. I'll give her credit, though. She just started a new job a couple of weeks ago, and she's still at it. She hasn't clearly stated what the job is, but has clearly stated that she feels guilty because her boss doesn't know she's working there only to make money. (I ask you, what percentage of the American workforce works simply for the money? Um, that would be, most of them!) I suppose she feels she owes her employer her entire soul in order to earn the pittance of a salary with which she is compensated.

Mustang Sally is not an uneducated woman. She has earned a bachelor's degree, which is much more than I would have given her credit for, given the ADD with which she claims to have been plagued. Moreover, she has aspirations to return to school for a master's degree in fine arts. Admirable, I'd say. Problem is, she's well into her thirties and still lives with her parents due to the tremendous debt she has acquired since attaining adulthood and can't afford to attend school. I'd wager that her second problem will be getting accepted to a master's program, but that is yet to be seen. At the rate she's going, and at the rate her aspirations go whipping by, she'll probably lose interest in going back to school before she can ever afford to.

Did I say she lives with her parents? Yes. There were about ten minutes there where she had a place of her own. Of course with all the stress those piddley non-passionate jobs caused her, she was income-free before long and was forced to move back with her parents. Her mother seems to be an enabling door mat, while her father is an insufferable boor. She has siblings, but I've never heard much about them. My guess is they flew the dysfunctional family coop, never to return to the backwoods from whence they sprang.

Why do I tell you the story of Mustang Sally? Because she pissed me off. She pissed me off to no end. I feel for her the rage of a million white-hot suns.

Let's review:

A. Mustang Sally has no direction in life.
B. Mustang Sally won't hold a job because her body speaks to her.
C. Mustang Sally lives with her parents because she won't hold a job.
D. Mustang Sally can't follow her dreams because she has no money because she won't hold a job because her body speaks to her.
E. Mustang Sally's passions change with the wind because she has no direction.
F. Mustang Sally's passions are her passions because she will never, ever have to answer to them.
G. Mustang Sally's actual life will never be lived passionately because she does have to answer to it on an every day basis, and the prospect of facing her life (which she created herself) would make anyone retreat into a fantasy world.

Now, regarding my anger: Mustang Sally, in her daily spew of verbiage regarding how horrible it is to be her, asked advice from some friends. Her friends, me being one of them, gave her several different viewpoints. We were all kind and understanding, as we always are, in making suggestions and providing support. And then, she looked us all in the eye and told us we had no idea what we were talking about, that we would never understand her, that she needs to find better friends who can relate to her suffering, and then stormed off in a huff after threatening that we would no longer be graced with her presence.

You may ask, why does this make me so angry? I don't have to deal with that ingrate any more. If she thinks she can find better friends, let her. Right? Right. What makes me so angry is there are tons of people out there who do the same thing. And those of us who are kind enough to not blatantly tell them how effed-up they are are the ones who get shat upon. Shat, I say! I'm sick of the shat, and I'm not going to take it anymore!

You'll probably be hearing more about Mustang Sally, as I'm sure she'll return after unable to find those actor people she's set out to befriend. For one thing, she's scary as hell to look at, and anyone who doesn't know her will probably run away screaming before she can even say hello.

But now I'm just being mean.

April 07, 2006

Martha Vs. Mother

How many of you have started your spring cleaning? I've always been a big fan of the task. It's the Martha Stewart in me. However, I've never been able to deep clean the entire house from top to bottom, from left to right in a clockwise fashion, within the confines of spring. As a result, my deep cleaning gets done in shifts. I might do the bedroom and bathroom one spring and get tired of the task, neglecting the rest of the house. The next spring I'll do the living room and powder room. The next spring I'll do the dining room and kitchen. So basically, each room gets a spring cleaning every three years.

Today I began work on the kitchen. I was quite surprised to find out that my oven had been placed on a thick, soft piece of carpeting. Oh wait, that would be a major layer of accumulated dust. I'm also amazed to realize that I can work in the kitchen all year long (for three years, actually) and not even notice that big blob of dried cake batter clinging to the wall. And what about that crusty barbecue sauce on the drawer knob? Why didn't I ever notice that? Another thing that baffles me is the knife drawer. After I use a knife, I wash it before I put it away in the drawer again. Where did all those crumbs come from? The bottom of my knife drawer is entirely covered with dried crumbs. But I never notice these things until I do my spring cleaning. Am I that oblivious to my own living conditions?

And it isn't like I don't clean the house throughout other parts of the year. In fact, I have a weekly ritual that involves dusting, vacuuming, doing laundry, and scrubbing toilets and sinks. Did you hear me? I said "weekly." If I'm maintaining a fairly tidy house throughout the year why does the house insist on plaguing me with these little, albeit disgusting, surprises?

My boyfriend's mother was recently shocked to hear that I don't get on my hands and knees to scrub the kitchen floor at least twice a month. After all, she does. She waxes it too, despite the fact that it is a no-wax floor. "It gets a little dingy from pulling the chairs in and out." I told her that I get on my hands and knees maybe twice a year, more likely once. She was appalled to learn I am lazy enough to merely sponge mop the floor. Until that moment I had been the daughter she always dreamed of having. After that moment I became nothing more than a slovenly creature living in a bacteria-infested pen I call a house. Oink.

Truly, I do enjoy practicing the art of good homemaking. The clean smell of Murphy's Oil Soap and that blinding sparkle on the faucets motivate me to tackle other aspects of my life with equal vigor.

And this year, as in all past, I vow to deep clean the whole house, if only to make my boyfriend's mother proud.

April 06, 2006

My Favorite Things, Part 1

The best bumper sticker I've ever seen: Dyslexics of America Untie!

Meredith Speaks

A big, Mr. Hanky Hi-De-Ho to all of you out there reading trash just for fun. A special hello to my Hawaiian friend Christie, for getting me going on this special endeavor. Aloha sweetie! I'm eating pineapple in your honor as I write this.

I'm not really sure what I want to achieve with this blog. Could I be looking for a creative outlet? Could I be looking for a psychological outlet? Could I be looking for reassurance, validation, or punishment? Maybe all of the above. Maybe none of the above. I might be doing it just because I can.

I'm a little hesitant to spill my every thought onto the screen. But what the hell? I'm kind of an angry person and I think this venue could allow me to get my ya-yas out while I go about my real life posing as a tolerant and satisfied person.

You will probably see recurring characters in this Magnum Opus. Their personalities and behaviors have a huge impact on my life, for good or bad. Cheer on the heroes and boo at the villains. The villains aren't really all that bad, but they could very well turn out to be people you love to hate, as they are for me.

Stay tuned.